Robert B. Parker's Bull River Page 2

  “How you want to go about this?” I said.

  I could see Virgil’s reflection in the cracked mirror above the basin. He picked up the cigar from the ashtray and took a pull.

  “Figure I’ll go down,” Virgil said, with a point out the window.

  “Position myself over there in the plaza corner, where I’ll have a good look at the cantina. Make sure they don’t decide to go nowhere.”

  I moved to the window to see where Virgil was pointing.

  “You get to our horses,” Virgil said. “Get ’em ready to ride. Bring ’em up the back side and meet me over there.”

  “Then?”

  Virgil looked out the window a moment, thinking.

  “Be a good idea we remove their transportation,” he said.

  The seven horses were in front of the cantina. Four were on one hitch and three on the other.

  “Walk ’em off,” I said. “Or shoo ’em?”

  “Get ’em gone,” Virgil said. “Send ’em.”

  I thought about what Virgil was saying as I strapped on my Colt.

  “Be quicker,” I said. “Might get their attention, though.”

  Virgil nodded a little as he took a tug of the cigar and then blew out a roll of smoke.

  “You been in that cantina since we been here, Everett?”

  “Have. Bought our whiskey, beer there.”

  “Back door open?”

  “Was,” I said. “Both times.”

  “Was when I was in there, too.”

  “You want to go in each way,” I said. “Mix things up a bit?”

  Virgil nodded.

  “Yep,” Virgil said. “We’ll see who’s interested in going to jail and who ain’t.”

  “Sounds right,” I said.

  I picked up my second Colt, loaded it, and put it behind my back, under my belt.

  Virgil took a final pull on his cigar and loaded his second Colt. He secured it in the front of his belt, toward his hip.

  I grabbed my eight-gauge and followed Virgil out the door and down the creaky stairs to the small hotel lobby. There was an old clerk sitting by a single lamp, reading a newspaper. He looked up at us, offered no smile, and went back to what he was reading. The door leading to the plaza was low. We dipped our heads some and walked out.

  The plaza of El Encanto wasn’t crowded, but it wasn’t shy of people, either.

  Since we’d been in the busy village we had stayed out of sight as much as we could. Two gringos residing in El Encanto for an extended period of time was conspicuous enough, so we avoided drawing attention to ourselves. When we did go out to get food, whiskey, or to check on our horses, we did so separately.

  Our horses were stabled in a small corral with a lean-to shed a few hundred yards behind the plaza.

  Virgil walked off down the boardwalk in the opposite direction of the cantina and I moved off between the hotel and the dilapidated mercantile building next to it and made my way out to the shed.

  After getting our horses saddled up and ready to ride, I walked them around the back of the plaza and came up between the two buildings where Virgil was posted. I secured our animals there between the two structures and joined Virgil.

  “You ready?” Virgil said.

  I looked at Virgil. He met my eye.

  “It’s what we do,” I said.

  “It is,” Virgil said.

  I gave Virgil a nod and we started walking across the plaza. We passed the water well in the center and continued toward the cantina.

  “I’ll let go the four horses on the left hitch,” Virgil said. “You take care of them three on the right, then get yourself to the back. I’ll signal with an arm drop, and we go in with a five count.”

  We did just that. Virgil quickly untied the four on the left. I untied two of the three on the right, slapped their rumps, and sent them running.

  I reached for the reins of the third horse and a shot rang out. The bullet zipped by my head so close I felt it.

  A second shot was fired; it was from Virgil. A heavyset bandito stumbled backward, discharging his pistol.

  The bullet splintered into the boardwalk a foot in front of him, then he dropped in the doorway of the cantina in a hazy waft of sawdust and gun smoke . . . So much for plans.

  4

  Three of the outlaws came out, firing at Virgil and me. Virgil dropped two of them fast, and the other one came in my direction. I let go with both barrels of the eight-gauge, hitting him. The impact slammed him crashing through a storefront window. I moved quickly up across the boardwalk and put my back to the wall of the building next to the cantina.

  Virgil had done the same. He was on the opposite side of the cantina from me, with his back to the wall. We both had a good look at the cantina door. Every person that had been out on the plaza was now nowhere in sight and the only movement at all was that of the drifting gun smoke.

  I broke open the big gun, tipped out the spent shells, and slipped in two new double-aught buck.

  Virgil opened the loading gate on his Colt, emptied his spent casings, and reloaded.

  “Buenas noches, Capitán Alejandro! It’s Marshal Virgil Cole and Deputy Marshal Everett Hitch! You need to give yourself up! We have a big posse out here! You’re surrounded. Need you and your amigos to come on out!”

  There was no answer from Alejandro, only silence.

  “Alejandro!” Virgil called again. “I got a warrant for your arrest for killing two men in San Cristóbal . . . you remember that, don’t you?”

  Silence.

  “You’ll be caught or killed tonight!” Virgil said. “The choice is of course, by God, your choice!”

  With a point, I signaled Virgil that I’d head to the rear of the building.

  Virgil nodded and I slipped into the narrow alley between the cantina and the large structure next to it.

