The Bridge

22

Virgil and I left Dag’s Hotel and walked in the rain toward the tracks.

“By God,” Virgil said.

“What do you allow?” I said.

“Think the old man might not be nuttier than a pecan pie,” Virgil said.

“Me, too.”

“There was something about them boys,” I said. “Something about them didn’t seem right when I saw them riding into town.”

“Like what?”

“Don’t know,” I said. “I didn’t really think about it then. They were rough-looking. Didn’t give it much thought, but in hindsight and with Old Man Jasper’s summation I suspect they are no-goods that are up to no good.”

“’Spect you’re right,” Virgil said.

“What kind of no-good is the question,” I said.

“Is,” Virgil said.

“So these boys come into town, haggard like they were, and tell people they’re on a searching party?”

Virgil nodded.

“What do they gain by that?” I said.

“Validatin’ their existence,” Virgil said.

Virgil and I made our way to the sheriff’s office. When we arrived, Book was sitting behind the desk and Clay Chastain, Sheriff Driskill’s senior deputy that had been laid up with a stomach bug, was sitting across from him.

We could see Bolger through the door separating the office from the cells. He was lying on the bunk, facing the wall.

“Howdy, Virgil, Everett,” Chastain said with his extra-long drawl. “Sorry as all hell I been under the damn weather, but I’m back. Back in the damn weather now.”

Chastain was a tough, rawboned man from Dallas, Texas. He had a scar across his face that traveled from above his eyebrow to the top of his jawbone. Chastain had an edge of intimidation to his demeanor that worked in his favor as an officer.

“Is some weather,” Virgil said. “Ain’t it?”

Chastain nodded.

“Damn sure is,” Chastain said.

“Good you’re back,” Virgil said.

“Book said you were looking for some soldiers?” Chastain said.

“We were,” Virgil said.

“Find ’em?”

“Didn’t,” Virgil said.

“Think they pulled out,” I said.

Chastain looked to Book.

“Book said something about settlers being attacked and the soldiers were on the hunt.”

“That’s the word they shared with a few people around town,” Virgil said.

Chastain looked back and forth between Virgil and me.

“You mean you two weren’t notified?” Chastain said. “No telegraph?”

“Weren’t,” I said.

“That don’t make sense,” Chastain said.

“That’s how we see it, too,” I said.

Chastain nodded a little and sat back in his chair. He looked over to Bolger on the bunk in his cell.

“Know all about the scuffle,” Chastain said, tilting his head to Bolger. “Good you got him.”

I nodded.

“Glad to know this sonofabitch is locked up,” Chastain said.

“Fuck you,” Bolger said, turning from facing the wall to look at Chastain.

“I don’t care you been wounded,” Chastain said slowly and calmly. “I’ll come in there and bust your ass up so bad you’d wish you been shot dead by Hitch. Keep yer ass quiet and don’t test me.”

“Wait till my brother gets wind of this,” Bolger said.

Chastain rose out of his chair with ease and walked slowly to the door between the cell and office.

“Where is this brother of yours you keep going on about?” Chastain said kindly.

“Ha,” Bolger said. “Fixin’ to come down on all of you like a Gila monster on sun frogs.”

Chastain hooked his thumbs just on both sides of his belt buckle.

“Shut yer ass up,” Chastain said smoothly. “Not one more word.”

Bolger snarled a little and rolled back over on his side facing the wall and Chastain closed the thick wooden door between them. The wall separating the cells from the main office was thick stucco and the door was three inches of oak. When it was closed the prisoners couldn’t hear any office business and the officers didn’t have to listen to the prisoners snore or bellyache.

Virgil looked to Book.

“Any news from Driskill, from the bridge?”

Book shook his head.

“Nope,” Book said. “Nothing, Marshal.”

“Peculiar. Awful peculiar,” I said.