Robert B. Parker's Blackjack (8 page)

W
hy should we believe you, Ricky?” I said.

“Believe what you want.”

Ricky leaned over and moaned.

“We been moving fast,” he said, and then spit some more blood into the patch of blood on the floor in front of the chair. “You can catch the shit. The threat of you or any other law . . . was . . . fading from his sight, Bill’s, too.”

“Didn’t fade from yours,” I said.

He grimaced and shook his swollen head a little.

“They ain’t as smart as me,” he said. “They ain’t spent half their born days locked up in no prison. And they weren’t left behind in the middle of the night, neither.”

He leaned forward with his elbows to his knees and spit more blood on the floor, then looked back up at us.

“All he fucking talked about,” he said. “Once he’s down Socorro way, that any law better look out.”

Virgil looked at me, then back to him.

“And Black?” Virgil said.

“Fucking left with him,” he said.

“Where in Socorro?” I said.

He shook his head.

“Shouldn’t be too hard to find . . . There’s a cantina in the square there, north side of the plaza, a lively place with pretty whores. Saturday night, the place is famous for good times and there is nothing that would make me happier than to see the two of you spoil his good times.”

Virgil stared at Ricky.

“It’s his birthday,” Ricky said with a bloody smile.

Virgil looked to me, then back to Ricky.

“No bullshit,” he said. “Swear on Grandma Ravenfield’s Bible. You get there by Saturday night, that’s where he’ll be, with all of his no good friends.”

“You know something about Black you ain’t telling us?” Virgil said.

“I don’t,” he said. “I’d fucking tell you if I did, ’cause I don’t give a rat’s ass about him. He never really said shit to me about nothing.”

Virgil stared at Ricky for a bit.

“All Truitt talked about for fucking days now. Truitt’s got two cousins there, too, big boys, Walt and Douglas. Assholes, the both of ’em. They think they are tough shit. Truitt and his fucking bullshit. He’s just full of shit. Even Bill told him to shut the fuck up.”

“What else ain’t you telling us?” I said.

“Nothing, not a fucking thing . . .”

Ricky leaned over and spit again.

“Don’t think Black would be party to a party,” Virgil said.

“Hard to say about him,” Ricky said. “I think he’s planning to get as far away as he can.”

Virgil looked at me and shook his head a little.

“Goddamn all I know. When you find Truitt, and Bill, for that
matter, you can tell them it was me, Ricky fucking Ravenfield, that sent you.”

Ricky leaned his head back and looked to the ceiling. A bubble of blood swelled again, then popped.

“All I know,” he said quietly.

“Why’d you kill the fella here that run this station?”

Ricky tilted his head a little, making his neck pop.

“He was gonna warn you, when you come,” he said. “I could not let him do that, you see.”

Ricky leveled a look at me as more tears welled up in his eyes. He lowered his chin to his chest.

“Let’s get this over with.”

Virgil looked at me for a long moment, then nodded. He looked to Ricky for a second, but Ricky didn’t meet his eye and Virgil walked out the front door.

I collected the Winchester Ricky dropped by the window, then removed his pistol I’d snugged behind my belt.

“Ricky,” I said. “I am most comfortable with one of a few choices that will decide your fate.”

“What?” he said.

“Take you with us back to Appaloosa where you can face a judge, who will decide your fate for all that you have done and will not continue to do.”

“You said you’d finish me.”

“I changed my mind.”

I removed all but one bullet from his revolver and placed the wood-handled pistol on the counter near the front door. I looked back to Ricky. He looked at the pistol, then at me.

I left out the front door, walked across the road and up the embankment toward our horses, and when I got to the other side of the rise I heard the report of Ricky’s pistol from inside the way station.

I stopped for a moment and looked back toward the building. I could only see the roof of the place and the thin trickle of smoke coming from the chimney of the wood-burning stove inside.

I thought about Ricky and what he’d been through, his time in prison and his broken life. Then I thought about Skinny Jack and all he’d been through. He was as good-hearted as they come and all I could readily allow was how some people just have a better shot than others.

V
irgil was gathering our horses near Mrs. Opelka when I got back to the wash.

“That it?” Virgil said.

“Is.”

Virgil nodded a little.

