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- Herausgeber: Corvus
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015
Appaloosa New Mexico Territory, 1882: two itinerant lawmen walk their horses down the long,shale-scattered slope into the frontier town of Appaloosa. Below them, lies rancher Randall Braggs' new kingdom, but Virgil Cole and Everett Hitch are here to restore the rule of law. They've done it before, they know what to do only too well: shoot quick, shoot clean, reload. But they aren't the only new arrivals in town. Mrs Allison French has stepped off the train with only a dollar to her name, a keen sense of survival and a good eye for a strong man. Finding one isn't going to a problem - Appaloosa is full of them: Cole, Bragg, Hitch. The problem is that Allie French isn't afraid to hedge her bets... and that Virgil Cole's heart isn't as steady as his gun hand. Resolution The dust has yet to settle in the new frontier town of Resolution. It's barely even a town: a general store, a handful of saloons and a run-down brothel for the workers at a nearby copper mine. No sheriff has been appointed, and gunslingers have taken control. Amid the chaos, itinerant lawman Everett Hitch has created a small haven of order at the Blackfoot Saloon. Charged with protecting the girls who work the back room, Hitch has seen off passing cowboys and violent punters - though it's his scheming boss, Amos Woolfson, who stirs up the most trouble. When a greedy mine owner threatens the local ranchers, Woolfson ends up at the centre of a makeshift war. Hitch knows only too well how to protect himself, but with the bloodshed mounting, he's relieved when his friend Virgil Cole rides into town. In a place where justice and order don't yet exist, Cole and Hitch must lay down the law - without violating their codes of honour, duty and friendship. Brimstone Virgil Cole and Everett Hitch rescue Allie French, Virgil's former sweetie who ran off to become a prostitute, and head to Brimstone, south Texas. The two gunmen sign on as deputy sheriffs, but Brimstone fails to provide a quiet respite. A mysterious Indian is killing locals, and a brutal saloon owner and corrupt preacher are headed for a showdown...
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Praise for
BRIMSTONE
“The story is riveting, but as usual with a Robert B. Parker Western, the great attraction is the writing itself, especially the brilliantly rendered dialogue.”
—The Associated Press
“[Brimstone] provides some excellent evidence for anyone who wants to argue that Spenser’s creator has been writing nothing but Westerns for thirty-five years.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“There’s murder and showdowns and lots of great action. As always, Parker’s dialogue is the star of his books, especially the laconic conversations between Cole and Hitch.”
—Lincoln Journal Star
RESOLUTION
“The most memorable Western heroes since Larry McMurtry’s . . . Lonesome Dove. . .. Everett Hitch and Virgil Cole, the confident, soft-spoken gun hands introduced in Appaloosa are back—and in a big way. Parker’s prose is at its very best.”
—The Associated Press
“[Parker’s] back with both barrels blazing.”
—The Greenville (MI) Daily News
“This is a tale of the untamed West, where the gun—the fastest gun—is the only law. This novel makes it clear [Parker’s] storytelling skills and great dialogue go well beyond the escapades of the private eye.”
—Minneapolis Star-Tribune
“Parker applies his customary vigor to this sequel to Appaloosa, in a sparse, bullet-riddled rumination on law and order, friendship and honor. . . . Parker’s dialogue is snappy and his not-a-word-wasted scenes suit this Spartan Western.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Parker’s writing is a pure pleasure to read—terse and strong, it carries a good story and lays its messages between the lines . . . fast and fun to read. Highly recommended.”
—Library Journal
“Parker focuses on what he does best—ritualistically clipped dialogue and manly posturing—and serves up a reminder of just how much hard-boiled fiction owes the Western.”
—Kirkus Reviews
APPALOOSA
“The Deadwood-era American West . . . Powerfully good.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“Pure, old-fashioned storytelling . . . the work of a master craftsman. Parker captures the West as neatly as he does the streets of Boston.”
—The Washington Post
“A classic Western . . . with a twist.”
—Boston Herald
“Tough-guy appeal . . . plenty of action.”
—The Wall Street Journal
“Dryly amusing . . . a conclusion that had to make Parker smile as much as his readers will.”
