Robert B. Parker's Blackjack

by Robert Knott

  “I am Ursula,” the seated woman said.

  They were fairly young, and it was obvious by their accents that they were Polish.

  Irena leaned on the porch post and showed us the flesh of her thigh.

  “You like?” she said.

  She smiled a wide smile.

  “Tell me if you like?”

  “Very nice,” I said. “But . . .”

  “Me love good,” Ursula said as she, too, got to her feet.

  Though I’m sure they were good at their trade, their English was limited. Irena was slightly older than Ursula and seemed able to manage words a little better.

  “Tonight,” Irena said, “we can make you feel really so very good, you will see.”

  She turned around and showed us her backside.

  “You will feel better,” Irena said, looking back over her shoulder.

  “No,” Virgil said. “Just want to talk.”

  She remained looking at us over her shoulder for a moment, then slowly turned to face us.

  “Talk about what?” Irena said.

  “The men you were with last night,” I said.

  Irena put a hand to her hip.

  “What men?”

  “The blond fella, long hair, and the other man, young, dark hair, beard. They were with another man, an older tall fella.”

  Irena looked to Ursula. Ursula shook her head and Irena looked to me, shaking her head.

  I moved close to the porch, pulled a dollar from my vest, leaned out, and handed it to Irena. She looked at the dollar in the palm of her hand, then back at me.

  “What about them?” Irena said.

  “Do you know where they are?”

  Irena looked to Ursula, then to me, and shook her head.

  “No.”

  “When did they leave?” Virgil said.

  “Last night,” Irena said. “Very late. They left in the middle of the night.”

  “You sure?” I said.

  “Yes,” Irena said. “The big man came in here and told the other two they had to leave. They left.”

  “Any idea which way they rode away?”

  “No,” she said.

  Virgil looked to me, nodded a bit, then backed his horse up.

  “Appreciate it,” I said.

  Ursula said something in Polish that made Irena laugh.

  “What’s that?” I said

  “The one man,” Irena said, “the young man. He could not do fun with Ursula, he was very sick with tooth.”

  “Yes,” Ursula said, then rattled off something in Polish and pointed to her temple.

  Irena nodded.

  “Yes, his tooth was very bad, he was in much pain,” she said as she pointed two fingers to her eyes. “He was crazy.”

  Ursula nodded.

  “Blood . . .” Irena said. “He was spitting much blood like he was the devil.”

  Ursula nodded her head in agreement and said something in Polish again.

  “Yes, he drank a lot of whiskey,” Irena said, “to, you know, to help with pain, but it did little good. And he was mad at the other man.”

  “Mad?” I said. “Why?”

  Irena shook her head.

  “I do not know, they just complain about each other, like little boys fighting over candy.”

  Virgil looked to me, then looked back to the women and nodded.

  “All right, then,” he said.

  Virgil tipped his hat and reined his horse away from the women a little.

  “Special,” Ursula said as she moved to the door.

  She held back the tarp that covered the door and pointed to Skinny Jack and then pointed in the room.

  “For you,” she said. “Special.”

  Skinny Jack looked to me, then to Virgil, and pointed to himself.

  “Me?”

  “Yes. Special,” she said, nodding. “Ursula show you and I will make very good for you.”

  “Um, gosh, thank you,” Skinny Jack said, “but no, thank you, ma’am.”

  “No, you come,” she said.

  “No,” he said. “I . . . I won’t come, ma’am.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  She pointed to Skinny Jack, then pointed into the room like she was angry, and she spoke to Skinny Jack in a scolding tone.

  “Special, Ursula will show you.”

  Skinny Jack backed his horse up and shook his head.

  “Got to go, ma’am,” Skinny Jack said.

  “Ursula do extra-special for you.”

  “Sorry, ma’am,” Skinny Jack said.

  Ursula laughed and pulled down one side of her loose-fitting cotton dress and showed one of her breasts. I couldn’t see Skinny Jack in the dark, but I was pretty sure he was blushing.

  Virgil smiled and turned his horse.

  “Good evening, ladies,” he said, and moved on.

  “You sure you do not want some love?” Ursula said again to Skinny Jack.

  “Maybe next time,” I said, speaking for Skinny Jack. “Maybe next time.”

  “There is no better time than now,” Irena said as we rode off in the dark. “No better time.”

  She laughed and Ursula joined her. Their laughter cut through the otherwise still evening. We could hear them jabbering in Polish as Skinny Jack and I caught up with Virgil. The three of us rode abreast for a moment before Virgil spoke up.

  “Well, there you have it.”

  “Yep,” I said.

  “That Polish lady has a sure enough hankering for you, Skinny Jack,” Virgil said.

  “Sure enough,” I said. “Special.”

  “Extra-special,” Virgil said.

  16.

  We rode to the corral behind the stage stop, where an elderly black fellow we’d seen pitching hay earlier gladly gave us some feed for our animals.

