“Yes, sir.”
“Can you work it without a man?” Percival said.
“No, sir,” Mary Beth said. “We can’t even live there.”
“They are afraid,” Allie said. “After what happened. They are frightened of being alone.”
Percival nodded.
“I understand,” he said.
“I thought perhaps that they could live in the single woman’s dormitory in the church compound,” Allie said rapidly. “I been seeing them every day, you know, and I been thinking about it a lot, and I thought maybe the church could work the farm for them. Sort of as a way for them to pay for their keep here.”
Percival stood silent for a while, then looked at Virgil.
“Do you have a thought, Deputy?”
“I believe it is your Christian duty,” Virgil said.
“Of course,” Percival said.
36
VIRGIL AND I SAT IN two straight chairs tilted back against the wall on the front porch of the sheriff’s office.
“Where’s Allie?” I said. “Ain’t seen her in a while.”
Virgil grinned.
“Miss those lunches?” Virgil said.
“God, no,” I said. “She ain’t doing your shirts no more, either.”
“Nope, taking them to the Chinaman again.”
“So she’s out closing down saloons?” I said.
“She’s at the church, mostly,” Virgil said. “I think she adopted them two women.”
“Mary Beth and Laurel?”
“Yep.”
“Laurel talk yet?” I said.
“Allie says no.”
“Seen a doctor?”
“Both of them. Nothing wrong with them but a few bruises.”
“He look at their, ah, private parts?” I said.
“Don’t know what he looked at, Everett,” Virgil said. “Didn’t ask.”
“Just thought, since they’d been misused…”
“Doctor says they are okay,” Virgil said.
“So why don’t the girl talk?” I said.
“Don’t know.”
There were some clouds so that the sky was a pretty even gray, and it looked like it could rain in a while. But it was warm, and the weather still was pleasant.
“How ’bout Mary Beth?” I said.
“She’s drinking a lot,” Virgil said.
“Can’t say I blame her.”
“Ain’t helping the kid,” Virgil said.
“Probably not,” I said.
“Allie says that the mother told her they can’t be mother and daughter no more,” Virgil said.
“So you and Allie are talking ’bout things,” I said.
“Yep.”
“They can’t be mother and daughter because of what happened?” I said.
“Allie said that Mary Beth said that she and the kid seen each other do things that no mother and daughter should ever see.”
I nodded.
“Wasn’t like they had a choice,” I said.
Virgil shrugged.
There was a lot of traffic on Arrow Street. Carriages, buck-boards, freight wagon, men on horseback. There were a lot of people walking along the boardwalks and going in and out of shops. From the blacksmith shop across the street and around the corner, I could hear the clang of his hammer.
“How they getting on with the Reverend Brother Percival?” I said.
Virgil grunted.
“He has them in for pastural counseling, every day,” Virgil said, “whatever that is.”
“Pastoral,” I said. “Like a pastor.”
“Sure,” Virgil said.
“Both of them together?”
“Nope, one at a time,” Virgil said.
“Must be an interesting time with the kid,” I said.
“Who don’t talk,” Virgil said.
“I don’t like Brother Percival,” I said.
“Me neither,” Virgil said.
“I think he’s got something going on we don’t know about,” I said.
“Me too.”
“How come Choctaw’s with him and with Pike?” I said.
“ ’Cause Percival’s got something going on with Pike.”
“Pike ought to love him,” I said. “Percival’s closing down all Pike’s competition.”
“Maybe that’s what they got going on,” Virgil said.
“Nice for Pike,” I said. “What’s Percival get?”
“Maybe money,” Virgil said. “Maybe the joy of doing God’s work. Maybe both.”
“Thing wrong with folks like the holy Brother Percival,” I said, “is that they think they got a right to do anything. Because they doing God’s work.”
Virgil let his chair tip forward a little and then bumped it back against the wall. He was so balanced, so exact in all his movements, that I figured he could probably balance in that chair if there wasn’t any wall.
“Kinda like to know what he’s telling those ladies in them pastoral sessions,” Virgil said.
“Probably telling ’em they’re going to hell,” Virgil said.
“For getting raped?” I said.
“Maybe Percival don’t see it that way,” Virgil said.
“No, maybe he don’t,” I said.
“Bet God would let that go,” Virgil said.
“Yeah, but you don’t know,” I said. “Percival knows.”
“Sure,” Virgil said. “Sure he does.”
37
I WAS UPSTAIRS IN PIKE’S PALACE, lying on a bed with a whore named Frisco. I never knew the rest of her name. But she was a nice girl, except for being a whore. She was clean, and sort of smart, and sort of pretty, and fun to talk to. When I could I’d been keeping company with her since I got to Brimstone.
“Chasing that Indian around didn’t wear you down none,” Frisco said.