—Los Angeles Times
“Classic . . . magnificent . . . One of Parker’s finest.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“For . . . readers with a hankering for the Wild West, including a high-noon shoot-out and all the accoutrements.”
—USA Today
“Beneath the trappings of this gunfighter novel, Parker really has something to say about the nature of men and women in the Old West. Highly recommended.”
—Library Journal
“As always, [Parker] is a master . . . his plot gallops to a perfect, almost mythical ending. Like a great gunfighter, Parker makes it look easy.”
—St. Petersburg Times
“If Spenser and Hawk had been around when the West was wild, they’d have talked like Cole and Hitch. Wonderful stuff: notch 51 for Parker.”
—Kirkus Reviews
GUNMAN’S RHAPSODY
“Robert B. Parker, the creator of the Spenser detective series, has taken the refreshing view that [Wyatt] Earp was a man long before he was a symbol and has written Gunman’s Rhapsody, a swift-moving, satisfying novel . . . that shows surprising fidelity to most of the known facts without letting them get in the way of a good story. Parker’s strengths here, as in his crime novels, are plot and dialogue. In Gunman’s Rhapsody he has a terrific ready-made story in the events that led to the gunfight at O.K. Corral and its bloody aftermath of revenge, and he creates a spare Western vernacular that gets to the truth in a hurry.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“Gunman’s Rhapsody brings author Robert B. Parker into a new genre, the Western, and that helps put a new spin on his old tricks. . . . Gunman’s Rhapsody is at its core a love story. Wyatt is in love with his guns, with his brothers and extended family, with his macho code of honor, and with Josie. . . . [Parker] open[s] perspectives on a heroic myth that is bound to time and place but also lies outside them.”
—The Boston Globe
“A fresh take on the Western marshal [Wyatt Earp] . . . Rhapsody’s psychological portrait is a sure shot. . . . Saddle up for Western noir.”
—People
“The book rings true. . . . Gunman’s Rhapsody is both fast and steady.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“A remarkably artful Western, as tough and as true as the slap of gunmetal against leather. . . . The rhapsody plays out in a rare Parker stand-alone novel, his best yet and his first Western. Told in prose as cool and spare as Parker has ever laid down . . . The narrative takes on the inexorability of classic tragedy.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Parker, best known for his Spenser detective novels (really modern Westerns set in Boston), settles seamlessly into this classic Western story. . . . Wyatt Earp is Spenser with spurs. . . . The theme of hard, violent men in conflict over love and their own codes of honor is standard Parker fare, but no one does it better.”
—Booklist
NOVELS BY ROBERT B. PARKER
THE SPENSER NOVELS
Robert B. Parker’s Wonderland
(by Ace Atkins)
Robert B. Parker’s Lullaby
(by Ace Atkins)
SixkillDouble DeucePainted LadiesPastimeThe ProfessionalStardustRough WeatherPlaymatesNow & ThenCrimson JoyHundred-Dollar BabyPale Kings and PrincesSchool DaysTaming a Sea- HorseCold ServiceA Catskill EagleBad BusinessValedictionBack StoryThe Widening GyreWidow’s WalkCeremonyPotshotA Savage PlaceHugger MuggerEarly AutumnHush MoneyLooking for Rachel WallaceSudden MischiefThe Judas GoatSmall VicesPromised LandChanceMortal StakesThin AirGod Save the ChildWalking ShadowThe Godwulf ManuscriptPaper DollTHE JESSE STONE NOVELS
Robert B. Parker’s Fool Me Twice
(by Michael Brandman)
Robert B. Parker’s Killing the Blues
(by Michael Brandman)
Split ImageStone ColdNight and DayDeath in ParadiseStranger in ParadiseTrouble in ParadiseHigh ProfileNight PassageSea ChangeTHE SUNNY RANDALL NOVELS
Spare ChangeShrink RapBlue ScreenPerish TwiceMelancholy BabyFamily HonorTHE VIRGIL COLE / EVERETT HITCH NOVELS
Robert B. Parker’s Ironhorse
(by Robert Knott)
Blue-Eyed DevilResolutionBrimstoneAppaloosaALSO BY ROBERT B.PARKER
A Triple Shot of SpenserLove and GloryDouble PlayWildernessGunman’s RhapsodyThree Weeks in SpringAll Our Yesterdays(with Joan H. Parker)A Year at the Races(with Joan H. Parker)Perchance to DreamPoodle Springs(with Raymond Chandler)Training with Weights(with John R. Marsh)Published in ebook in Great Britain in 2015 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.
