Blue-Eyed Devil (15 page)

61

I
LEFT ALLIE to stay with Laurel in the little shed next to the livery corral, where she and Pony lived while he wrangled the livery string and broke an occasional mustang.

“She talk?” I said.

“Some,” Pony said.

“Enough?” I said.

“Yes.”

It was cloudy and gray riding north, but there was no rain.

“She mind you going?” I said.

“When see you, she know why you here,” Pony said.

“She say she understand.”

“Does she?”

“Yes.”

“Wish Allie did,” I said. “She bitched the whole way down here yesterday.”

“Why she bitch?”

I did a high-voiced imitation of Allie.

“ ‘What if he’s killed? What happens to me? This isn’t his fight. . . . Why is he involved at all. . . . If he loved me, he wouldn’t . . .’ ”

Pony looked at the dark sky.

“Apache man warrior,” he said. “Apache woman proud.”

“I know,” I said.

Pony grinned.

“In land of Blue-Eyed Devil, not so simple,” he said. “Man can’t always be warrior. Man get to be cowboy and store man and saloon man. And man who sit in office. Not warrior, I just man who saddle horse. Pitch hay. Pick up horse shit. But I go with you and Virgil, I warrior.”

“Not everybody wants to be a warrior,” I said.

“No. But nobody want to be pick-up-horse-shit man, either,” Pony said.

“Some people like it ’cause it’s safe, I guess.”

“Life not lived to be safe. Safe make you weak,” Pony said. “Make you slow. Make you tired.”

We pretty much gave the horses their head, keeping them pointed north but letting them pick the trail. Half a day on the trail and it began to rain again. Not too hard but steady. The horses paid no attention. We put on our slickers and buttoned them up and pulled the brims of our hats down and hunched a little forward over the necks of the horses.

“Things turn out the way they heading,” I said, “you ain’t gonna be tired for a good while.”

62

O
N THE FOLLOWING MONDAY, Callico declared a state of martial law to exist in Appaloosa, and called off the election.

The office of the chief of police is now the highest authority in Appaloosa
, the proclamation read. It was signed
Amos A. Callico, chief of police.

“Ain’t martial law supposed to be the Army?” Virgil said.

“Twenty-five policemen in a town this size is an Army,” I said.

“That’s a fact,” Virgil said.

The rain that had been coming down steadily for more than a week was tapering, and as we sat drinking coffee in Café Paris, it had stopped completely.

“Question is,” I said, “what’s the general going to do?”

“Yep.”

“Which,” I said, “will then lead to the question what are we going to do?”

“You didn’t go down and get Pony,” Virgil said. “’Cause we needed a fourth for whist.”

I nodded.

Chauncey Teagarden came in with his slicker unbuttoned. He hung his white hat on the rack and sat down at our table.

“Ain’t raining,” he said.

“Will again,” I said.

“Often does,” Chauncey said. “The general would like you boys to come out and see him, soon’s you can.”

“The election?” I said.

“You boys heard about that,” Chauncey said.

“We did,” I said.

“General says he can’t do that,” Chauncey said.

“He can do what people will let him do,” Virgil said.

“Think that’s what he might want to talk about,” Chauncey said.

“In fact,” Virgil said, “might just as well ride back on out there with you when you go.”

“That’ll be soon’s I finish my coffee,” Chauncey said.

“Okay,” Virgil said. “Everett, bring the eight-gauge. Looks impressive.”

63

T
HE RAIN had picked up again by the time we got to the Lazy L. We hung our coats and hats in the front hall and went into the living room to sit by the big stone fireplace and let the fire dry us out.

The houseboy poured whiskey.

“Fine-looking decanter,” Virgil said.

He loved learning a new word and tried to use it as often as possible. The results weren’t always pretty, but he got this one right.

“I’m going after Callico,” the general said.

“So I understand,” Virgil said.

“I employ cattle hands. Not gunmen. They were ready to fight the Indian raid, self-defense. They are not ready to fight Callico and his police force.”

“No volunteers,” Virgil said.

The general drank some whiskey.

“None,” he said.

“Bad odds,” Virgil said.

The general nodded.