  His name was Louis. He was a tall, lanky man hunched over from years of hard work, friendly but not at all talkative. He said he’d seen Black and the other two ride in but never talked with them or saw them after they rode by.

  Louis shared with us some food he cooked. It was a good-tasting red broth stew made of pork, corn, rice, and beans. We sat under the lean-to behind the stop and ate with the animals.

  “They damn sure keeping on the move,” I said.

  “They are,” Virgil said.

  “Sounds like the one fella is in some pain,” Skinny Jack said.

  “Does,” I said.

  “We getting on the road tonight?” Skinny Jack said. “Stay after them?”

  Virgil nodded.

  “Don’t you think, Everett?”

  “I do, especially since they took off last night and not this morning. I don’t think it a good idea to rest up too long and give them the whole of the evening.”

  Louis walked out with the kettle of stew and without saying a word he ladled each of us another scoop.

  Virgil nodded.

  “Thank you, Louis,” Virgil said.

  Louis nodded and started back inside.

  “Louis,” Virgil said.

  He turned back.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Like to find a lamp or two,” he said. “We got to get us some light before we get on the road.”

  Louis pointed us to a small house behind the general store and told us to wake up the old man that runs the store. He let us know that he didn’t much care for the old sonofabitch and was happy for lawmen to make him have to open up after hours.

  After we ate and got our horses ready to ride, we rousted the store’s owner. There was most certainly something about him that made us feel comfortable with the opinion Louis had of the old fellow. He was grumpy and unfriendly, but he did have what we needed.

  He didn’t have any lamps to spare, but we made ou
rselves some good stave torches of Hessian and paraffin he had available. Then we rode out to the crossroads, lit the torches, and searched the ground for fresh tracks. In no time we located the trio’s hoofprints.

  “South it is,” Virgil said.

  We walked slowly on the road at first, keeping the tracks visible, making sure they had not veered off in a different direction, and once we were convinced they stayed to the road, we put out the light and kept traveling.

  The night was clear and full of stars. We had a bit of light from the low-slung moon as we rode. Every few miles we fired the torches, making sure we still had track.

  “I been thinking,” Skinny Jack said. “There’s a good chance they might ride for La Verne.”

  “What makes you think that?” I said.

  “Well, I don’t know for sure, but down there Truitt knows his way around those parts,” Skinny Jack said. “I mean, it’s a long damn ways to La Verne, but, um, that is where Truitt’s from.”

  “Got to be a good hundred and fifty miles,” I said.

  “We know it,” Virgil said. “La Verne.”

  “We do,” I said.

  “You think they’d go there?” Skinny Jack said.

  “Hard to say about Black and the other fella, but for Truitt it wouldn’t be unlikely,” Virgil said.

  “When things are uncertain,” I said, “a place that is known gives a fella some security and comfort to uncertainty. Like you were saying, Skinny Jack. A better place than where they were.”

  “That’s right,” Virgil said.

  “Then again, Yaqui is the train,” I said.

  “Is,” Virgil said.

  “Well, La Verne’s damn sure Truitt’s home place,” Skinny Jack said. “I was raised just east of there at the fort. I got a lot of family down that way myself. That’s how I know about Truitt and his family. My dad knew his pa from the fort. Truitt’s got kin all through there that could and would lie for him, hide him and protect him.”

  We rode solid through the night and into the morning hours. We continued to follow the tracks and just before noon we came upon a sign: Ray Opelka’s—Way Station & Supply Depot—3 miles ahead.

  The road between the sign and the way station worked its way back and forth through rocky terrain and was uphill. After we topped the long rise we came to the depot on the other side of the crest.

  The way station was built on the west side of the road in front of a bluff that protected the place from the late afternoon sun. The main building had a wide porch that fronted the road. Behind that was a living quarters structure surrounded by smaller outbuildings, a small barn, and empty corrals, and behind that there was a pen with a big hog standing stock-still.

  There was nobody moving about. Other than the hog, the only sign of life was a trickle of smoke rising from a single chimney in the storefront.

  As we rode closer there was a flash from a north-facing window followed by a rifle report. A bullet ricocheted off the road just behind us. A quick second shot was fired and it hit Skinny Jack, knocking him to the ground and sending his horse running off back the way we came.

  17.

  More gunshots followed, one after another, after another. The shots appeared to all come from one rifle, from the north-facing window.

  Virgil moved off the road quick to the right. I turned in the opposite direction. The shooter was focused, aiming on me as I moved quickly. The shots were coming in close, but I managed to get behind an outcropping of low rock near the side of the road.

  I slid from my horse and tied off on a thick juniper and pulled my Winchester from the scabbard.

  From where I was positioned, I could see Virgil; he was still riding off at a fast pace behind a rise that separated him from direct sight of the way station. When he dropped to the other side he pulled up and dismounted.

  I stayed low to the ground, where I had protection from low boulders and brush, as I inched back out toward the road and Skinny Jack. I could see the way station’s window through the brush, and for a moment the shooting subsided.

