by Robert Knott
And sure enough, now, on this sweltering day in mid-August, Virgil and I were riding out to get our introduction.
Two days previously we moved some convicted felons down to Yuma. When we returned and stepped off the train in Appaloosa, Deputy Book was waiting there to meet us. He let us know one of McCormick’s men had been missing for three days. Book informed us that the missing man was not one of the hired gunmen but rather one of the miners.
The McCormicks, of course, suspected the Baptiste outfit and threatened retaliation.
Virgil and I had paid a visit earlier to Baptiste’s office and the hotel where he resided in Appaloosa, but we did not locate him. Nor did we find any of his business partners, so we took the short ride out to the mines to see what we could find out.
When we arrived at the Baptiste location, the foreman, Frank Maxie, walked out of the office to greet us as we neared. He was a grizzled old-timer Virgil and I had known for years. Frank was a retired man of means who knew the gold-mining trade likely better than anyone in Appaloosa.
Before taking a position with the Baptiste Group, he’d made a considerable amount of money. He’d worked for decades operating his own strike in Laverne that played out a few years ago.
He stepped off the porch and shook his head as we came to a stop.
“Well, well, well, if it’s not Virgil Cole and Everett Hitch. I’d ask you what I did to deserve the pleasure of being visited by you marshals of this here territory, but I won’t, because I know why you are here.”
“You do?” Virgil said.
“Not dumb,” Frank said, squinting up at Virgil.
“No?” Virgil said.
Frank smiled.
“Henri Baptiste here?” I said.
“No, too dusty out here for Henri . . . Now and again he comes, but not much.”
“Know where he is?” Virgil said.
He shook his head.
“No. I’d offer you some coffee if it weren’t hotter than a well digger’s ass.”
“So, what can you tell us?” I said.
“Come down, let’s go inside.”
When we entered the office Frank moved around a small table covered with maps and papers. He poured Virgil and me a glass of water. We sat across from him as he dropped his big frame into a swivel chair.
“I come up here to show these nincompoops how the cow ate the cabbage,” he said. “I know my veins.”
“And?” Virgil said.
“And that’s it. That is the extent of my business here. I don’t know a damn thing about what happened.”
“What did happen?” Virgil said.
Frank took off his hat and dropped it on the table. He leaned toward the rear wall in his chair then put his big hands on top of his bald head. He grinned as he looked back and forth between Virgil and me.
“Look, I told him, the Frenchman, not to hire no gun hands. I told him. I’m not saying they had anything to do with the McCormicks missing a hand. But I warned Baptiste and them other dumbasses working with him to not go and get greedy.”
“Meaning?” I said.
“Meaning, let the McCormicks work their side and we work ours. I don’t have to tell you boys gold makes people crazy. It just does. Like giving an Apache corn liquor, they can’t handle it, can’t handle the rush. Don’t forget I started on the big one, in California back in the day, and I know what gold does to a man’s soul. It eats it up.”
“How did you know about the McCormick hand that was missing?”
“I heard about it from one of my miners. He said he was drinking beer at the Rabbit Inn and he heard about it from some of the other fellas. Shit happens, people talk.”
“What do you know about these men Baptiste hired?” I said.
“Very damn little.”
“What little do you know?”
“They don’t come around here, really.”
“But they’ve been here,” Virgil said. “You’ve met them?”
“Met? No. Been here? Yes. They come and go.”
“More than once,” I said.
“Yes, more than once. They make themselves known, then go.”
“How many are there?”
“For sure there are seven of them. As far as I know . . . Just talk to Henri Baptiste. He’ll tell you . . . Well, maybe.”
“Oh, we will,” Virgil said.
“Like I said. I told Baptiste and the others to leave well enough alone. But that’s gold for ya.”
“Know where these seven gun hires live?” Virgil said.
“No,” he said. “Appaloosa, I imagine.”
“Lot of good they are doing there,” I said.
“Fine with me,” Frank said. “We have guards here to guard. So do the McCormicks. The gun hands are just chest puffers, ya know?”
Virgil nodded.
“Know the gun hands’ names?”
“No. Well, know one. Heard one’s name and ’spect he’s the leader, too. Bart, he was called. Looks to be the oldest. He’s a tall, skinny fellow, meaner than a windblown grass fire, too. He put one of the others in his place with a fucking bullwhip to the back of his head. No shit. Just like that. Whap!”
Virgil glanced at me.
“Victor Bartholomew?” I said.
Frank shook his head.
“Bart was all I know. That’s what they called him. Why? Know him?”
“Skinny fucker with a bullwhip?” I said.
“Victor Bartholomew,” Virgil said.
“That’s not good,” I said.
Virgil moved his head from side to side real slow.
“No,” he said. “It ain’t.”
