Robert B. Parker's Revelation Page 7

  19

  We rode for a solid eleven hours, stopping only briefly for feed and to rest the animals. When it started to get dark we made camp on a finger of wooded land that diverted the river east for at least a mile before the waters turned and continued south. The peninsula, bolstered by its rocky base, served as a solid retaining wall that had withstood the years of force from the mountain spring waters.

  After dinner, Virgil lit a cigar and I poured us some whiskey. I handed a cup to Virgil and we sat looking at the clear night sky and did not talk until I refilled the cups.

  “We get gone by daylight, we should get to Vadito by mid-afternoon.”

  Virgil nodded and we did not talk again for another long moment as we just sipped our whiskey.

  “Ravenscroft,” I said. “Charlie Ravenscroft.”

  Virgil looked to me and shook his head a little.

  “If there is anybody that don’t need to be out and about among the innocent people,” Virgil said, “it’s him.”

  “Yep.”

  “Not sure how his lawyer talked the judge out of not hanging him,” Virgil said.

  “Cibola,” I said. “Don’t seem to be a much better fate.”

  “No,” Virgil said. “It don’t.”

  “Hard life,” I said.

  Virgil nodded, and he puffed on his cigar some.

  “Man needs not to be locked up, though,” Virgil said. “Don’t do no good, really.”

  I looked to Virgil. He was staring into the fire.

  “Man needs to be free and die for his deeds gone wrong, not fed and kept like a goddamn animal in a goddamn cage.”

  I thought about that, remembering back on my soldiering days, killing helpless Indians in the Indian Wars, and I thought about the man I’d shot many years ago in Tres Padres . . . a situation that just got out of hand.

  Virgil looked up and met my eye.

  “But,” he said, “things don’t go that way.”

  “No,” I said. “They don’t.”

  “That ain’t the way of justice,” Virgil said.

  He looked back to the fire.

  “We got the law,” Virgil said. “Too many of them. Too many laws, I think.”

  Virgil smiled and looked back to me.

  “Too many rules to live by,” he said. “But . . . without law, without rules, evil takes root.”

  “Got hold of Ravenscroft,” I said.

  Virgil nodded.

  “Damn sure did,” he said.

  Virgil held out his cup and I replenished his whiskey.

  “Killed those two lawmen,” Virgil said. “Trying to serve him with papers that he did not agree with.”

  “I remember his fancy-talking lawyer made it out it was self-defense,” I said. “Even though it was Ravenscroft that rode into town and walked into the office and shot them.”

  “How long ago was it?” Virgil said.

  “Ravenscroft went to Cibola?” I said.

  Virgil nodded.

  “Hell, he’s been in there four, maybe five years now, I’d say.”

  We sipped on our whiskey for a while, just remembering.

  “Of all the men we have brought in through these marshaling years,” I said, “it’s hard to believe that that son of a bitch Ravenscroft is the only name on that list of eight who we know.”

  “Is,” Virgil said.

  “Too bad he’s in the other group and not one of the three that was with Dobbin.”

  I pulled the list of names and the descriptions we received from Sheriff Stringer. I leaned over to the light from the fire and read them again. “Ben Wythe, fifty-some, small, white hair, walks with a limp. Richard Skillman, thirty, average, dark hair . . . and Boyd Dekalb, forty, big, tall, Negro . . . others here, Ed Degraw, Timothy Eckford, Willard Calyer, and Charlie . . .”

  “Fucking Ravenscroft,” Virgil said.

  “’Spect Ravenscroft is the leader?” I said.

  Virgil shook his head.

  “If he is, I don’t think he’d be any good at it.”

  “No,” I said, “I don’t, either.”

  “Don’t have much smarts,” Virgil said.

  “Mean son of a bitch, though,” I said.

  “Damn sure is.”

  “He won’t want to go back.”

  “Don’t think any of them will want that,” Virgil said.

  20

  When we awoke in the morning the weather had turned. The mercurial weather we’d been experiencing had doubled back on us again and the day’s ride to Vadito was wet and dark. It had rained earlier during the ride, but now there was only dark cloud cover. They were low clouds shaded with brown from the loose dirt the storm picked up before the rain. Now there was no wind, none at all, and the brown clouds hanging motionless over the small town of Vadito made the view seem like some old oil painting.

  When we got closer to Vadito, we tied our animals in a stand of trees and walked into town. We came up on the back of Vadito near some holding pens that were full of cattle.

  We walked through a few shacks, then edged our way up to the road that separated one half of the businesses from the other half.

  Vadito was a little one-lane town that consisted of buildings and tents that were mostly drinking, whoring, gambling, and bunking establishments. They lined both sides of the road for about three hundred feet.

  Vadito was one of those places that existed with limited law enforcement. The township of Lancaster, a two-hour ride north, was the governing law for Vadito. The proprietors of the establishments in places like Vadito were normally capable types, and as a group, the capable banded together when trouble came about. But for the most part, cowboys in cattle heavens such as Vadito proved to be a temperate lot.

  Besides having good descriptions of the men we were looking for, we also had solid descriptions of the horses they stole from the sawmill in Yaqui. We had detail regarding color, size, brands, saddles, and even bridles.