“You believe him?” I said. “’Bout Socorro?”

“No real reason not to,” Virgil said.

“He didn’t seem none too happy with Truitt or Boston Bill,” I said.

“Don’t seem like a story he’d make up while he’s sitting there with his nose shot off,” Virgil said.

“No,” I said. “It does not.”

Mrs. Opelka got to her feet and brushed the dirt from her dress.

“That’s what I heard,” she said. “That skinny blond fella was going on about going to Socorro, about turning thirty, about his friends and his gals. The sniveling piece of shit; I only wish my boys would have been here to give him the proper goddamn whipping he deserves.”

“What about the big fella?” I said. “He’s the main one we are after. You hear anything? You pick up anything that might help us find him?”

“No, he did not talk much,” she said. “He wanted food and quiet. He wanted to rest his horse and that was it. He was mad that we had no fresh horses, but that was all the anger he showed other than when he told the blond fella to shut up . . .”

She stared to the ground, then looked off in the direction of the way station.

“I’d like to get my husband out of the field and prepare him proper before my boys get back. I want their daddy to look as good as he can look.”

Virgil nodded, then handed me the reins of my horse.

“Everett, why don’t you find Skinny Jack’s horse and gather Skinny. And I will help Mrs. Opelka here.”

I took the reins and swung up.

“Best I can remember, Socorro is a near full day’s ride past where you turn back west to go on to La Verne,” I said.

“Sounds about right,” Virgil said.

“We’re going to need to stay after it if we are going to get in there by Saturday,” I said.

“We will,” Virgil said.

Then I moved on up the wash and rode off back toward where Skinny Jack lay dead.

By late into the afternoon, Mrs. Opelka’s boys arrived, and after a display of shock, tears, and anger upon hearing the news of what had happened to their father, the sturdy young men helped bury the dead. We buried Skinny Jack in a shallow grave with some plank boards covering him so as to exhume him at a future time and bury him next to his mother.

That night, Virgil and I rested up a little in Opelka’s barn, but we were on our way to Socorro hours before sunrise.

We figured we had a full two days’ ride to get to Socorro by Saturday night, so we maintained a steady pace. The next night we rested near an old mission, and again we were up and riding long before seeing the rising sun.

Socorro was fifty miles past La Verne, this side of the border. We had planned on arriving Saturday afternoon, but it took us longer to get there than we anticipated and it was good and dark by the time we arrived.

As we approached Socorro there was a cemetery on the left side of the road. Crosses towering crookedly above the graves within the low rock wall bordering the graveyard showed dark against the evening sky. Beyond the many and different-sized crosses, a hint of a golden light from within and the silver quarter-moon from above gave us a clear outline of the city.

“Here we go,” I said.

“Yep,” Virgil said.

“Don’t suspect it’s a good idea to ride in with our shoulders back and badges showing.”

“No.”

“Ricky said the cantina was on the north side,” I said.

“Did,” Virgil said. “East end.”

“Don’t think we been in it.”

“No,” Virgil said. “Don’t think we have.”

It’d been some time since Virgil and I were in Plaza Socorro, but we knew the town. We’d passed through there time and again in the last few years and we knew how it was laid out.

Virgil slowed a little and looked back to me.

“What do you figure it is?” Virgil said.

“Sun has been down for two hours, and from our last stop it seems
we’ve been on the road for at least five hours, right? I’d say it’s about eight, maybe nine o’clock.”

“Sounds about right.”

“Good timing,” I said.

“We’ll know soon enough.”

We rode on a bit more. We were riding into the city with a slight breeze in our faces, and there was a faint smell of smoke and livestock.

“Let’s go this side, on the south, and get a look at this cantina from across the plaza.”

It was dark, but Virgil and I did not risk riding through Plaza Socorro. That would not be smart. The quarter moon provided us with enough light to show our way. We turned off the road and moved around a fenced hilltop cemetery. We rode downhill and passed a large stockyard, cut between a few houses, crossed a dry brook, and entered Socorro from the back side of town.

We rode behind a row of two-story buildings that faced the south side of the plaza. To our left was a number of adobes, but it was late enough in the evening that there was only a scant light or two burning. We rode on past the big church and a few alleys among the buildings. I slowed when we got close to the end of the row of buildings and the last alley leading to the plaza.