“Was there another? Looked similar to him, but bigger, taller, older?” I said.
“No,” Frank said.
I glanced to Virgil.
“That’s good,” I said.
“That is,” Virgil said.
3
The McCormick brothers and Baptiste had offices on opposite ends of the prestigious Appaloosa Avenue. The avenue was the central thoroughfare of the city. It was the only road in town made of cobblestone and it was lined with fancy brick buildings that stretched out across three city blocks. Known before as Vandervoort Avenue. But the Vandervoort name was history. Removed from all the previous places bearing the Dutch namesake—the brick factory, the town hall, the theater, and the avenue.
After the death of Vernon Vandervoort, all vestiges of his name were no longer visible. Vandervoort, it turned out, was a criminal and murderer. Less than six months ago, an altercation in the town hall unfolded before a huge crowd. Vandervoort shot and killed his own son and wife before Vandervoort was also shot and killed.
Before we paid Baptiste a visit, Virgil wanted to stop in to see Allie at her dress shop on the avenue. We’d been away a few days, and without my encouraging Virgil, he thought it a good idea to let her know that we had returned.
Allie’s shop—Mrs. French’s Fine Dresses—flourished into a profitable business ever since it had opened its doors. And it was situated in a prime location: the center of Appaloosa Avenue, directly across from the town hall and the theater.
As we walked down the boardwalk we could see Allie through the window, setting up a large poster on an easel. It was a colorful poster with big block letters announcing APPALOOSA DAYS. An upcoming street fair with food, shop sales, street dancing, and music.
Virgil shook his head.
“Appaloosa Days,” he said. “Always something.”
“Allie and her ladies’ social pretty much put the whole thing together,” I said.
“Pretty much all her doing.”
“She’s quite the entrepreneur.”
“Among other things.”
We watched her for a bit. Once she got the poster secured, she retrieved one of the dre
sses out of the window display.
“Successful,” I said.
Virgil nodded.
“That she is.”
“One of these days you can quit marshaling altogether, Virgil, and let Allie support you.”
I was watching Allie but I could feel Virgil’s eyes on me.
“Could,” I said. “Or I suppose you could work alongside her.”
“Alongside her?”
I nodded.
“Sure.”
“Doing what exactly, Everett?”
“Oh, hell, I don’t know. Who knows? You might make a good salesperson or, hell, even a seamstress.”
We waited on a buckboard followed by a buggy and when the buggy was past, Virgil moved on across the street without saying anything. I smiled and followed.
Allie opened the door as we neared.
“There you are,” she said.
Virgil moved ahead of me, and when he got up the few steps to the shop’s entrance, Allie met him and they kissed.
“Welcome back,” she said. “Are you just getting here?”
“Got here a bit earlier, but we had to do a few things.”
“Before you visited me, you had to do a few things?”
“I’m here visiting you now. Everett, too.”
“Well, I missed you.”
“We was only gone two days.”
“Well. So? Still, I missed you.”
“Missed you, too, Allie.”
“You did not.”
“I did.”
“Phooey.”
“Everett missed you, too, didn’t you, Everett?”
“I did.”
Allie smiled.
“You two. Y’all come in, I’m just helping someone.” Allie leaned in to me. “Some someone you might want to meet, Everett.”
“We got some business,” Virgil said.
“After you already had some business? Now you already have more business?”
“It can wait,” I said.
She smiled.
“Come, I have some lemonade, too.”
When we entered, a tall, slender woman was standing in front of the mirror. She was holding up the gray gingham dress Allie had retrieved from the window. She held the dress in front of her, looking at her reflection. When we walked closer, she turned toward us and smiled.
“Martha Kathryn,” Allie said. “I’d like you to meet, Marshal Virgil Cole. He’s my . . . my companion.”
Virgil removed his hat.
“How do you do?”
“Fine, Marshal Cole,” she said. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“And this is his partner, Marshal Everett Hitch.”
I, too, removed my hat.
“Nice to meet you,” I said.
“A pleasure,” she said with a sweet smile.
“I take it you are new to Appaloosa?” I said.
“Well, not exactly.”
“She would be hard to miss,” Allie said. “I know.”
“I arrived here about six months ago.”
“Six months?” I said.
She nodded and I smiled at Virgil.
“Appaloosa has gotten way too big,” I said.
“It has,” he said.
She blushed.
“I have been sequestered, I have to say, though. Pretty much the whole time.”
“Locked up?” Virgil said.
She laughed.
“No, I’ve been working in the Appaloosa Theater just across the way.”
Virgil smiled and nodded some.
“We are in and out of the jail all the time,” he said. “I’m sure we would have caught wind of you being locked up.”
“Martha Kathryn is an actress and a singer,” Allie said. “She has been practicing there for the new play.”
She nodded.
“Rehearsing.”