“They’re cowboys,” he said. “That’s what they signed on for.”

“And what did you sign on for?” I said.

“You remember what they taught us at West Point about honor and duty and country.”

I smiled.

“Vaguely,” I said.

“I fought on the wrong side in the wrong war because I felt to do otherwise would have been dishonorable. I still think so.”

“That war’s over,” I said.

“I cannot let this bandit take over the town like some Mongolian warlord,” the general said.

“Not sure Appaloosa’s worth dying for,” I said.

“We’ll help you,” Virgil said.

“I will pay you well,” the general said. “And any men you can enlist.”

“This one’s free,” Virgil said.

“Our history will be put aside for the duration,” the general said.

I was looking at Virgil. He generally had the moral scruples of a tarantula. And he declined to work for free.

“You work for free, you’re just a gunman,”
he always said.
“You do it ’cause you like it.”

Which was maybe some kind of moral scruple.

“Chauncey,” Virgil said. “You’re in.”

“Surely am,” Chauncey said.

“Pony?”

“Sí.”

“Everett and me, that’s four.”

“I am five,” the general said.

Virgil almost spoke but held it back.

“You think Cato and Rose might come down from Resolution for this?”

“I’d say they owe us,” I said.

“That’d make seven,” Virgil said. “Anybody got anybody else?”

No one spoke.

“Okay, twenty-five to seven,” Virgil said. “And since the seven is us, odds ain’t bad.”

He held his glass out.

“Reach me that there decanter, Pony,” he said.

Pony looked at him blankly.

“That there fancy bottle,” Virgil said. “Called a decanter.”

Pony nodded and poured Virgil a drink. Everyone else had a second.

“You have, I assume, engaged in this kind of operation before,” the general said.

“Yes, sir,” Virgil said.

“Do you wish my help in the planning?”

“No, sir,” Virgil said.

“I rather thought you wouldn’t,” the general said. “What’s the first step?”

“Pony’ll ride up and get Cato and Rose,” Virgil said.

“Do you have a plan?” the general said.

“Need to get an idea of Callico’s plan, and adjust to it,” Virgil said.

“A strategy, then?”

“Kill Callico and not get killed doin’ it,” Virgil said. “But first we gotta let him know we’re coming and see what preparations he makes.”

“How you going to do that?” the general said.

Virgil looked at me. I grinned.

“We’ll tell Allie,” I said.

64

W
HEN PONY came back from Resolution with Cato and Rose, he brought them straight to the house. Virgil introduced Allie. She curtsied and went for the jug of corn whiskey.

“Pony tell you anything on the ride down?” Virgil said.

Rose laughed.

“Riding down here with Pony and Cato can be lonely business,” he said.

“Okay,” Virgil said. “What you see drinking whiskey at the table is what we go to war with.”

Cato and Rose both looked at Chauncey.

Rose said, “Frank Rose. This here’s Cato Tillson.”

“Chauncey Teagarden,” he said.

“Like your shirt,” Rose said.

Chauncey nodded.

“Like yours, too,” he said.

“Besides the six of us,” Virgil said, “there’s a general got to be in on it.”

“A general?” Rose said.

“From the Confederate states army.”

“Long-in-the-tooth general,” Rose said.

“Yes.”

“He think he’s in charge?”

“No,” Virgil said.

“He think you’re in charge?” Rose said.

“Yep.”

“No disrespect, Everett,” Rose said. “But Virgil ain’t in charge, me and Cato go back to Resolution.”

“I’m in charge,” Virgil said.

“Got a plan yet?” Cato said.

“We’re developing one,” Virgil said. “Tell ’em, Everett, if you would. You being a West Point graduate.”

“Allie here is a close friend of Callico’s wife, Amelia, the Countess of Storyville.”

“Storyville,” Rose said.

“Yep. But Allie don’t care—they are pals. So she lets it slide that we’re coming after Callico and tells her to warn Callico but not tell who we are.”

“And she thinks the Countess will do that?”

“No,” I said. “Allie’s playing dumb. We know Mrs. Callico will give us away.”

“But then,” Virgil said. “He got two choices: comes right after us or, two, he sets up for us to come after him.”

