The Bridge

by Robert Knott

  “When was this?” Virgil said, holding up the telegram.

  “Tonight.”

  Virgil looked at the telegram and shook his head a little.

  “Any other correspondence with the operator?”

  “No.”

  Virgil nodded a little.

  “Let’s get geared up, Everett,” Virgil said, “get over there.”

  “I got Skinny Jack and Book outfitting us now,” I said.

  “Tonight?” Allie said with alarm.

  Virgil was already walking off down the hall, heading for the back room, when he answered.

  “Yes, Allie,” he said. “Tonight.”

  “What about me?” Allie called out to Virgil down the hall. “You can’t just leave me here with dynamiting murderers on the loose.”

  “This happened a long ways away, Allie,” I said. “Bridge is a day’s ride from here.”

  “No matter,” Allie said.

  “Can’t take you with us, Allie,” Virgil called from the back room.

  “There’s always something taking you away from me. Sometimes I wonder if you want bad things to happen so you and Everett can go off and be heroes.”

  “Oh, hell, Allie,” I said. “You know better than that.”

  “Well,” Allie said, “it’s just that I’ve gotten used to you being here. Having y’all here makes this lonely place a home.”

  “It’s what we do, Allie,” Virgil replied, walking back up the hall and into the room with his gun belt.

  “Oh, for God sake, Virgil. You always say that.”

  Virgil didn’t say anything as he strapped on his holster.

  “Well, Allie, this is an obvious inextricable circumstance,” I said.

  “Whatever that means, Everett,” Allie said with a huff. “Don’t mean you need to speak for Virgil.”

  “He’s not speaking for me, Allie,” Virgil said.

  “Is too,” Allie said.

  —26—

  Virgil and I left Allie standing behind the front door.

  “Don’t want to step into some kind of trap,” Virgil said, as we descended the steps and started walking to the sheriff’s office.

  I glanced back. I could see Allie through the falling snow. She was looking out the door, watching us walking away.

  “Who’d want to trap us?”

  “Don’t know,” Virgil said, “but you can’t always believe what you read.”

  “You don’t think this has happened?”

  “Not saying that,” Virgil said. “Most likely it has. Just don’t want to go riding in there because someone has asked for us to come. Not without knowing a few things we don’t.”

  “Like what?”

  “Driskill and his deputies should have been there by noon yesterday,” Virgil said.

  “Unless they ran into some trouble.”

  “Yep,” Virgil said.

  “The telegraph line being cut,” I said, “makes sense why the butter-churning woman, Winifred, wasn’t getting any response from the way station regarding the whereabouts of her husband, Lonnie.”

  “Does,” Virgil said.

  The snow was coming down pretty solid as we crossed the street and stepped onto the boardwalk.

  “What do you want to do?” I said.

  “Start with,” Virgil said. “We send a wire back to the bridge way station.”

  “Rattle the cage?”

  “Yep.”

  “See what is what?” I said. “Find out what we can.”

  “Yep.”

  Virgil and I walked to the sheriff’s office and Book met us at the door.

  “Skinny Jack’s getting you ready,” Book said.

  “Seen Chastain yet?” I said.

  “No, sir.”

  “Where can we find the Western Union operator that received this telegram this time of night?” I said.

  “Right there at the office, that’s Charlie Hill,” Book said. “Should be there. He has a room there, just behind the office. Charlie and his little brother are both operators. They both live there.”

  Virgil and I walked up the street two blocks to the Western Union office and I knocked on the door. The office was dark, but we could see light through the crack of a door at the rear of the office. I knocked again and then the door at the back of the office opened and a young man came out wearing his nightclothes and carrying a finger lantern. He set the lantern down and put on a pair of spectacles.

  He looked out the door window and I showed him my badge.

  “Oh,” he said, opening the door. “Marshal Cole, Deputy Marshal Hitch. I figured I might be seeing you. Come in.”

  “You’re Charlie?” I said.

  He nodded.

