Blackjack

22

Virgil was gathering our horses near Mrs. Opelka when I got back to the wash.

“That it?” Virgil said.

“Is.”

Virgil nodded a little.

“You believe him?” I said. “’Bout Socorro?”

“No real reason not to,” Virgil said.

“He didn’t seem none too happy with Truitt or Boston Bill,” I said.

“Don’t seem like a story he’d make up while he’s sitting there with his nose shot off,” Virgil said.

“No,” I said. “It does not.”

Mrs. Opelka got to her feet and brushed the dirt from her dress.

“That’s what I heard,” she said. “That skinny blond fella was going on about going to Socorro, about turning thirty, about his friends and his gals. The sniveling piece of shit; I only wish my boys would have been here to give him the proper goddamn whipping he deserves.”

“What about the big fella?” I said. “He’s the main one we are after. You hear anything? You pick up anything that might help us find him?”

“No, he did not talk much,” she said. “He wanted food and quiet. He wanted to rest his horse and that was it. He was mad that we had no fresh horses, but that was all the anger he showed other than when he told the blond fella to shut up...”

She stared to the ground, then looked off in the direction of the way station.

“I’d like to get my husband out of the field and prepare him proper before my boys get back. I want their daddy to look as good as he can look.”

Virgil nodded, then handed me the reins of my horse.

“Everett, why don’t you find Skinny Jack’s horse and gather Skinny. And I will help Mrs. Opelka here.”

I took the reins and swung up.

“Best I can remember, Socorro is a near full day’s ride past where you turn back west to go on to La Verne,” I said.

“Sounds about right,” Virgil said.

“We’re going to need to stay after it if we are going to get in there by Saturday,” I said.

“We will,” Virgil said.

Then I moved on up the wash and rode off back toward where Skinny Jack lay dead.

By late into the afternoon, Mrs. Opelka’s boys arrived, and after a display of shock, tears, and anger upon hearing the news of what had happened to their father, the sturdy young men helped bury the dead. We buried Skinny Jack in a shallow grave with some plank boards covering him so as to exhume him at a future time and bury him next to his mother.

That night, Virgil and I rested up a little in Opelka’s barn, but we were on our way to Socorro hours before sunrise.

We figured we had a full two days’ ride to get to Socorro by Saturday night, so we maintained a steady pace. The next night we rested near an old mission, and again we were up and riding long before seeing the rising sun.

Socorro was fifty miles past La Verne, this side of the border. We had planned on arriving Saturday afternoon, but it took us longer to get there than we anticipated and it was good and dark by the time we arrived.

As we approached Socorro there was a cemetery on the left side of the road. Crosses towering crookedly above the graves within the low rock wall bordering the graveyard showed dark against the evening sky. Beyond the many and different-sized crosses, a hint of a golden light from within and the silver quarter-moon from above gave us a clear outline of the city.

“Here we go,” I said.

“Yep,” Virgil said.

“Don’t suspect it’s a good idea to ride in with our shoulders back and badges showing.”

“No.”

“Ricky said the cantina was on the north side,” I said.

“Did,” Virgil said. “East end.”

“Don’t think we been in it.”

“No,” Virgil said. “Don’t think we have.”

It’d been some time since Virgil and I were in Plaza Socorro, but we knew the town. We’d passed through there time and again in the last few years and we knew how it was laid out.

Virgil slowed a little and looked back to me.

“What do you figure it is?” Virgil said.

“Sun has been down for two hours, and from our last stop it seems we’ve been on the road for at least five hours, right? I’d say it’s about eight, maybe nine o’clock.”

“Sounds about right.”

“Good timing,” I said.

“We’ll know soon enough.”

We rode on a bit more. We were riding into the city with a slight breeze in our faces, and there was a faint smell of smoke and livestock.

“Let’s go this side, on the south, and get a look at this cantina from across the plaza.”

It was dark, but Virgil and I did not risk riding through Plaza Socorro. That would not be smart. The quarter moon provided us with enough light to show our way. We turned off the road and moved around a fenced hilltop cemetery. We rode downhill and passed a large stockyard, cut between a few houses, crossed a dry brook, and entered Socorro from the back side of town.

We rode behind a row of two-story buildings that faced the south side of the plaza. To our left was a number of adobes, but it was late enough in the evening that there was only a scant light or two burning. We rode on past the big church and a few alleys among the buildings. I slowed when we got close to the end of the row of buildings and the last alley leading to the plaza.

“I’ll be goddamn,” I said. “Hear ’em?”

Virgil didn’t say anything, but I could see the whites of his eyes when he turned in his saddle and looked at me.

“Sounds like a party to me,” I said.