The Bridge

60

We left Swickey and his other hands at the Boston House and made our way back to the front of the sheriff’s office, where we met with Chastain and readied ourselves to ride.

“What if they ain’t there?” Chastain said.

“Then they ain’t there,” Virgil said.

“If they are there,” Chastain said, “you think they will all be there? Still be together?”

Virgil looked to me.

“Good chance,” I said.

“Is,” Virgil said.

“Like a pack of dogs,” I said.

“Think Ballard will still be among ’em?” Chastain said.

“We do,” I said.

“He’s come this far with them,” Virgil said. “And going by what we know of him he could very well be the goddamn stallion of the herd by now.”

“Don’t figure they’ll still be dressed in no blues,” Chastain said. “Do you think?”

Virgil looked to me.

“Don’t think so,” I said.

“Wouldn’t be very fitting to wear a Union uniform in a holdout camp,” Virgil said.

“Never know, though,” I said.

Virgil nodded.

“They might,” he said.

“Might all think it a goddamn funny novelty,” I said.

“Well, let’s say they don’t,” Chastain said. “And like you, I doubt they’d still be tramping around in uniforms, so how the hell will we know these men?”

Virgil pointed to Eddie.

“Eddie knows the faces of the two of them,” Virgil said. “The Cotters.”

Eddie nodded.

“I damn sure do,” he said.

“I know one of them,” I said. “When I saw them ride by Hal’s on their way into town. I won’t forget that face. Not ever. I suspect he was one of the Cotters.”

“And Ballard’s a cock hound,” Virgil said. “Tall, handsome man, longhorn mustache. Got a good idea we’ll know him.”

I nodded.

“They all had Union saddles,” I said. “McClellans. They didn’t bother to take our men’s saddles when they killed their horses, so unless they had some other saddles someplace or bought some saddles, we’ll have that to look for.”

“That leaves four more,” Chastain said. “How will we know them?”

“Don’t suppose we’ll know,” Virgil said. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and find that Ballard and the Cotters strung them up like the others they’ve left in their wake.”

We left Skinny Jack and Book to keep the peace in Appaloosa and the four of us, Virgil, Chastain, Eddie, and me, rode out of the city just before eleven o’clock, and headed for the Yaqui Brakes.

The snow had stopped falling and the clouds looked to be separating some, but the roads were snow-covered and the ride was slow going.

The brakes were a good five miles of high, thick brush with passages through them that led to a central camp where the tents were pitched next to the creek.

There were other holdout camps like the Yaqui Brakes, and this one was not unlike the others we’d seen. Holdout camps consisted of mostly nonconforming southern miscreants and rabble-rousers who thought the war was still going on, or at least thought it should be going on. They were uncomfortable being around anyone who wasn’t as crossways as they were or thought the way they thought.

The bad news about the Yaqui Brakes was there were at least ten ways in and ten ways out.

As we neared the brakes the snow was not as deep as it was back in the Appaloosa direction, and the riding became increasingly easier.

Late in the afternoon, when we came upon a low section of land where the rail and the road next to the rail turned to the west, I stopped and looked back to the others trailing behind me.

“This is it,” I said, pointing to the lowland to our left.

Virgil nodded and looked around.

“It is,” Virgil said.

“How far, in there?” Chastain said.

“Five miles, maybe,” I said.

“How do you want to go about this?” Chastain said.

“Want to wait till dark,” Virgil said.