  “I am,” he said. “Awful news.”

  “Anybody else know about this besides you?” Virgil said.

  “No,” Charlie said. “Well, my brother, and Deputies Book and Skinny Jack.”

  “Nobody else?” I said.

  “No,” Charlie said. “My brother and I are professional operators, not town gossips.”

  Virgil nodded.

  “So the way station had been unresponsive, not communicative for a while?” I said.

  “Yes, sir, it was, until the wire came in this evening about the bridge.”

  “The operator in now,” Virgil said. “This time of night?”

  “Should be,” Charlie said. “They stay there.”

  “There more than one operator?” I said.

  “Yes,” Charlie said. “Like here and like most places. I know both the operators there. Well, I know them from all the correspondence. Husband and wife, Pedrick and Patty.”

  “I want to send a wire,” Virgil said.

  “Oh, well, sure,” Charlie said.

  Charlie was a small fella with thin hair and delicate features. He sat behind his desk and looked up to Virgil.

  Virgil said, “Just write, Appaloosa law enforcement, wanting to know the . . .”

  Virgil looked to me.

  “Status of workers and damage?” I said.

  Virgil nodded to Charlie.

  Charlie rubbed his hands together, pounded out the note on the key, then got to his feet.

  “Be right back,” Charlie said. “Kind of on the cold side. Get my robe.”

  Charlie ducked into the back room and came out a second later, tying the belt of the robe around his waist and carrying a pair of slippers. He dropped the slippers on the floor, slid his feet into them, then sat back at the telegraph desk and faced the key and sounder.

  We all focused on the sounder and within a minute it went off and Charlie wrote the note.

  “Cleanup has been under way . . . Bridge completely gone.”

  Virgil looked at me.

  “Respond, Has Sheriff Driskill been seen at the bridge camp?” Virgil said.

  I nodded.

  Charlie keyed the note. Waited and then replied, when the sounder replied.

  Charlie relayed the code.

  “No report of Sheriff Driskill of recent,” Charlie said. “Can check with camp and let you know right away.”

  Charlie looked up to Virgil and me.

  “The way station is about thirty minutes from the bridge, so some of what will be in response may not be immediate.”

  Virgil nodded.

  “How many dead, injured?” Virgil said.

  Charlie keyed out the note and the sounder immediately sounded back.

  “Three dead,” Charlie said. “No injuries.”

  “Who were the raiders?” Virgil said.

  Charlie tapped out Virgil’s request and then spoke out the words as he wrote the sounder’s reply.

  “It is uncertain who they were or how many . . . Dynamite placed on the bridge in the night . . . Bombers blew up bridge in the a.m. . . . Three men, early workers, were on the bridge . . . They were casualties of the explosion.”

  “Is G. W. Cox on location?”

  Virgil looked at me.

  “Curtis Whittlesey said Cox is the cont
ractor,” I said. “Was an attorney, been here for a while in Appaloosa and won the bid to build the bridge.”

  Virgil nodded.

  Charlie keyed the note.

  The sounder sounded back and Charlie shook his head.

  “As of an hour ago, last report, Mr. Cox was not at the bridge,” Charlie said.

  —27—

  It was close to midnight by the time Virgil and I left the Western Union office.

  “Why would somebody do this?” I said.

  “Got to be some reason,” Virgil said.

  We stayed on the porch and watched it snow for a moment, thinking.

  “Cox lives in the big house on the corner of Fourth Street,” I said. “Maybe we let him know about this?”

  Virgil nodded.

  “Maybe he knows something,” I said. “Something we need to know.”

  Virgil nodded.

  “Maybe,” he said, and we stepped off the porch.

  We walked to Cox’s place. It was a three-story structure toward the north end of town. We climbed the dark steps and I knocked on the door.

  It took a while before a light appeared at the top of the steps. Slowly a man descended and came to the door.

  “Territorial marshals,” I said. “Mr. Cox?”

  We heard the door handle twist. It cracked open a little and a small black man peered out at us.