“Yes,” Allie said. “Rehearsing. And I took the opportunity to ask Martha Kathryn if she would perform something for our upcoming Appaloosa Days, and I’m grateful to say, she has accepted.”
“That’s good,” I said. “You’re with the traveling theatrical company?”
“Yes, that’s right. Our manager heard the theater was not in use, so he rented it out to develop shows for our season on the road.”
“Yes, I remember reading something about that,” I said.
“I saw her a few times on the street,” Allie said. “She caught my eye, let me tell you, but she never came in until last week.”
She nodded.
“We have been doing nothing but working and sleeping and working and sleeping.”
“But all that is about to end,” Allie said.
“There’s a show opening,” I said. “Right?”
“Tonight,” she said.
“I remember reading about that, too,” I said.
I could feel Virgil looking at me, but I didn’t look at him.
“It’s her opening night here in Appaloosa,” Allie said. “Isn’t it just divine.”
“Sure is,” Virgil said.
“And we,” Allie said. “We will be there.”
“We will?” Virgil said.
“We will,” Allie said. “We will be dressed for the theater.”
“Allie, you don’t need to speak for Everett,” Virgil said. “And there are a few things that need some tending to.”
“You have something else you need to do, Virgil?” I said.
“He does not,” Allie said.
“I don’t?” Virgil said.
“You do not,” she said. “And neither does Everett.”
I smiled to Martha Kathryn.
“We look forward to it,” I said.
Allie looked back and forth between Martha Kathryn and me then cut her eyes to Virgil.
“Lemonade,” Allie said. “Let me get us some lemonade.”
Allie started off toward the rear of the shop. She said over her shoulder as she walked, “And Virgil, you will assist me?”
“Anything you say, Allie.”
He smiled at Martha Kathryn then followed Allie.
Martha Kathryn turned to the mirror and held the dress up in front of her again.
“What do you think?” she said.
I moved behind her to look in the mirror.
“Don’t think that is your color.”
She smiled.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“And what would be my color, pray tell?”
“White, black, yellow. No, not yellow. But not that, not gray, gray is not right for you.”
She met my eyes in the mirror and said nothing.
I said nothing back as I returned her look.
She smiled.
I smiled.
4
Virgil and I left Allie’s shop and walked toward Henri Baptiste’s office at the opposite end of the avenue.
“Pretty woman,” I said.
“Is,” Virgil said.
“Refined.”
“You figure?”
“I do.”
“Last time you was dallying with a refined performer, she up and took off on you.”
“She was a fortune teller.”
“Point?”
“Don’t think I would have called her refined.”
“What would you have called her?”
“Mysterious.”
“Hell, Everett, they’re all mysterious.”
As we approached, Henri Baptiste stepped out of the office door. Following him was one of his associates, a man Virgil and I had dealt with before. Eugene Pritchard, a big overgrown blowhard attorney who had more money than sense.
They moved off in the opposite direction without seeing
us. We followed them until they got to the corner. They waited for a mule team pulling a load of lumber to pass. Before crossing the street, Eugene turned, seeing us.
“Marshals,” he said.
Henri turned toward us, then pulled his shoulders back and tucked his thumbs into the pockets of his vest.
“Need a word,” I said.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait,” Eugene said. “We are off to an investor meeting we are already a little late for.”
“Investors can wait,” I said.
“Well . . .” Eugene said with a jackass smile. “Another time would be better.”
“You’ll just be a bit later than you already are,” Virgil said.
“What is it?” Henri said. “What can we help you with, gentlemen, Marshals?”
Henri was a Frenchman, no doubt, but he spoke with pretty clear diction, void of sounding altogether foreign. He was a small man in stature, but his presence loomed large.
“There is a man that has been reported missing,” I said. “A McCormick hand.”
“Yes, I heard,” Henri said.
“How?” Virgil said.
“Well, hell,” Eugene said. “The news has been all over Appaloosa.”
“Who did you hear the news from?” Virgil said to Henri.
“He heard it from me,” Eugene said.
“And where did you hear it?” I said.
“Good Lord.”
“I asked you a question.”
Eugene pulled an Appaloosa Star newspaper from the inside of his coat pocket and pointed to a small article on the back page.
“Made the news, for God’s sake.”
“We know nothing about it,” Henri said.
“You hired some gunmen?” Virgil said.
“I have,” Henri said.
“Why?” Virgil said.
“Protection.”
“No law against protection,” Eugene said.
“Where are they?” I said.
“At this moment in time I don’t know,” Henri said.
“And they are your protection?” I said.
“It’s not that I feel I’m in current or constant danger.”
“Then what is it?” I said.
“Their presence is all that is needed,” he said. “Please understand this. I want people to know that I have a lot at stake and that I’m not to be fucked with, as it were.”