  As we thought what might be the situation in Vadito, the place was busy with cowboys, and though the day was dark and dreary the businesses all looked to be lively. There were not a lot of horses, but there was a good amount lining both sides of the road from one end of Vadito to the other.

  Virgil and I split up and walked down opposite sides of the road, looking for the horses stolen by the escapees. We took our time, being casual but making sure we got a good look at each and every animal, and when we got to the end I said, “Didn’t see ’em . . .”

  Virgil shook his head.

  “No,” he said. “Not this side, either.”

  “Could be we beat ’em here,” I said.

  “Maybe,” Virgil said.

  “Then again, maybe they went elsewhere.”

  “That, too,” Virgil said.

  “Could be they might be here and have different horses,” I said.

  “Crossed my mind, but I don’t think they’d do that,” he said. “Could, but doubtful.”

  “No, I don’t think so, either.”

  Virgil looked around the building we were standing in front of, then looked back across the road.

  “Let’s walk the backside, too,” he said.

  I nodded, crossed the street, and walked the back of the buildings. Within a short amount of time I arrived at the opposite end. Virgil came to the end about the same time I did. He shook his head as I crossed the street toward him.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  We met in the street in front of a lively place. I turned and looked up to the single sign above the door with one word: BEER.

  “Might as well?”

  “Why not,” Virgil said.

  The saloon was a narrow building with a crude bowling lane on one side and a pinewood bar on the other. When we entered, a bunch of cowhands were having a fun time gambling on a bowling game with two chubby saloon girls who were having equal fun, flaunting their goods as they reset the pins.

  Virgil and I got a mug of beer and sat at a table up front, where we had a good view out
the window.

  “Now comes the question,” I said.

  Virgil nodded.

  “Where do we go from here?”

  “Yep.”

  “There’s not really anything between here and Yaqui, is there?” Virgil said.

  “No, not really. Some big spreads and a few crossroad stores, but that’s about it. Least that is all there was last time we were through that way.”

  “They could have just rode to Mexico,” I said. “And I suppose they could have brought some hell to others along the way.”

  Virgil nodded and sipped his beer as he thought.

  “I figure we stay here at least through the night,” he said. “Come daybreak and they’re not here we move toward the east, toward Yaqui through the spreads and stations, check on those, then get in the direction of Stringer’s posse.”

  We sat and drank our beer and waited some, watching the street, but we did not see the men. Before sunset, we walked out to the stand of trees where we’d tied our horses and brought them back into town with us. We rented a bunking quarter on the south end of Vadito from a German fella.

  The quarters were empty of other customers, so we had the place to ourselves. The bunkhouse was a simple dirt-floor room with wood sidewalls and a pitch canvas roof that was in need of repair. As we unloaded and took care of the necessities of settling in, I looked out the opening and asked Virgil to take a gander at what I was looking at. Virgil turned to see the three escapees riding slowly into town.

  “Rummy,” Virgil said.

  21

  “That’s them, all right,” I said.

  “None other.”

  Virgil and I stayed inside the bunk, watching as they slowly rode into town single file. Leading the way was Wythe, the older small man. He was followed by Skillman, who was described as he appeared, thirty-something, average-looking, and following him was the large black fella, Boyd Dekalb.

  “Same horses, too,” I said.

  “Yep.”

  “I’ll be damned,” I said.

  “They are.”

  “They’re heeled,” I said.

  “They are at that, too.”

  “Don’t imagine they’re gonna be the type that will throw their hands up.”

  “No,” Virgil said. “I don’t, either.”

  “We can ask,” I said.

  “We can,” he said. “Don’t think it will do any good, but we can damn sure ask.”

  “How you want to go about it?”

  Virgil thought for a moment, as we remained looking out from inside the bunk tent, watching them.

  “I’d say let’s get the saddles back on our horses in case there is a need to make haste for some unforeseen reason, before we do anything else.”

  We did just that. We got ourselves ready and we let the three of them get settled into the destination of their choice before we worked out the necessary details prior to letting our presence be known.

  The place they chose was called Lavern’s. According to the German fella that rented us the bunk, Lavern’s was the main whoring establishment in Vadito. It was also the only two-story structure in town.

  “They didn’t waste any time,” I said.

  “No,” Virgil said.

  “They know their priorities.”

  “They do at that.”

  We watched the place from across the street for a good half-hour before we made a move.

  “I’m gonna go around back and have a look-see,” I said.

  Virgil kept watch on the front while I went around the rear to get some idea of the paths in and the paths out. Even though the temperature was fairly cool, the evening was comfortable and the rear door of Lavern’s was wide open. I could see there was a hall that led to the main room, and inside I could hear the muffled sound of women and men talking.

  Behind me was a well-worn path to a piss hut that was surrounded by some supply shacks. I walked back to the hut and made sure there was no one inside. Then I walked back between the buildings and met Virgil at the front of the narrow passage between Lavern’s and the building next to it.

  “Can walk right in the back,” I said. “It’s wide open.”

