Appaloosa - Паркер Роберт Б. - Страница 9

“What he did was crazy,” Olson said.

“Virgil is crazy. You think a man ain’t crazy will make his living as a gun hand? You ever been in a gunfight?”

Olson didn’t say anything.

“You ever?” I said again.

“No.”

“Gun’s right there looking at you, hammer’s back. You see the snouts of the bullets peeking out of the cylinder like reptiles in a hole. Most people can’t stand up to that. Most people start to feel their intestines loosen. Virgil don’t. Virgil been doing that for years, and he ain’t never backed down, and he ain’t never run, and he ain’t never lost,” I said. “Because he’s a little crazy. And crazy is what it takes.”

“Don’t give him the right to go around busting up innocent people,” Olson said.

“No,” I said. “It don’t. And mostly, innocent people don’t get busted up. And if they do, every once in a while, it’s because of who Virgil Cole is, and what he is, and you hired him to be Virgil Cole. You hired the craziness.”

Olson was silent for a time, thinking about what I said. I kept looking at the tin ceiling.

“You’re not crazy,” Olson said finally.

“Maybe, maybe not,” I said. “But whatever I am, I ain’t Virgil Cole.”

“But you been working with him for years. I saw you shoot that man, Bragg’s man, in the bar.”

“I ain’t Virgil,” I said. “I’m his helper.”

“And that makes a difference?” Olson said.

“All the difference,” I said.

“But,” Olson said. “Cole works for us. I feel we have the right to tell him when he’s done something wrong.”

“You got the right,” I said.

“But you think we shouldn’t.”

“I think you shouldn’t.”

“What would happen?” Olson said.

He wasn’t combative. He seemed more curious than anything.

“Make Virgil peevish,” I said.

“What would he do.”

“Hard to be sure,” I said. “But making Virgil peevish is never good.”

“But I can talk to you about it.”

“I tole you. I ain’t Virgil.”

“You’re his helper.”

“I am.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Olson said.

“No,” I said. “I’m not sure you do, either.”

14

Since Virgil had taken up with Allie French, they liked to sleep in. And I usually had breakfast alone at Cafe Paris, or, if I wanted something better than fried salt pork and refried pinto beans, at the Boston House. I was at the Boston House, smoking a cigar and drinking coffee after breakfast, when Allie and Virgil came down the hotel stairs and into the dining room. Allie came over and gave me a kiss on the top of my head and sat down at the table. Virgil sat beside her.

“Morning,” he said.

I said good morning. Tilda came over and poured coffee. They consulted on the menu and decided on pancakes.

“I went over and seen that teamster,” I said to Virgil.

“He all right?” Virgil said.

“He will be, soon’s the swelling goes down.”

“Good.”

That was as close as Virgil could come to admitting anything about his assault on Mr. Gillis. I knew it, and knew it was heartfelt.

“He might not be all right if Everett hadn’t pulled you off him,” Allie said.

“I know,” Virgil said.

Which was as close as he was ever going to get to admitting that he was glad I’d done it.

“I gave him some money,” I said. “Help him out while he can’t work.”

Virgil nodded. It would never occur to him that he should reimburse me, and it would never occur to me that I should ask. It was part of being Virgil’s helper. Allie was watching both of us. She took a delicate sip of her coffee and made a delicate shudder to show us that she was a lady and not made for strong brew.

“I swear,” she said. “Sometimes I sit here and watch you two grunt at each other, and have the feeling that there’s a whole conversation going on that I don’t even hear.”

I grinned at her.

“No,” I said. “We’re just grunting, Allie.”

“Well,” she said, “whatever it is, I just always feel left out.”

“For God’s sake, Allie,” Cole said. “We ain’t talking about nothing. We don’t have that much to talk about.”

A tall cowboy with a big hat came into the dining room and waited for his eyes to adjust, and looked around the room. He saw us and studied us for a minute. I saw Cole shift a little in his chair so that his gun hand was loose and free.

“You know him,” Cole said.

“No.”

“Know who?” Allie said.

“He heeled?” Cole said.

“Right-hand pants pocket,” I said.

“Are you talking about that tall man?” Allie said.

Allie was on my right. I hitched my chair a little away from her, so that my right hand was free. Virgil stood and turned so he was in front of Allie, between her and the tall cowboy. The cowboy came toward us.

“You the marshal?” he said.

“Virgil Cole.”

“Name’s Whitfield,” he said. “I need to talk.”

“That’ll be fine,” Virgil said, “but I need to take that iron you got in your pocket.”

“You want my gun?”

“Just while you’re in town,” Virgil said. “ ’Gainst the law in town.”

Whitfield reached to his right-hand pocket.

“Very slow,” I said.

“This your deputy?” Whitfield said.

“Everett Hitch,” Cole said. “Hold it by the barrel.”

Whitfield handed it butt-first to Cole. It was a pocket gun, hammerless and nickel-plated. It looked like a .32.

“What’s this for?” Cole said, “shooting women?”

“It’ll keep somebody off ya,” Whitfield said. “If they’re close.”

Cole put the gun on the table next to me. Allie sat very still, watching everything that happened. She seemed to like it.

“Have a seat,” Cole said. “Maybe some coffee?”

“Coffee be good,” Whitfield said.

Whitfield took his hat off and put it on the table. He looked at Allie.

“This the missus?” he said.

Cole’s face colored a little.

“No,” Cole said. “This is Mrs. French.”

The cowboy said, “Pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Allie said. “I’m sure.”

Tilda brought some more coffee. Nobody said anything. Allie waited, interested. Whitfield was silent. Finally, Cole said, “Allie, I got to talk to this fella alone.”

“Oh? Well, certainly, Virgil. I’ve got to do my piano exercises anyway.”

She stood.

“Nice meeting you,” she said to Whitfield.

“My pleasure, ma’am,” Whitfield said.

Allie walked off toward the piano beyond the bar, and sat at it. She opened the cover and began to play some sort of musical exercises that didn’t sound much different than when she really played.

“I used to be a deputy here,” Whitfield said.

Cole was quiet.

“Worked with Jack Bell.”

Cole nodded.

“I knew Jack,” Cole said.

“Went up to Bragg’s place with him one day to arrest coupl’a Bragg’s men.”

Cole nodded.

“Bragg wouldn’t give ’em up,” Whitfield said. “They was too many, but Jack, he…”

“I know what happened,” Cole said.

“Was me,” Whitfield said. “And Dave Long, and Jack.”

Cole nodded.

“They was too many,” Whitfield said.

“I know,” Cole said. “And they shot Bell and the other deputy and you skedaddled.”

Whitfield nodded.

“You know it happened,” he said.

“Know it, can’t prove it,” Cole said.

“No witnesses,” Whitfield said.

“Un-huh.”

“I run off like a yellow dog,” Whitfield said.

“No reason to die for nothing,” Cole said.

“But I come back.”

Cole nodded.

“And I’ll be your witness.”

“Good,” Cole said. “Care to go with us?”

“Go with you?”

“When we go to apprehend Mr. Bragg,” Cole said.

Whitfield shook his head.

“Can’t,” he said. “I… I dunno, it busted me up inside when Jack got killed and I run. I… can’t do gun work no more.”

“But you’ll testify,” Cole said.

“I will.”

“With Bragg looking right at you,” Cole said.