  It was dark, but I could see light ahead of me between the two dwellings. Before I got to the end of the building I got down on my knee to have a peek around the corner of the cantina.

  The back door was open because there was light spilling out onto crates and an outhouse without a door.

  Up front, I heard Virgil again.

  “Alejandro!” Virgil shouted. “You’re surrounded. There is no place to go other than hell!”

  Again, there was no reply from Alejandro, but I could hear Alejandro’s men clamoring fretfully in Spanish.

  The back side of the plaza was a narrow street lined with small homes and corrals. I stood and eased my way out some, keeping my eye on the cantina door. Then I moved swiftly behind the building next to the cantina, between rows of chicken coops. I stayed out of the spilling light from the cantina and ran quickly across the narrow street. I ducked into the shadows between two small adobe structures, where I had a good view of the back of the cantina. The outhouse obstructed my view of the door, but I could see if someone tried to run, left or right.

  “Alejandro!” I shouted. “You are no good front or back! You got nowhere to go!”

  “That’s right,” I heard Virgil call. “You and them amigos of yours can give up or you get a grave!”

  Two of the outlaws came out firing. One came around one side of the outhouse; one came around the other. They were shooting at everything and nothing.

  I pulled the first trigger of the eight-gauge and hit the outlaw moving to my left. The impact from the double-aught blast was forceful enough it knocked him off his feet and slammed him into the chicken coops.

  “Alto!” I shouted loudly to the second outlaw moving off.

  He fired on me on the run. I pulled the second trigger of the eight-gauge. He buckled from the impact and hit the ground in a cloud of rolling dirt.

  A slat on the outhouse kicked out. A rifle barrel came out and shots came my way. I ducked back into the dark as bullets ricoche
ted off the adobe. Then I quickly went around the back side of the house and repositioned myself on the opposite side. I reloaded as the rifle continued to repeat. When it paused, I slid the eight-gauge around the edge of the adobe and let go both barrels, blowing a hole in the outhouse. A scream followed by the sight of a sombrero skittering out from behind the outhouse.

  Six were dead, I thought, as I reloaded again. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the silhouette of the final desperado: Captain Alejandro himself on the roof. He was moving away at a pace.

  I hurried quickly back in the alley next to the cantina, and just before I got to the boardwalk I said softly, “Virgil.”

  I looked around the corner and met Virgil’s eye. I pointed to the roof and then pointed north, the direction Alejandro was running.

  “One left,” I said quietly. “The captain. He’s on the run.”

  Virgil looked up, then looked back at me. I tilted my head toward the rear.

  Virgil nodded and moved off quickly in the direction I pointed.

  I moved down the alley to the rear again. When I got back to the street behind the cantina, I moved off quietly after Alejandro.

  Just when I got toward the end of a row of buildings I heard two shots followed by:

  “Hands above your head! Heaven high, Alejandro!” Virgil said. “The next shot will be in your head!”

  When I came to the corner, I stopped. Then I peeked around the edge of the building and I was face-to-face with Alejandro. His hands were where Virgil had asked them to be. Up in the air. Virgil was behind him, with his Colt pointing at Alejandro’s head.

  “Everett,” Alejandro said, almost friendly-like. “Good to see you.”

  Alejandro’s English was good, but his accent was Latino heavy.

  “Couldn’t you find anyone better to visit beautiful Mexico with other than fucking Virgil Cole?”

  5

  By trail and train it took us five days to travel Alejandro back to San Cristóbal. Alejandro slept a great deal and didn’t have much to say on our journey other than an occasional comment about Virgil not being very good company. He did hum or sing a string of Mexican ballads now and then, which annoyed the hell out of Virgil. We provided him with the minimal amount of food and water on the trip, and on a Sunday, just before noon on a blazing-hot day in June, we arrived in San Cristóbal by way of the Transcontinental.

  We unloaded our horses, got directions, and made our way through town for the sheriff’s office. Churchgoers on the streets dressed for service watched us as we rode slowly, with Alejandro wearing his Naval Officers jacket and a pair of shackles.

  We’d heard about this place, but Virgil and I had never visited San Cristóbal. It was a big community, an old, well-established township with many manufacturing industries, including mining and cattle.

  Church bells clanged loudly as we rode through at least ten densely packed blocks of well-built buildings. Many of them were brick buildings, and some of the streets were brick, too.

  San Cristóbal was a stately community built on rolling hills nestled in the San Cristóbal River Valley between two mountain ranges, the Angeles Altos and the Blue Ridge.

  We located the San Cristóbal sheriff’s office and went about the business of getting Alejandro locked up behind bars.

  When we arrived, there was only one deputy in charge of the office. He was a skinny old man, and though he was long in the tooth, he still had some spit to him. He didn’t move like an old fella. He got up from the desk quick-like when we walked in the door, and after we introduced ourselves he did the same.

  “I’m the jailer here. Name’s Cross,” he said. “Ira Cross.”

  “Where’s your sheriff?” I asked.

  “Not in,” Cross said.

  “Well, we need to get this man here locked up,” I said.

  Cross looked our prisoner up and then down.