  Virgil nodded, and then we eased from the side toward the porch to have a look in the window. The windows were covered with lace curtains, but they were thin enough and half open in places for us to see inside.

  The bottom floor of Lavern’s was a wide single room without divisions and had a stairway toward the rear. For a shit-hole town the place was decent, with good wood floors, nice tables, upholstered furniture, and walls with framed photographs and paintings. There was a bar with a mirror behind it, and standing at the bar there were a number of customers, including the older fella, Wythe. He was talking to a heavyset whore that was a good foot taller than he was. The other two escapees were nowhere in sight.

  “Other two are obviously going about what they came here for.”

  Virgil nodded.

  I thought about that, about what they were doing.

  “Likely might be the last time for them to be with a woman,” I said.

  “More than likely,” Virgil said.

  “I can think of worst last times,” I said.

  “Best we wait until they’re done with what they are doing up there, don’t you think.”

  “Do,” Virgil said.

  We watched Wythe for a moment. He was just drinking and talking to the big woman next to him as if he had no care in the world. Then we backed up, moved off a ways, and crossed the street, where we had a full view of Lavern’s.

  22

  From where we stood we had an angle so to see into Lavern’s, where Wythe sat talking to the woman. After some time passed, the black fellow, Dekalb, came down the stairs. Then the big woman, Wythe, and Dekalb sat at a table near the entrance.

  “Two present and accounted for,” I said.

  Virgil nodded a bit.

  “One to go.”

  The crisp night in Vadito had a lively feel. Up and down the street there were cowhands moving out of one place and going into another. There was laughter and some hoots and hollers echoing through the street. It was the typical glee that went hand in hand with men that spent most of their time covered with dirt and sitting in the saddle. Somewhere in the distance a piano started up, followed by some off-key singing.

  Virgil lit a cigar and sat on a bench in front of an eatery that was closed or out of business. We waited and waited and after about a half an hour, Skillman came down the stairs and the three men sat at the table with the big woman.

  “Guess this is it,” I said.

  Virgil got slowly to his feet.

  “Guess it is.”

  I stared at the men, watching them talk to one another. Their conversation was lively, not unlike the cowboys. They were free and, for the moment, full of life.

  “You want me to come in the back?”

  Virgil thought for a moment and nodded.

  “Be good if they’d not put up a fight,” Virgil said with a remorseful tone to his voice.

  “I know,” I said.

  As Virgil and I walked across the street, we saw two cowboys exit out a few doors down from the saloon where the piano was playing but no one else close by, and the two cowboys turned and walked in the opposite direction.

  When we got to the alley between the buildings, Virgil pulled out his watch and said, “Let’s enter in thirty.”

  I pulled out my watch, looked at the time, nodded, and started walking the narrow alley toward the rear of the building. I entered through the back door of Lavern’s and moved silently up the narrow hall but stopped before moving into the main room.

  I put my back to the wall and stood still for a moment. When my watch got to twenty I put it in my pocket, counted ten more seconds, then took a peek around the corner. Shit!

  Virgil was nowhere in sight and Skillman was no longer seated with Wythe and Dekalb. Then I heard a gunshot coming from outside the front door, followed by another shot. The big
woman quickly got up from the table and moved to the bar as Dekalb and Wythe got to their feet.

  They both had their guns in their hands as they looked toward the street, and they had no idea that there was someone behind them with an eight-gauge shotgun. They both held their pistols up and ready to shoot as they stood with their backs to me, looking out the front door. That was the direction where they thought the danger was, or where they figured the succession of trouble would be coming from, but they were wrong.

  “Don’t turn,” I said.

  But that is exactly what they did; they turned quickly. Wythe fired his short-barrel pistol, but like most anxious gunmen, the bullet was off too fast and off target. It hit the floor, splintering wood three feet in front of me just as I pulled the trigger of my double-barrel. The shot hit him square in the chest.

  “Goddamn!” Dekalb yelled as he, too, fired, but I stepped back fast. His shot was close, hitting the corner of the hall wall just in front of me.

  “Goddamn it, goddamn it,” he continued to spew as he charged toward me, firing, cussing, and kicking chairs out of his path. I raised the barrel of my big gun, ready to fire.

  “Fucking, goddamn it, son of a bitch, asshole, fucking shit . . .”

  It was as if he thought he were invincible and just as soon as I saw his body I squeezed the second trigger of my double-barrel stopping him and his rant mid-word—

  “Fuc—” The double-ought buck exploded his head before he could get another shot off.

  Then I moved away quickly with my back to the hall wall. I was unsure the whereabouts of Skillman and also Virgil.

  From where I stood I could see yellow shafts of lamplight streaking through the gray gun smoke that was now hanging lazily in the still air of Lavern’s.

  I stood with my back to the hallway wall and broke open my eight-gauge. I took out the two warm shells, refit them into the open loops of my shell belt, and reloaded with two more rounds of double-ought. There was no doubt both Wythe and Dekalb were dead, but I had no idea about Skillman. I closed the double-barrel, and just as I slid back the hammers I heard a horse on the run and a shot was fired, followed by another shot, then another. Then a louder shot followed by a second louder shot.