Blue-Eyed Devil

17

PONY WALKED with us up from Café Paris and sat with us in our spot in front of the Boston House. Tilda brought us out some coffee.

“This what you do every day?” Pony said.

“When we ain’t keeping order in our saloons,” I said.

“How much you do that?” Pony said.

“Not so much,” Virgil said.

“Mostly we do it from here. Anybody needs us, they send somebody.”

“Don’t seem too dangerous here,” Pony said.

“Don’t,” Virgil said.

“Seem boring,” Pony said.

“Is,” Virgil said. “Mostly.”

“Good for ladies,” Pony said.

“Yep.”

“How is Chiquita?” Pony said.

“Doin’ fine,” Virgil said. He was watching four horse-men come up the street. All four wore dusters and black Stetsons.

“Hello,” I said.

Virgil nodded. Pony said nothing.

As the riders came abreast of us, they wheeled the horses and stopped in front of us.

“Looking for the police office in town,” one of the riders said. He had very pale blue eyes and a thick mustache peppered with gray.

I told him where it was.

“Chief’s name is Callico,” I said.

The man was eyeing Virgil.

“Ain’t you Virgil Cole?” the man said.

“I am,” Virgil said.

“Seen you in Abilene,” he said. “You were good.”

Virgil grinned.

“Still am,” he said.

“You the law here?” the man said.

“Nope,” Virgil said. “Just a citizen.”

“Dell Garrison,” the man said. “I’m with the Pinkerton Detective Agency. We’re chasing an Indian. Run off from the Apache reservation. Held up a train. Killed a couple railroad employees.”

“What makes you think he’s here?” Virgil said.

“Folks in Van Buren spotted them, couple weeks back, heading south. This is the next town.”

Virgil nodded.

Garrison looked at Pony.

“He’s traveling with a breed,” Garrison said.

“Know the breed’s name?” Virgil said.

“Nope.”

“How ’bout the Indian?” Virgil said.

“Got it wrote down somewhere in my saddlebags,” Garrison said. “Indian name.”

Garrison looked at Pony some more.

“You a breed?” he said to Pony.

Pony said something in Spanish.

“He a friend of yours?” Garrison said.

“He is,” Virgil said.

“What’d he say?”

“Don’t know,” Virgil said. “Don’t speak Spanish. Everett, you know what he said?”

“No,” I said.

“You’re Everett Hitch,” Garrison said.

“Yep.”

“Breed speak any English?”

“Never heard him,” I said.

“This fella’s a friend and you don’t speak Spanish and he don’t speak English.”

“We’re pretty quiet,” I said.

“He a breed?” Garrison said.

“Don’t know,” Virgil said.

Garrison nodded and looked at me.

“That an eight-gauge?” he said.

“It is,” I said.

“Don’t see them much,” Garrison said. “Wells Fargo issues them, I think.”

“That’s where I got it,” I said.

Garrison looked at Pony some more. Pony said nothing, showed nothing.

“You see my Indian,” Garrison said, “or the breed he’s running with, the railroad’s got a nice reward out.”

“Bounty hunters?” I said. “Sure… big reward.”

“They following you?” Virgil said.

Garrison smiled.

“You know the trade,” he said. “Yeah, they let us do the finding and then try to slip in ahead of us and get there first.”

“You mind?” I said.

“We get paid either way, and we ain’t eligible for the reward, anyway.”

“Dead or alive?” Virgil said.

“Yep.”

“Dead is easier,” Virgil said.

“Yep,” Garrison said. “And, hell, he’s an Indian.”

Nobody said anything.

“Well,” Garrison said. “Keep an eye out.”

“Surely will,” Virgil said.

Garrison backed his horse out a couple of steps away from us and turned him and headed on down toward Callico’s office. The three other riders followed.

When they were gone, Virgil turned to Pony.

“Place up north a ways, Resolution. Me and Everett worked there a while back. Last I knew, the law up there was a couple boys we worked with.”

“Cato Tillson,” I said. “And Frank Rose.”

“You tell ’em we sent you,” Virgil said. “Be a nice place to hunker down for a while.”

“What about police chief?” Pony said. “Sunday.”

“Callico?” Virgil said. “On Sunday, Callico’s gonna let it slide.”

“You know?”

“Know enough,” Virgil said. “Don’t worry about Callico.”

Pony nodded slowly.

“We will go there,” Pony said.

Pony smiled and shrugged.

“I was Garrison,” Virgil said, “I’d turn that corner and send a man back along Front Street to see what you done. If you lit out, I’d have him follow you.”

“Ain’t going to light out,” Pony said. “Go home with you.”

Virgil nodded.

Pony smiled.

“Then light out,” he said.

“I was you,” Virgil said, “and I was gonna light out anyway, I’d collect Kha-to-nay and light out ’fore Allie cooked you supper.”

“Sí,” Pony said.

“And tell your brother,” I said, “not to irritate Cato.”

“Sí,” Pony said.

Then the three of us got up and walked down Main Street toward Virgil’s house.