“Either way we’re setting ourselves up,” Rose said.

“’Cept they don’t know we know they know,” Virgil said. “So we watch them watching us.”

“You think they’ll come for us?” Cato said.

“No,” Virgil said. “Man wants to be president. Looks better if he defeats a bunch of ruffians who attacked him.”

“How ’bout the wife?” Rose said.

“Lady Macbeth,” Chauncey said.

“Who?” Rose said.

“Bad woman in a play,” I said. “She wants him to be president, too.”

“How good are his constables?” Cato said.

“Don’t know yet,” I said. “Pretty sure not as good as us.”

“But pretty sure twenty-five to six,” Rose said.

“Seven,” Virgil said.

“The general,” Rose said.

“Yeah.”

“Twenty-five to six, and a geezer,” Rose said.

“He’ll carry his weight,” Virgil said.

“He better,” Frank said.

“He will,” Chauncey said.

65

I
T WAS LATE. Chauncey went back to the Lazy L. Cato and Rose went to sleep in Virgil’s shed. Allie was cleaning up, and Virgil and I sat on the porch and looked at the first clear sky we’d seen in two weeks. There were stars.

“Allie,” I said.

“Odd,” Virgil said. “Ain’t it.”

“She worships Amelia Callico,” I said. “She thinks Amelia Callico is the Queen of New Orleans.”

“She gets faint if the Countess looks at her,” Virgil said.

“And she don’t want this fight to happen,” I said.

“She don’t,” Virgil said.

“But she sets the trap on her ’cause you asked her to.”

“Allie loves me,” Virgil said.

“Except when she doesn’t,” I said.

Virgil sipped his whiskey.

“She always loves me,” he said. “Sometimes other stuff gets in the way.”

“She wants to be more than she is,” I said. “She cheats on you. She gets so sucked up into her self that she can’t see you for a while. She gets lost. You go find her. She strays off. You bring her back. You love her.”

“I do,” Virgil said.

“Why?”

“Don’t know,” Virgil said.

We poured ourselves more whiskey.

“But you do,” I said.

“Yep.”

“You ever spend time thinking about it?”

“Nope.”

I grinned.

“No,” I said. “You wouldn’t.”

“I like it,” Virgil said. “It works for me. Why fuck around with it.”

“Don’t spend much time figuring yourself out, either,” I said.

“Same thing,” Virgil said.

“You like yourself,” I said.

Virgil grinned.

“So, why fuck with it?” he said.

“You know why you’re getting into General Laird’s fight?” I said.

“Killed his kid,” Virgil said.

“Feel guilty ’bout that?”

“Nope,” Virgil said. “Kid gave me no choice. Don’t mean I can’t help his old man out.”

“And we don’t like Callico, do we?” I said.

“No,” Virgil said. “We don’t.”

“And we do kind of like putting together a little fire-fight like this.”

Virgil drank some corn whiskey and held it in his mouth and looked up at the stars. He nodded slowly.

“We do,” he said.

66

N
EW MOON,” General Laird said. Six of us sat our horses back from the ridgeline in the near-perfect darkness above Appaloosa.

“Yep,” Virgil said.

“Knew that when you planned this,” the general said.

“Did,” Virgil said.

Almost noiselessly, Pony Flores guided his horses up from the right slope and in beside Virgil.

“How’s he do that?” Chauncey said to me. “I know he’s quiet, but how’s he make the horse quiet?”

Pony heard him.

“Chiricahua,” he murmured to Chauncey.

“Or Mex,” Chauncey said.

“Or both,” Pony said.

“How is it down there?” Virgil said.

He never got nervous, but he did focus sometimes, and this was one of those times.

“Done what you say he do, Jefe,” Pony said.

“Set up an ambush,” Virgil said.

“Sí.”

Downslope a ways five extra horses were tethered. They would blow softly now and then in the darkness.

“Where’s he got ’em?” Virgil said.

“I show,” Pony said.

We moved down slope a little and dismounted. I got a lantern going, and we crouched together, watching, while Pony scratched out a sort of map in the dirt.

“Have two on second floor, Boston House,” Pony said, and marked it.

“One on roof of Golden Palace.” He drew an
X
.

