Blackjack

23

“Does,” Virgil said.

I pulled my eight-gauge from the scabbard as we entered the back side of the dark alley.

Singing, laughter, and piano and fiddle music mixed together and cut through the otherwise peaceful evening like noisy unwanted guests.

“Sounds like they’re having a lively time,” I said.

“For the moment,” Virgil said.

I nudged my bay and followed Virgil on his muscled stud. We moved slowly through the narrow passage between two single-story buildings toward the street. Loud laughter roared and echoed from the cantina across the open town square, as if someone had told a joke.

“Sounds like more than a few, too,” I said.

“Damn sure does,” Virgil said.

“Got some liquor flowing,” I said.

“They do at that.”

The laughter, hooting, and hollering made it sound like the rabble-rousers were right there with us in the alley.

We set our horses in the shadows and watched the cantina across the way. The windows and open door offered about the only substantial light in the small triangle-shaped plaza.

“If it is him, looks like Truitt has a few more than a handful of friends here,” I said.

“By God,” Virgil said.

“Could be Ricky wasn’t lying.”

“Could be,” Virgil said.

“What do you think about Boston Bill?” I said.

Virgil shook his head.

“We’ll know directly.”

We watched and listened some.

“Best I can tell, there’s what? Twelve horses?”

Virgil nodded.

“What do you want to do?” I said.

Virgil didn’t reply as he watched the cantina across the way, thinking about our options.

“Could let them carry on,” I said. “Then see if we see Truitt or Black leave the place.”

Virgil nodded a bit.

“Could,” he said.

“Then again,” I said. “We risk them going separate ways. Might lose Truitt and Black in the dark.”

“If there is a party,” Virgil said. “And even though we’re not invited, I believe we best pay our respects.”

He stepped down from his saddle and tied off on a post of a side overhang.

I moved my horse to the opposite side of the alley and dismounted.

“We know Truitt’s not afraid to pull,” I said.

“We do.”

“Ricky said there’s the two others that most likely aren’t afraid of a fight.”

“He did,” Virgil said. “Walt and...”

“Douglas... Douglas,” I said.

Virgil nodded.

Another fiddle and piano tune started up. It was a lively, knee-slapping tune. I recognized it, “Carve Dat Possum.” A female with a squeaky voice was singing the song and the crowd was chiming in out of key on the chorus.

“Once we know,” I said, “that it is for sure Truitt and Black, I suspect we’ll ask them polite-like if they want to go peaceful with us back to Appaloosa. Go from there.”

My tall bay worked the hell out of the bit in his mouth, then lowered his head, shook it hard and let out a loud snort.

“Hush,” I said, and pushed his butt up to the wall.

Virgil took a few steps out of the alley. He looked to the left, then right. I moved up next to him.

“Be best to not walk directly across, don’t you think?”

“I do,” Virgil said.

We stepped up on the porch of a feed store, stayed under the plaza’s awnings, and worked our way around the town square toward the cantina.

I slid back the hammers of the eight-gauge as we neared and Virgil pulled his bone-handled Colt.

It was late enough that nobody was out on the plaza moving about. We came up on the twelve dozy horses hitched in front of a cantina with no name, no sign. Virgil edged up and peeked in the window.

Another spirited song started up, and with it some foot stomping and vigorous yelps.

Virgil looked to me and nodded.

I nodded back.

He tilted his head and I followed him into the saloon.

The barroom was small and full of happy-faced drunk men and a few unsightly equally drunk women having a festive time. A fat rosy-faced fella with a red scruffy beard was pounding on the piano. He was accompanied by a skinny kid sawing on the fiddle and a short, round woman dancing around and laughing as she showed the partiers the underside of her frilly dress.

Boston Bill was nowhere to be seen, but Truitt saw Virgil and me right away. He got to his feet, not real fast but not real slow, and took a step backward.

“Happy Birthday, Truitt,” Virgil said.