“I’ll be goddamn,” I said. “Hear ’em?”

Virgil didn’t say anything, but I could see the whites of his eyes when he turned in his saddle and looked at me.

“Sounds like a party to me,” I said.

D
oes,” Virgil said.

I pulled my eight-gauge from the scabbard as we entered the back side of the dark alley.

Singing, laughter, and piano and fiddle music mixed together and cut through the otherwise peaceful evening like noisy unwanted guests.

“Sounds like they’re having a lively time,” I said.

“For the moment,” Virgil said.

I nudged my bay and followed Virgil on his muscled stud. We moved slowly through the narrow passage between two single-story buildings toward the street. Loud laughter roared and echoed from the cantina across the open town square, as if someone had told a joke.

“Sounds like more than a few, too,” I said.

“Damn sure does,” Virgil said.

“Got some liquor flowing,” I said.

“They do at that.”

The laughter, hooting, and hollering made it sound like the rabble-rousers were right there with us in the alley.

We set our horses in the shadows and watched the cantina across
the way. The windows and open door offered about the only substantial light in the small triangle-shaped plaza.

“If it is him, looks like Truitt has a few more than a handful of friends here,” I said.

“By God,” Virgil said.

“Could be Ricky wasn’t lying.”

“Could be,” Virgil said.

“What do you think about Boston Bill?” I said.

Virgil shook his head.

“We’ll know directly.”

We watched and listened some.

“Best I can tell, there’s what? Twelve horses?”

Virgil nodded.

“What do you want to do?” I said.

Virgil didn’t reply as he watched the cantina across the way, thinking about our options.

“Could let them carry on,” I said. “Then see if we see Truitt or Black leave the place.”

Virgil nodded a bit.

“Could,” he said.

“Then again,” I said. “We risk them going separate ways. Might lose Truitt and Black in the dark.”

“If there is a party,” Virgil said. “And even though we’re not invited, I believe we best pay our respects.”

He stepped down from his saddle and tied off on a post of a side overhang.

I moved my horse to the opposite side of the alley and dismounted.

“We know Truitt’s not afraid to pull,” I said.

“We do.”

“Ricky said there’s the two others that most likely aren’t afraid of a fight.”

“He did,” Virgil said. “Walt and . . .”

“Douglas . . . Douglas,” I said.

Virgil nodded.

Another fiddle and piano tune started up. It was a lively, knee-slapping tune. I recognized it, “Carve Dat Possum.” A female with a squeaky voice was singing the song and the crowd was chiming in out of key on the chorus.

“Once we know,” I said, “that it is for sure Truitt and Black, I suspect we’ll ask them polite-like if they want to go peaceful with us back to Appaloosa. Go from there.”

My tall bay worked the hell out of the bit in his mouth, then lowered his head, shook it hard and let out a loud snort.

“Hush,” I said, and pushed his butt up to the wall.

Virgil took a few steps out of the alley. He looked to the left, then right. I moved up next to him.

“Be best to not walk directly across, don’t you think?”

“I do,” Virgil said.

We stepped up on the porch of a feed store, stayed under the plaza’s awnings, and worked our way around the town square toward the cantina.

I slid back the hammers of the eight-gauge as we neared and Virgil pulled his bone-handled Colt.

It was late enough that nobody was out on the plaza moving about. We came up on the twelve dozy horses hitched in front of a cantina with no name, no sign. Virgil edged up and peeked in the window.

Another spirited song started up, and with it some foot stomping and vigorous yelps.

Virgil looked to me and nodded.

I nodded back.

He tilted his head and I followed him into the saloon.

The barroom was small and full of happy-faced drunk men and a
few unsightly equally drunk women having a festive time. A fat rosy-faced fella with a red scruffy beard was pounding on the piano. He was accompanied by a skinny kid sawing on the fiddle and a short, round woman dancing around and laughing as she showed the partiers the underside of her frilly dress.

Boston Bill was nowhere to be seen, but Truitt saw Virgil and me right away. He got to his feet, not real fast but not real slow, and took a step backward.

“Happy Birthday, Truitt,” Virgil said.