  “No, sir,” he said. “I’m Mr. Cox’s butler, Jessup. Mr. Cox is asleep.”

  “We need to talk to him,” Virgil said.

  “Now?” Jessup said.

  “Now,” Virgil said.

  “Let him know it’s important,” I said.

  Jessup looked to me, then to Virgil, and opened the door.

  “Come in,” he said. “This way, please.”

  Jessup led us. We walked through a set of doors leading into a stately office with books from floor to ceiling. Jessup set the lamp down and lit two lamps that were sitting on the corners of a huge desk.

  “I’ll get Mr. Cox,” Jessup said.

  Cox’s office was a shrine to his accomplishments. We walked around the room, looking at all the books.

  “Goddamn library,” I said.

  “Is,” Virgil said.

  Behind the desk were gilded framed placards. I moved closer to read them.

  “Graduate of Harvard University,” I said. “Certificate of excellence from Philadelphia Law. He’s no slouch.”

  “Look here,” Virgil said.

  I walked over to where Virgil was standing near the front window. Tacked on the wall were drawings of the Rio Blanco Bridge and sitting on a table in front of the window was an impressive wooden model of the bridge.

  “Damn,” I said. “Something.”

  “Was,” Virgil said.

  “Yep.”

  “No more,” Virgil said.

  “Goddamn shame,” I said.

  “Lot of work,” Virgil said.

  We heard footsteps coming down the stairs, and in a moment G. W. Cox walked into the office, followed by Jessup.

  Cox was very tall and thin, with broad shoulders. He was wearing a proper English robe with velvet lapels over a dark-colored silk sleeping gown. He looked to be in his mid-sixties. His hair was silver but his eyebrows, sideburns, and mustache were dark. His nose was long and pointed, with a high ridge in the middle. He had an instant, distinguished air of sophistication about him.

  “Gentlemen?” Cox said in a deep southern baritone. “Jessup here said you men need to see me.”

  “We do,” Virgil said.

  Virgil stayed near the window next to the bridge model, and I moved toward Cox.

  “We’re territorial marshals out of Appaloosa,” I said. “I’m Deputy Marshal Everett Hitch and this is Marshal Virgil Cole.”

  “G. W. Cox,” he said.

  I shook his hand.

  “What is it? What’s happened?”

  I looked to Virgil.

  “We got word,” Virgil said. “A telegram from the Rio Blanco Bridge way station. Two days ago, the bridge was destroyed. Three men dead.”

  Cox didn’t say anything right away. He just looked at us with a blank expression on his face.

  “I’m sorry?” Cox said with his slow long drawl. “Could you repeat that? Two days ago, whhhuuut?”

  —28—

  Virgil nodded to the model in front of the window.

  “This bridge was blown up,” Virgil said. “Three men died, they were killed.”

  Cox shook his head.

  “This can’t be,” Cox said.

  Virgil nodded.

  “’Fraid so,” Virgil said.

  “Two days ago?” Cox said.

  Virgil nodded.

  “Any idea who would do this?” Virgil said.

  Cox looked to the floor for a long moment. He shook his head slightly, then walked to the big desk and dropped into his chair.

  “Leave us, Jessup,” Cox said.

  Jessup just looked at Cox for a moment.

  “Now,” Cox said. “I don’t need you standing there looking like you are looking. Just leave.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Cox, sir,” Jessup said, and closed the doors behind him.

  “You know this to be a fact?” Cox said.

  “Not seen it firsthand,” Virgil said, “but that was the telegram.”

  Cox placed both of his hands squarely on the desk in front of him.

  “Why am I just receiving this information?” Cox said.

  “The lines were down,” I said.

  “Just recently fixed,” Virgil said.

  “When the communication connection was reestablished,” I said, “we were contacted.”

  Cox stared at me blankly.

  “To confirm, we made contact with the way station just a while ago,” I said. “The bridge being blown up and deaths were confirmed.”

  “Got any idea why somebody’d do this?” Virgil said.

