Brimstone

12

“COMMENSURATE?” Virgil said outside Morrissey’s office.

“Sort of like equal to,” I said.

“Might as well go right at ’em,” Virgil said. “See what we got.”

“Which one first?” I said.

“Start with Pike,” Virgil said.

“More our type,” I said.

“Ain’t so sure we got a type,” Virgil said.

Brimstone was about seven blocks wide and ten blocks long in a green bend of the Paiute River, which made it cooler than this part of Texas usually was. Pike’s Palace was halfway down Arrow Street, on the west corner of Fifth Street, putting it about in the center of the town. All around it, the town was busting out of its skin. Freight and lumber were being hauled through town. Buildings were going up, saloons and eating places were crowded, and there were two general stores, a bowling alley, two millinery shops, and two hotels already and a third one being built. The air was full of sounds: wagons creaking, men swearing, mules, oxen, carpentry, and black- smithing. At the north end of Arrow Street was a big town hall, almost finished. At the south end was a church with an imposing spire. There were boardwalks lining every street, and most of the buildings had roofed out over the boardwalk in front of them, so you could shelter from the sun in good weather and the rain in bad.

The saloon had a corner entrance and heavy oak doors, which were opened back in good weather and let you into a vestibule with swinging doors ornamented by stained-glass windows. Through the swinging doors was the saloon.

Wearing our new deputy stars, we stopped inside the doorway and looked around.

“Pike done himself proud,” Virgil said.

“Did,” I said.

Along the length of one wall, which seemed from inside to run nearly the whole block along Fifth Street, was an elaborate mahogany bar with a black mirrored wall behind it and bottles stacked in decorative pyramids. Along the other wall was a row of gaming tables, and in the open space between were tables and matching chairs. There was an ornate chandelier shedding light on the windowless room, and at the back a set of stairs that led to a second floor. The wide plank floors were polished. The bar top gleamed. The saloon whores were neat. And the glassware appeared clean. Four bartenders worked the bar, which was busy in the late afternoon, and a thin, dark, sharp-faced guy with a shotgun sat in the lookout chair near the far end of it. Virgil walked down the length of the bar to him.

“J.D.,” he said.

The lookout examined Virgil.

Then he said, “Wickenburg.”

“Yep.”

“Virgil Cole,” J.D. said.

“Yep.”

“You posted us out of town,” J.D. said.

“You was with Basgall,” Virgil said.

“Moved on,” J.D. said.

“And Basgall?”

“Got shot by two Texas Rangers in El Paso.”

“You with Pike now?” Virgil said.

“I work here,” J.D. said. “You?”

“Me and Hitch here signed on with the sheriff,” Virgil said.

“Seen the badges,” J.D. said.

“Like to talk with Pike,” Virgil said.

J.D. nodded.

“Spec,” he said to one of the bartenders, “go tell Pike new deputy wants to see him.”

“Name’s Virgil Cole,” Virgil said.

Spec nodded and walked to a door under the back stairs. In a moment he returned, and behind him was a big man with very little hair and a short beard.

“Virgil Cole,” he said, and put his hand out.

Virgil didn’t take it.

“This here’s Everett Hitch,” Virgil said.

Pike didn’t seem to mind not shaking hands.

“Good to meet you, Everett,” he said. “You fellas care for a drink?”

“Beer’d be good,” Virgil said.

Pike nodded at the bartender and led us to an empty table.

“Bartender says you and J.D. know each other,” Pike said.

“Wickenburg,” Virgil said.

The bartender arrived with three mugs of beer and placed them carefully before us.

“Thank you, Spec,” Pike said.

He raised his mug toward us. We drank.

“J.D. is a pretty good gun hand,” Pike said.

“Was,” Virgil said.

“Still is,” Pike said.

“Likely so,” Virgil said. “I just ain’t seen him lately.”

Pike was deceptive. When you first saw him you thought he was fat. But when he moved he seemed light on his feet, and quick. And when you sat with him, up close, and could look at him you realized that he was big and barrel-shaped, but not much of it was fat. I looked around the saloon.

