The Bridge

10

Grant and Elliott were sitting side by side on a sofa in Doc Crumley’s front office when Virgil entered with Lewis “Book” Page, one of the deputies Sheriff Driskill left on duty. Book carried a short-barrel twenty-gauge. He was a hefty overgrown kid with rosy red cheeks and thick spectacles.

Virgil scanned the room, then met my eyes.

“You good?” he said.

“I am.”

Virgil nodded. He didn’t smile, but I could tell — inside — he was smiling a little.

“Hal fill you in?” I said.

“He did,” Virgil said.

Virgil looked to Grant and Elliott sitting next to each other.

“This them?” Virgil said.

“They are,” I said.

“You boys okay?”

“We are,” Grant said. “This just shook us up, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

Virgil looked at me.

“The fella doing the shooting?” Virgil said.

I nodded to the back room of the office.

“Doc’s working on him now,” I said. “Skinny Jack’s in there making sure he don’t try nothing more.”

Virgil walked to the back-room door. I opened it.

Skinny Jack, a deputy with a scruffy goatee, was seated in the corner with a Winchester across his lap.

He stood up when he saw it was Virgil.

“Oh, Marshal Cole, sir,” Skinny Jack said.

Bolger was lying facedown on the table as round-faced Doc Crumley stitched his exit wound. He looked up over his spectacles at Virgil as he pulled the thread tight.

“Hey, Virgil,” Doc said.

“He gonna live?” Virgil said.

Crumley straightened up, stretching the ache out of his back some.

“Oh, yes,” Doc said. “’Fraid so. He’s drunk as a skunk at the moment.”

“Regardless,” Skinny Jack said, “I got my eye on him, Marshal, in case he wakes and tries to get shitty.”

Virgil nodded.

“You seen him around before, Skinny Jack?”

“We have,” Skinny Jack said. “He’s been picked up a few times drunk. Heard bad things about him, but we’ve not experienced nothing serious, not until now, anyway.”

Virgil nodded and looked back to the partners sitting on the sofa. I closed the door to the back room and Virgil faced the men.

“This is Grant Minot and Elliott Warshaw,” I said.

“I’m Territorial Marshal Virgil Cole.”

“We’ve heard all about you, Marshal,” Grant said. “Your reputation precedes you.”

Elliott nodded.

“What happened here?” Virgil said.

“That beast of a man in there tried to kill us, for God sake,” Grant said.

“I’ve been apprised of what went down,” Virgil said. “Why don’t you tell me why he tried to kill you?”

“Bolger, um, Mr. Orsley,” Grant said, “came into our office with a gun, demanding pay.”

“Pay he’s owed?” Virgil said.

“Well, yes,” Grant said. “But, well, it’s complicated.”

“Why don’t you uncomplicate it for me?”

“It’s a commerce issue, really,” Grant said.

Elliott put his hand on Grant’s hand.

“Let me explain,” said Elliott.

Grant nodded, smiling pleasantly at Elliott.

“Bolger and his brother, Ballard, worked for us,” Elliott said. “They delivered goods for us.”

“Goods?”

“Yes,” Elliott said. “We supply the Rio Blanco crews with food and Bolger is, well, was our driver.”

“The bridge?” Virgil said.

“That’s right,” Elliott said.

“Where’s the rub?” Virgil said.

Elliott turned his head to the side and looked to Grant.

“The problem,” Grant said, providing the meaning of rub to Elliott.

“Oh. Well, Bolger and Ballard had been making delivery runs to the camp twice a week,” Elliott said, “and for two weeks consecutive we’ve not been paid and therefore we were unable to pay Bolger and Ballard.”

Elliott glanced to Grant. Grant bobbed his head a little.

“Where’s Ballard?” Virgil said.

“We don’t know,” Elliott said. “He’s a mean man, and when he hears about this, he will become even meaner, I’m sure of that.”

Grant nodded.

“With him loose we will need protection,” Grant said. “I can tell you that.”

“I assure you we did everything in our power to pay what we owed. This is a new business for us,” Elliott said. “We were both employed as tailors previously. We wanted to start our own business and heaven knows cash flow is a necessity for a new enterprise. We certainly don’t blame Bolger or Ballard for being upset, but, well, there was simply nothing we could do.”

“You can imagine how we felt,” Grant said. “I think perhaps Bolger was drinking.”

“Inebriated is more like it,” Elliott said with a huff. “Both of them are drunks. We didn’t know that when we got into business with them.”

“One thing you should know about Ballard,” Grant said.

“What’s that?” I said.

“Well, I know Bolger talks about him like they are close but Ballard was very mean to him,” Grant said.

Elliott nodded.

—

One day, the last delivery, actually,” Elliott said, “they got into a bad fight and Ballard hit Bolger, told Bolger he was no longer part of the business.”

“We haven’t seen Ballard after that,” Grant said.

“Or the buckboard,” Elliott said.

“Ballard took the buckboard?” I said.

They nodded.

“He did,” Elliott said.

“Bolger, however,” Grant said, “kept coming around, asking us for money.”

“Then he came with the gun,” Elliott said.

“We tried to reason with Bolger,” Grant said. “Thank God Elliott pushed him when he was standing over me with the gun in my face.”

“He stumbled and we took off running,” Elliott said.

“Who’s supposed to be paying you that ain’t paying you?” Virgil said.

“We’re the middlemen, so to speak. Our deal is with a grocer in town,” Elliott said. “The contractor pays them and they pay us.”

“Grocer claims it’s the contractor,” Grant said. “That is why I stated it was a commerce issue.”

“Why’d he try and shoot you, Everett?” Virgil said.

“Bad weather, I reckon.”