  Cox looked away, then leveled a look at Virgil but didn’t respond to Virgil’s question.

  “You got enemies?” Virgil said.

  “I’ve spent most my life putting people in jail, Marshal,” Cox said. “I have plenty of enemies.”

  Cox stood. He put his hands in the pockets of his Englishman’s robe and walked slowly over to the bridge model. He looked at the model with a sad expression on his face as he shook his head slightly from side to side.

  “Walton Wayne Swickey,” Cox said.

  “Who’s Walton Wayne Swickey?” Virgil said.

  Cox stared at the bridge model, not saying anything.

  Virgil looked to me, then back to Cox.

  “Who is Walton Wayne Swickey?” Virgil said again.

  “A powerful, money-grubbing man,” Cox said.

  “Where would we find him?” Virgil said.

  Cox shook his head.

  “I don’t know.”

  Virgil looked to the model, then to Cox.

  “Why?” Virgil said. “Why would he do this?”

  “Because I got the bid to build the bridge and he did not.”

  “Any other reason?” Virgil said.

  “Like what?” Cox said.

  “You tell me,” Virgil said.

  “I can’t imagine any reasons,” Cox said.

  “No other bad blood between the two of you?” Virgil said.

  “No,” Cox said. “Nothing I’m aware of. I never knew the man until I bid against him, did not know him from Adam. I was warned, when I went up against him, though, that he was a ruthless, not-to-be-trusted sonofabitch.”

  Cox looked back to the model and shook his head.

  “But this?” Cox said. “Why anyone would do something so atrocious as this, Marshal, is beyond me. Even Swickey. Losing a goddamn contract? Well, hell, that offers no logical reason, or explanation for such awful nonsense as this, no matter how burned or scorned one might be. Just nonsense.”

  “He live here,” I said. “In Appaloosa?”

  Cox shook his head some.

  �
�I don’t know. He was here for the bidding,” Cox said. “Not sure where he lives, though.”

  “You have no idea?” I said.

  “No.”

  “And no idea of his whereabouts?”

  “No, I don’t know where he is,” Cox said. “I’ve not seen him, but I’m not around here full-time. In fact, I just returned to Appaloosa last week.”

  “From?” Virgil said.

  “Philadelphia.”

  “When was the last time you saw Swickey?” I said.

  “The day I was awarded the contract to build the bridge and he was not.”

  “What were your parting words?” I said.

  “No words,” Cox said. “He just smiled at me. A devil’s smile, conjured up from the bowels of hell.”

  —29—

  What now?” Cox said.

  “Everett and me are riding over there,” Virgil said. “Have a look at this firsthand.”

  “When?”

  “Subsequently,” Virgil said.

  “I’ll go with you,” Cox said.

  “Not necessary,” Virgil said.

  “Might not be,” Cox said, “but I insist.”

  “Conditions are bad,” I said.

  “Yes,” Cox said. “They are. No matter. I have a great deal invested in these men and this bridge.”

  Cox walked to the office doors and opened them.

  “Jessup,” Cox called.

  “Yessir,” Jessup replied.

  “Get my horse ready to ride,” he said.

  Jessup showed up at the doors.

  “Now?” Jessup said.

  “Yes,” Cox said. “Now.”

  Virgil looked to me and moved toward the door.

  “We have readying to do,” Virgil said. “We’ll come back around here in a bit. If you’re ready to ride, you can ride with us. We won’t wait on you.”

  “I’ll be ready,” Cox said.

  Virgil nodded and I followed him out of the office.

  We left Cox’s place and walked back in the direction of the sheriff’s office.

  “Think we need to try locate this Swickey fella,” I said.

  “Yep.”

  “Not sure how best to go about that,” I said. “Not this time of night, anyway.”

  “Same as before,” Virgil said.

  “Wallis?”

  “Yep.”

  Virgil and I cut through the alley and crossed two blocks to Main Street. When we got to the Boston House, the saloon was locked up.