“Done yourself proud here, Mr. Pike,” I said.

“Aw, just Pike. Nobody calls me Mister.”

“Well, you got a nice place here,” I said.

“Yeah, lotta work, but it makes me sorta proud to see how it’s come along,” Pike said.

Virgil was quiet. I knew he was studying Pike.

“Understand you used to run a gang,” I said.

“Yep, gotta say I did,” Pike said. “Done some pretty illegal things for a while until the damn Pinkertons wore me out. Had all that railroad money behind them…” He shook his head.

“So you came here,” I said.

“Yep, ain’t broke a law in Texas,” he said. “Had some money saved, brought a few of my boys, bought a damned shack of a place with no name, and we went to work.”

“J.D. one of the boys you brought?” Virgil said.

“Yep, J.D. is a good man, and I believe in loyalty.”

Virgil nodded.

“Other lookout, Kirby Harris, was with me, too.”

Pike nodded toward the bartender who’d brought us the beer.

“Spec,” he said. “Few other boys.”

“Whadda they do?” Virgil said.

“They help me with some of my other interests,” Pike said. “I’m expanding.”

“What else you do?” Virgil said.

“Oh, this and that,” Pike said. “Lemme get you boys another beer.”

He gestured at Spec. I noticed he’d drunk only a little of his.

Virgil didn’t push his question.

“Any trouble in town?” Virgil said.

“Why do you ask?” Pike said.

“Just trying to get the lay of the land,” Virgil said. “Who’s that German guy you studied at West Point?”

“Clausewitz,” I said.

“Yeah,” Virgil said, “him.”

He looked at Pike.

“Fella says you need to be prepared for what can happen, you know, not for what might.”

Pike nodded.

“You went to West Point, Mr. Hitch?”

“Everett,” I said. “And Virgil won’t mind if you call him Virgil.”

Pike smiled and nodded.

“You go to the Academy, Everett?”

“I did.”

“When?”

I told him.

“Why we didn’t meet,” Pike said. “I was there a little earlier.”

“You in the Army?” I said.

“Yep. Soldiered for ten years. Out here mostly,” Pike said.

“Indian wars?” I said.

Pike nodded.

“Southern Cheyenne. Apache, Kiowa, Comanche. Comanches were a bitch.”

“Still are,” I said.

“Got to be a captain,” Pike said. “But…”

He shook his head.

“Rules got to be too much,” he said.

“Yep,” I said.

“You too?” Pike said.

I nodded.

“Yep.”

“How you get along with Brother Percival?” Virgil said.

Pike looked as if he’d been brought back from a reverie.

“Brother Percival,” he said, and shook his head. “Brother Percival.”

“Understand he’s opposed to sin,” Virgil said.

“Appears so,” Pike said. “Which can be identified by seeing if people enjoy it.”

“And if they do?” Virgil said.

“It’s sin,” Pike said.

“You seem to be selling a lot of it here,” Virgil said.

“Much as I can,” Pike said.

“He bother you?” Virgil said.

“So far a lotta blah, blah,” Pike said.

“You think there might be more?” Virgil said.

There was no meaning in his voice, just aimless talk. Except, if you knew Virgil, you knew there was nothing aimless about him.

“He’s got a lot of hard-looking deacons,” Pike said.

“What do you think that means?” Virgil said.

“Might just mean he needs a lot of people to make the collections,” Pike said.

“Or?” Virgil said.

“Virgil,” Pike said. “I gotta tell you, I don’t know. I don’t understand Brother Percival. I don’t know if he’s a God-fearing Christian, or a lunatic, or a rogue. He might be running a church or a flimflam. His deacons may be prayerful or they may be troops. What I know is I don’t like him.”

“And you have a few troops of your own,” Virgil said.

Pike smiled.

“Some,” he said.

“Left over from the old days.”

“Some.”

“Doing this and that,” Virgil said.

“Exactly,” Pike said.

“So you’re prepared.”

“Me and Mr. Clausewitz,” Pike said.

He grinned at both of us.

“Plus,” he said, “I know you boys’ll protect me.”

“Sure thing,” Virgil said.