“I’m a lively fella,” I said.
“Yes, you are,” she said. “I hear those women ain’t doing so well.”
“They had a rough time,” I said.
Frisco grinned.
“Fucking a bunch of men?” she said. “Hell, I do that pretty much every day.”
“One of them is fifteen,” I said.
“How old you think I was when I started?” Frisco said.
“Soon as you could,” I said.
“I wasn’t so willing the first few times, either,” she said.
“Hard to imagine,” I said.
“Well, it’s true, and I got over it. Didn’t turn into a drunk. Didn’t stop talking.”
“How you know so much about these women?” I said.
“Whores know a lot,” she said.
“You surely do,” I said.
“I mean we know a lot about what’s going on, lotta men visit with us. Lot of ’em get kind of drunk and kind of excited and they talk about things.”
“Why do they get excited?”
“You know damn well why,” Frisco said. “Some of the holy church deacons stop by.”
“No,” I said.
“They ain’t as holy as you might think,” Frisco said.
“Ain’t it a shame,” I said.
“Anyway, they tell me that Virgil Cole’s woman friend is taking a special interest in them.”
“Allie,” I said.
“Yep, and that even His Holiness the Reverend Brother Bullshit is talking to them.”
“So I hear,” I said.
“You like her?” Frisco said.
“Allie?”
“Yes.”
“Allie ain’t someone you just like or don’t like,” I said. “You kinda do both.”
“Virgil feel that way?”
“He probably likes her more than he don’t like her,” I said.
“I hear she’s had a little something with Brother Bullshit,” Frisco said.
“Percival?” I said.
“While you and Virgil was off after that Indian.”
“How do you know?”
Frisco smiled.
“I told you, whores know stuff.”
“You know if it’s true?” I said.
“No,” Frisco said. “Not really. Just heard it said.”
“Let us agree on something right now,” I said.
“I won’t say nothing to Virgil,” she said.
“Or anybody else,” I said.
“Promise.”
“I like you, Frisco,” I said. “I think you got a good heart. But you spread this story and I will hurt you.”
“I promised, Everett. What else you want?”
“I want you to know I’m serious,” I said.
“I know that, Everett. I know you’re serious.”
We lay on the bed for a bit, staring up at the ceiling of the narrow room. The window was open and the curtains stirred. Frisco sat half up and looked at me.
“Probably ain’t so, anyway,” she said.
“Probably not,” I said.
“Probably just a rumor,” Frisco said.
“Long as Virgil don’t hear it,” I said.
She was silent for another minute, looking at me.
“It always amazes me,” she said. “You got all them scars and you ain’t dead.”
“Sort of amazes me, too,” I said.
“Oh, look,” she said. “I see a sure sign of life right now.”
“Let’s not waste it,” I said.
38
WE WERE SITTING IN OUR CHAIRS in front of the sheriff’s office. The day was bright and not hot. The wind moved a little dust around on Arrow Street. We were drinking coffee.
“Big Bend Saloon closed,” I said.
“I know,” Virgil said.
“Last one,” I said.
“ ’Cept for Pike’s Palace,” Virgil said.
“Nice for Pike,” I said.
“ ’ Less Percival closes him down,” Virgil said.
“Think that’ll happen?” I said.
“Percival’s getting to be a pretty grand fella in town,” Virgil said.
“I hear people want him to run for councilman,” I said.
“Uh-huh.”
“On the other hand, there’s something going on between Pike and Percival,” I said.
“Uh-huh.”
Virgil was looking down Arrow Street. A man in a gray vest and striped pants was walking toward us.
“He shot my horse,” he said, when he got close enough.
“Who shot your horse?” Virgil said.
“The Indian.”
“Which Indian,” Virgil said.
“Big one, black coat and hat,” the man said. “Shot my horse right out from under me.”
“How come he didn’t shoot you?”
“Don’t know,” the man said. “Sat on his horse ten feet away and looked at me, then he took an arrow out of his boot and tossed it on the ground and rode off.”
“You armed?” Virgil said.
“No.”
“Where’d it happen?”
“Right outside town, just past the ford.”
“What’s your name?” Virgil said.
“Stroud.”
“Okay, Mr. Stroud,” Virgil said. “We’ll take a look.”
“I liked that horse,” Stroud said.
“See what we can do,” Virgil said. “Everett, try to find Pony.”
I took the eight-gauge and headed for Pike’s Palace.
An hour later the three of us were sitting on our horses, looking at Stroud’s dead horse. Pony climbed down and picked up the arrow that lay on the ground near the horse. He looked at it for a moment and handed it to Virgil.
“Same thing,” Virgil said, and handed it to me.
“No arrowhead,” I said.
Pony circled the dead horse in steadily widening circles. Twenty feet from the horse, he stopped and sat on his heels and studied the ground.
