“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.
39
THERE WERE A LOT OF PEOPLE standing around on Arrow Street as we rode into town. There was a crowd in front of Pike’s Palace, looking at the shattered front windows in the swinging doors.
Pike came out of the saloon and stood on the porch.
“Pony,” he said. “Where the fuck were you?”
Pony grinned and made a big circular motion with his hand.
“Round and round,” he said.
“And you fucking deputies,” Pike said. “Where the fuck you been?”
With no expression on his face, Virgil looked at Pike for a long silent moment.
Then he said, “Round and round.”
“Fucking Indian rode in here, dozen people saw him, big as life,” Pike said. “Like he’s the fucking mayor or something. Rides right up Arrow Street. Hauls out a shotgun and unloads both barrels through my windows. You know how much those cocksuckers cost me? They come all the way from fucking Saint Louis, and that fucking red nigger blows them apart and rides out.”
“Anybody hurt?” I said.
“Couple of drunks got nicked,” Pike said. “They’ll live.”
Virgil was looking at the street in front of the saloon.
“Left him an arrow,” Virgil said.
I nodded.
“I don’t give a fuck what he left. What are you gonna do about it.”
“We’ll probably chase him again,” Virgil said.
“Don’t bother,” Pike said. “I sent Kirby and J.D. after him.”
“Anybody else?” Virgil said.
“J.D. and Kirby’s usually enough,” Pike said.
Virgil nodded.
“You know why this fella shot up your saloon,” he said.
“ ’Cause he’s a fucking prairie coon, and he don’t know what else to do,” Pike said.
Virgil nodded.
“Figured there’d be a reason,” he said. “Pony, come on down to the office with us.”
“I want Pony here,” Pike said.
“None of us cares much what you want, at this here moment,” Virgil said. “Me and Everett are deputy sheriffs, and we’re planning to question Pony.”
Pike looked at Virgil. Virgil looked back. The crowd began to open up a little. I stepped away from Virgi
l and rested the eight-gauge barrel up on my shoulder, and thumbed both hammers back. It was so quiet that I could hear the sound of cicadas singing.
They sang for a while.
Then Pike said, “Pony, when you’re through with the deputies, come on back here, if you would.”
Pony nodded, and turned and walked down to the office with me and Virgil. Behind us, Pike went back into his saloon, and the crowd began to thin out.
40
“WHADDYA THINK?” Virgil said to Pony as we sat out front of the sheriff’s office and looked at things.
“J.D. and Kirby town men,” Pony said. “Good with guns, but . . .” He shook his head.
“Not so good on the prairie?” Virgil said.
“No,” Pony said.
“Not as good as the Indian,” Virgil said.
“No.”
“You as good as the Indian?” Virgil said.
Pony nodded.
“Better,” he said.
The stage from Barrow went past, heading for the St. Louis Hotel, the big draft horses walking easily. The driver held the reins loosely. They’d made the run so often that the horses knew when to slow down and where to go.
“This whole thing was supposed to get someone to ride out after the Indian,” I said.
“Seems so,” Virgil said.
“He didn’t go to all this trouble to get us out of town so he could ride in and shoot out Pike’s windows,” I said.
“Think he wanted J.D. and Kirby?” Virgil said.
“I think he wanted Pike,” I said.
“Makes more sense,” Virgil said. “Don’t it.”
“Certainly gotta be some reason he’s hanging around here,” I said. “ ’Stead of someplace else.”
“Same reason,” Pony said, “coyotes around dead buffalo.”
“Just that?” I said. “ ’Cause the killing is easy?”
Pony shrugged.
“Maybe,” he said.
“Any reason he might have for killing people round here?” Virgil said.
“Indian people always have reason to kill white people,” Pony said.
Virgil nodded.
“Indian always happy to kill white,” Pony said. “So this Indian come here and he kill cow and not much happen. Except he get some beef. Then he kill a man and steal his horses. He get to do something he like, and he get to take horses, and he get to look at you.”
“Us,” Virgil said.
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