“Three in livery corral. Behind wagon.” He drew three
X’
s.

When Pony was finished Virgil counted the
X’
s.

“I get fifteen,” he said.

“Five alone,” I said.

“We can take them out?” Virgil said to Pony. “Quiet?”

“Sí,”
Pony said. “The one’s alone. Maybe two on roof at jail.”

“You think you can take out two men in the dark without making any noise.”

“Chiricahua,” Pony said. “Kill many men on roof.”

“Chiricahua better not fuck this up,” Virgil said. “Blow the whole goddamned project if there’s noise.”

“Sí.”

“On the jail roof,” I said.

“Sí.”

“I won’t tell you how to do your work,” Virgil said.

“We pull it off, he’ll have a lot fewer men than he thinks he’s got,” I said.

“Where’s the rest?” Virgil said.

“Jail,” Pony said.

“Right below Pony,” I said.

“With Callico?” Virgil said.

“Sí.”

Virgil studied the sketch in the dirt for a bit. Then he stood and remounted and rode to a spot just below the ridgeline. It was too dark to be seen, but Virgil was always careful. He sat and looked down at Appaloosa for a while.

“We get the first part cleaned up and settle in,” Virgil said. “Then just before dawn the horses go in.”

“Somebody gotta drive them,” I said.

“I’ll do that,” General Laird said.

“Good chance you don’t survive,” Virgil said.

“No need,” the general said. “I’m seventy-seven years old. My son is dead. I’m the one you can spare for this. No need to survive.”

Nobody said anything.

“I’ll stick here with him,” Teagarden said.

“Okay,” Virgil said. “Just before dawn. We pull this off and we’re all in place. You bring the horses in, bunched up together so they can’t really tell if there are riders. When they start shooting, you get down in the saddle and get the hell out of there.”

“Okay,” he said. “We may as well start. Who wants the Golden Palace?”

“I know the place,” Cato said. “I’ll take it.”

“Before you begin,” Laird said.

We waited.

“I am seventy-seven,” Laird said again. “All I have left in the world is my ranch. I was going to leave it to my son. But Virgil Cole killed my son. Because I was a powerful man, I told my son he was a powerful man. I was a soldier all my life. Power, I told him, comes from the muzzle of a gun. He took it to heart. Because I was powerful, my son thought he was powerful. Because I was powerful, people treated my son as if he were powerful. I thought he was. He thought he was. And it got him killed by Virgil Cole.”

Nobody spoke in the darkness. The horses stood quiet, waiting, the way they did.

“That is my fault,” Laird said. “Virgil Cole did what he had to do.”

We were still.

“Chauncey, I don’t want you to kill him,” Laird said.

“Hell, General, Callico probably gonna kill us both, anyway,” Chauncey said.

“I want you men to witness this,” Laird said. “My only connection to my son is through the man who killed him. And he’s a good man. If I die here, or when I die somewhere, I want Cole to have the ranch.”

“Virgil?” I said.

“Yes.”

“You understand what you’re doing?”

“Yes,” Laird said.

There was a moment more of silence.

Then Laird said, “And so does Virgil Cole.”

In the darkness, Virgil said, “I do.”

“We’re all witness,” I said.

“Then let’s get to it,” Virgil said. We all dismounted, took our spurs off, and began down the hill toward town. Being silent in the dark made it slow going.

My man was behind the Chinese laundry, barricaded behind some big wash cauldrons, with, in daylight, a clear line of sight at the open space in front of the jail.

I remembered moving in on a Comanche camp through a dark Texas night. The horses held by squad back from the scene, the troopers spread out on each side of me, the silence so pressing that you didn’t want to breathe. Except this time I was alone. I stashed the eight-gauge on the far wall of the laundry. It would be in my way for what I had to do now. But it would be very handy later.

I took the bowie knife from its scabbard. I don’t enjoy knives much, but there didn’t seem any other way. I went very slowly, feeling my way with the toe of my boot through the littered laundry lot. It took so long that I was afraid dawn would arrive before I got to him.

But it didn’t.

And I cut his throat soundlessly before he ever knew he was dead, and took his place behind the wash pots.