  “This is Captain Alejandro Vasquez,” Virgil said. “He shot dead a few fellas here in San Cristóbal a while back and somehow managed not to be here for his arraignment and trial, but he’s back now.”

  “Well, I’ll be goddamned,” Cross said, looking at Alejandro and shaking his head. “Got your ass snagged.”

  “Temporarily,” Alejandro said with a smirk.

  “That was no goddamn question,” Cross snapped. “When I ask you a question you will know it!”

  Cross unlocked the desk drawer, pulled the cell keys out, and moved to the hall leading to the cells.

  The jail was a secure one, and for the moment it was empty. There was nobody locked up. The cells had very small windows with heavy bars, and they were separated from the office by a metal door.

  Cross carried a police club as we led Alejandro into one of the cells. After we got the cuffs off Alejandro and locked him in the cell, Alejandro smiled at Virgil.

  “You know,” Alejandro said, “Alejandro is never long for confinement.”

  Cross slammed the club on the bars just in front of Alejandro’s face.

  “Shut the fuck up, Captain Alejandro,” Cross said. “You’re my prisoner now, and from now on, you will be on good behavior or I will make what is left of your miserable life on earth hell.”

  Cross ushered us out of the hall and closed the metal door behind him. Virgil looked at me and smiled as Cross locked the door.

  “I don’t need to tell you,” Virgil said, “but I will tell you anyway. Watch him like a hawk. He might seem sleepy, but he’s sleepy like a goddamn mountain lion. Do not feed him until you got others back here to give you a hand.”

  “I rode shotgun on the Antone and Diego Stage route for eighteen by-God years,” Cross said. “After that, I policed in Silver City for ten piss years and as of February of this year I been manning this office for the sheriff for seven years and I don’t need you or nobody else to tell me how to do my job.”

  I looked at Virgil and smiled a bit as Cross walked to the desk by the door. He locked the cell keys in the top drawer of the desk.

  “When do you expect your sheriff back?” I said.

  “Don’t know.”

  “Where is he?” Virgil said.

  “On posse.”

  “What for?” Virgil said.

  “Robbery,” Cross said sharply.

  “What kind of robbery?” I said.

  “Not s’posed to say.”

  “Why not?” Virgil asked.

  “My orders.”

  “Orders?” I said. “What is it, some kind of secret posse?”

  “You’ll have to ask the sheriff about that. I was told to keep my mouth shut, so that’s what I’m doing.”

  “Fair enough,” Virgil said.

  I pulled the warrant for Alejandro from my pocket and set it on the desk.

  “I’ll need you to sign here,” I said.

  Cross took a seat behind the desk like he was sitting to write a proper letter. He pulled out a pair of spectacles from his pocket, put them on, and started reading the warrant. His lips moved, mouthing each word he read, and his eyes went slowly from left to right as he read each line.

  I looked to Virgil and took a seat next to the desk. Virgil looked around. I pointed to the chair behind him, and he took a seat.

  It took a while. Cross read every word of the document. When he got to the end, he pulled a pen from its inkwell, and with his tongue clamped between his teeth he signed his signature. He blew on his autograph until it was dry and then handed the warrant back to me.

  Virgil stood, and I stood.

  “Need to see Judge Bing,” I said as I put the warrant back inside my coat pocket. “You tell us where to find the courthouse?”

  “I can. It’s just up the street a ways. Can’t miss it. Big stone building on your left, says Courthouse above the doors.”

  “Appreciate it,” I said, and we turned for the door.

/>   “Course, there’s nobody there, though, on Sunday,” Cross said. “Judge Bing is most likely fishing. Tomorrow you might find him. Course, he might be fishing tomorrow, too. Hard to say about the judge. He’s on his own clock.”

  I nodded and opened the door.

  “He is busy, I’ll grant you that. Big landowner-versus-mining-companies trial happening.”

  “All right, then,” I said.

  “Question,” Cross said, stopping us before we left. “Captain Alejandro? What is he the captain of?”

  “His own mind,” Virgil said.

  6

  Virgil and I walked out of the sheriff’s office and down the steps to the boardwalk. The streets had some after-church traffic moving about. Two ladies with parasols, dressed in their Sunday dresses, passed Virgil and me. We tipped our hats. They nodded a little. We watched them as they moved on down the boardwalk. One of them, a blond woman with bright blue eyes, turned back and smiled.

  I tipped my hat again and smiled. She looked to her friend and said something that made the two of them giggle some as they continued on.

  “Nice place,” I said.

  “Is.”

  “Refined.”

  “Seems to be,” Virgil said.

  Virgil pulled a cigar from his pocket. He fished out a stick match, dragged the tip across the iron of the stair banister, and got his cigar going good just as a short, stocky fella with round cheeks and wearing a dark suit walked up. He had a small badge pinned on his suit jacket.

  “You the sheriff?” Virgil said.

  The man looked back and forth between Virgil and me.

  “No,” he said. “I’m the constable, Winfield Holly . . . and you are?”

  Virgil pulled back his lapel, showed the star.

  “Territorial Marshal Virgil Cole. This here is my deputy marshal, Everett Hitch.”

  “My God,” Holly said as he removed his hat. “You’re here.”

  Virgil looked at me.