Then he pointed south, along the river.
“Gone this way,” Pony said. “Come this way same.”
“Okay,” Virgil said.
We rode south along the river. The hoofprints were plain enough. I could have followed them, too.
“Going fast,” Pony said after a while.
I could see that the prints were deeper and farther apart, with a little rim of dirt pushed up in back of each print.
“Why you suppose he didn’t kill that fella?” Virgil said.
“Stroud?” I said. “I’m guessing he wanted us to hear about it quick.”
“So we’d come out looking for him quick,” Virgil said.
“Maybe,” I said. “Why would he be in a hurry?”
“Mighta been a day, maybe longer, ’fore someone found the dead man and told us,” Virgil said.
We rode in silence, following Pony as he tracked.
“Probably took Stroud an hour to walk in from where his horse got shot,” Virgil said. “And it took us maybe another hour to find Pony and saddle up and get out here and look around.”
“So, say he’s got two hours on us,” I said.
“And he’s pushing his horse,” Virgil said.
“Can’t push him forever,” I said.
“Unless he got more than one,” Virgil said. “And even if he don’t, he can widen the gap between us.”
“So he isn’t trying to walk us into an ambush,” I said.
“Don’t seem so,” Virgil said. “He was doing that, he’d want us to catch up.”
“He wants us out of town,” I said.
“Seems so,” Virgil said.
“We could head back to town now,” I said.
“Yep.”
“But if we’re wrong,” I said, “we lose the chance to catch him.”
“Yep.”
Pony turned to the riverbank, which was probably twenty feet high at this point.
“Jefe,” Pony said.
Virgil and I moved up beside him. Pony pointed at the horse tracks.
“Into the river,” Pony said.
“From here?” I said.
Pony pointed again.
“Horse go down,” he said.
We looked at the gouges and drag marks in the riverbank. “Why not wait for the ford,” I said, “downriver?”
“It’s what he’s hoping we’ll do,” Virgil said.
Pony patted his horse’s neck.
“We go down,” Pony said, and kicked the horse toward the bank. The horse balked. Pony kicked him again, leaning over the horse’s neck. He was speaking to him in Apache, too fast and soft for me to make any of it out. The horse went over the edge, front legs stiff out ahead of him, back legs bunched, and began to slide and scramble down the near-vertical slope, with Pony crouched up over his neck. Pony let the reins drape over the saddle horn and held on to the horse’s mane, still talking to him in Apache.
And then they were down and into the river. It was deep here, so the horse had to swim. Pony slid out of the saddle as they went in and they swam together, with Pony’s hand on the saddle horn to the other side. When they reached the other side, I saw why the Indian had gone in here. There was a short strip of dry land at the foot of the far bank, and a narrow arroyo, cut by spring rains, that Pony was able to lead his horse into. We lost sight of them for a little while, and then they appeared at the top of the bank on the other side.
“That would have been the place for the ambush,” I said.
Virgil nodded.
Holding his horse’s reins, Pony crouched again and looked at the sign. Then he swung up into his wet saddle and pointed north, back the way we’d come, and began to follow the tracks.
I looked at the riverbank.
“Nothing says we have to go across here,” I said.
“Nope,” Virgil said. “But I’m thinking that one of the reasons he went across is if you went after him, you couldn’t get back.”
“So you’d get back to town at least two hours after he did,” I said. “No shortcuts.”
“Yep.”
“But,” I said, “we ain’t over there, and if we head straight northeast, and don’t stay with the river, we can probably close that by an hour.”
“And if we ain’t got it figured right,” Virgil said, “we’re leaving Pony to go up against this fella by himself.”
“Pony ain’t no bank clerk,” I said. “ ’Sides, what would we do for him over here.”
“You’re thinking ’bout the eight-gauge,” Virgil said. “With a Winchester I could hit a jackrabbit from here, never mind a big Indian in a black coat.”
“So, which is it?” I said. “The town, or Pony?”
“We get back to town quick as we can, we’re still an hour after him,” Virgil said.
“And it don’t figure that whatever he’s doing, he’ll spend an hour doing it,” I said.
Virgil nodded.
“So, it’s Pony,” I said.
“It is,” Virgil said.
“Good,” I said.
We rode north along the river, with Pony on the other side. At the ford near town, Pony stopped beside a riderless horse. The horse wore no saddle or bridle. Pony got down and looked at his hooves. Then he looked at the ground for a moment and got back up on his horse. He came across the river.
“Other horse,” he said.
“Hid him near the ford,” Virgil said.
Pony was looking at the ground.
“Ride him to town,” Pony said.
“So he’s got a fresh mount,” I said.
Virgil nodded.
“Let’s see what he did,” Virgil said.
And we rode into town, following the fresh tracks of the new horse straight down Arrow Street.