  Skinny Jack lay facedown, motionless in the middle of the rutted thoroughfare, with both of his arms under his body.

  “Skinny Jack,” I said.

  Skinny Jack moaned.

  “Where are you hit?”

  “Everett?”

  “I’m here.”

  He moaned again but did not move.

  “Everett?”

  “Just stay put, I’m coming to get you.”

  He moaned again.

  “Where are you hit?”

  There was no reply.

  “Skinny Jack?” I said.

  Again, there was no reply.

  I turned my focus back to the way station’s window and saw movement and a hint of light reflect from the barrel of the rifle in the window. Then it was gone.

  I looked over and could see Virgil. He was crouched low to the ground and moving up the rise in front of him with his rifle.

  “Virgil,” I called out.

  He looked in my direction.

  I pointed to Skinny Jack down in the road, then pointed to myself and back to Skinny Jack.

  Virgil nodded.

  “Coming to get you, Skinny Jack,” I said.

  Virgil positioned himself with his rifle ready.

  “Just hang on, Skinny Jack. Hang on.”

  Virgil held up his hand, and when he dropped it he began firing on the way station’s window.

  I crawled out quickly and pulled Skinny Jack off to the side of the road and behind the rocks. Once Virgil saw we were off the road he quit firing, sat back, and reloaded.

  I turned Skinny Jack over. He was staring up at me. He grabbed my arm and squeezed. He looked down to his chest, where there was blood.

  I took out my knife and split open the front of his shirt and found the bullet had entered just to the side of his heart.

  “Everett?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Everett?”

  “Yes, Skinny Jack.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Just hold on, Skinny Jack, hold on . . .”

  He looked down at the blood, then laid his head back, looking up at me. He lifted his head off the ground.

  “Everett?” he said.

  “Yeah, Skinny Jack?”

  He spit blood and then squeezed my arm.

  “Do me a favor.”

  “Sure.”

  “Kill the sonofabitch that killed me.”

  His head dropped back in the dirt, and he breathed in his last breath and died staring up at me.

  I looked up at Virgil across the road and he was looking at me. I shook my head.

  Virgil lowered his chin to his chest.

  I closed Skinny Jack’s eyes and sat back on my boots and looked at his young face for a long moment.

  “Goddamn it . . .” I said. “Goddamn it.”

  I rested Skinny Jack’s hat across his face, then moved toward the bush at the edge of the large rock that separated me from the way station. I got flat on the ground with my Winchester and leveled it through the scrub bush toward the station window. I rested the rifle’s barrel through the bush on a solid piece of branch in front of me, giving me a steady bead, and flipped up my back sight.

  I figured I was about a hundred and twenty-five yards out, and for some reason, besides being very angry, I was feeling lucky.

  18.

  I aimed my Winchester at the center of the window and waited. Then I waited some more. With my cheek to the stock and my eye looking down the barrel, I was waiting and ready.

  “Come on, you no-good sonofabitch,” I said quietly to myself. “Surely you’re not done. Show yourself; show your no-good goddamn sonofabitch coward self. Just show me a piece, the smallest piece, and . . .”

  There he
was. I squeezed off one shot. Then I heard screaming from inside, followed by a woman running out the front door.

  She ran across the road and up a slight embankment. She was a short, heavy woman wearing a dark dress that she held up as she ran. She slipped trying to get up the embankment but kept churning and churning her feet until she was upright, over the rise and running away from the way station.

  I cocked the rifle and waited for another shot, but there was no movement and no more sound from within the way station.

  I looked over to Virgil. He was making his way back to his horse.

  I watched the window for a moment longer, then pulled my rifle from the bush, got to my feet, and made my way back to my horse.

  I mounted up but did not move out onto the road. I rode off farther from the road and angled my way toward the direction in which the woman was running.

  I rode a ways and then I saw her. She was in the bottom of a dry wash, no longer running, but was bent over with her hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath.

  She looked up as I rode closer. Her round face was tearstained and her chest was heaving as she continued to try to catch her breath.

  I dismounted and walked toward her.

  She was frightened and tried to back away.

  I showed her my badge.

  “I’m Deputy Marshal Everett Hitch, ma’am,” I said. “I’m here now. You’ll be okay.”

  She looked at me, chest still heaving, and dropped to her knees.

  I moved to her. She looked up at me and shook her head.

  “Who are you?” I said.

  “This . . . here,” she said, trying to breathe and shaking her head, “is . . . our place. Me . . . and my husband, Ray.”

  She started crying.

  “What’s happened here?”

  “He’s dead,” she said. “Big Ray is dead.”

  “Just try and tell me what we’re dealing with here.”

  “Three men come here,” she said.

  She dropped to her bottom and leaned back to the side of the wash, shaking her head slowly.

  “Me and Ray been out here eighteen years. Never had a problem, raised two boys here, now he’s dead, just like that. He’s lying out there in the field behind the house, dead.”

  “What about the three men?”