Copyright © Robert B. Parker 2005, 2008, 2009
Excerpt from Blue-Eyed Devil by Robert B. Parkercopyright © Robert B. Parker
The moral right of Robert B. Parker to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
E-book ISBN: 978 1 78239 129 6
Printed in Great Britain.
CorvusAn imprint of Atlantic Books LtdOrmond House26–27 Boswell StreetLondonWC1N 3JZ
www.corvus-books.co.uk
Contents
Appaloosa
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Resolution
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Brimstone
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Blue-Eyed Devil
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Again, and always, for Joan
PROLOGUE
The Boston House Saloon was the best in Appaloosa. It had a long, teak bar with a big, gilt-framed mirror behind it. At night, the room was lit by coal oil lamps on a chandelier that could be lowered and raised on a chain and pulley. It was late afternoon, and the place was empty except for the bartender and three off-shift copper miners drinking beer. The bartender was Willis McDonough. McDonough was a fatman who always wore white shirts fresh from the Chinaman. He moved easily and with great dignity up and down the bar. He was polishing glasses with a clean towel when the two men came into the saloon and ordered two glasses of whiskey.
One of the men, the shorter one, had a small face with a narrow mouth and prominent front teeth, which he tried to conceal with a big, sweeping moustache. He carried a gun cross draw in a cheap holster. He wasn’t a miner, and he wasn’t a cowboy. The other man was taller, with a thick body and long, black hair that looked oily. He too had a gun. It was stuck into his right-hand pants pocket, with its dark walnut butt showing.
Between them, they drank a bottle of whiskey. They spoke only to each other. They paid no attention to McDonough or the three miners. When the whiskey was gone, they turned to leave.
“That’ll be three dollars,” McDonough said.
Both men turned and stared silently at McDonough for a moment. McDonough looked back at them and felt uncomfortable. They both had guns. Looking at them, he realized, as if they had told him, that they would shoot him if he persisted. He didn’t wish to die for three dollars. He shrugged.
“On the house, gentlemen.”
Neither one showed any reaction. They turned and left the bar. McDonough’s heart felt shaky in his chest.
THEY HAD JUSTcome from seeing a stereopticon show about Venice, Italy. Now they walked up Second Street, lit mostly by the moon and a little by the light that spilled out of the barrooms. She put her arm through his. She could feel how strong he was. It would be so exciting if they could ever go to Venice—or anyplace, really, as long as they were together. Coming toward them on the board sidewalk were three men. From the way they walked, she could tell they were drunk. She wanted to cross the street, but he said no. He didn’t cross the street for anyone. They met by the livery stable. One of the men asked them where they were going. He was a tall man, she remembered, with narrow shoulders and a walleye. His beard was scraggly, as if he had trouble growing one.
“We’re going home,” her husband said, “if you’ll kindly step out of the way.”
“Good-looking lady you got,” the walleyed man said.
“My wife,” her husband said, and she could hear the warning in his voice.
“She fuck as good as she looks?” the walleyed man said.
Her husband hit him very hard, and he staggered backward. One of his friends, a short, thick man with no hat, drew his gun and shot her husband in the chest. She screamed. Her husband collapsed in a heap. The tall man got his balance back and dragged her away from her husband and into the livery stable. The two other men followed. They forced her onto the floor and began to take off her clothes. She struggled as hard as she could. Then she was naked and one of them was on her. She felt as if she was surrounded by a vast, empty space in which her own screams echoed like those of someone else. Then she closed her eyes and set her jaw and waited.
JACK BELLhad worked all the tough towns. He’d been a city marshal in cattle-trail towns and worked the wild mining towns like Tombstone and Silver City. He’d scouted for the army androde shotgun for Wells Fargo. He’d once arrested John Wesley Hardin. When Clayton Johansson’s wife described the men who shot her husband and raped her, Bell was pretty sure who did it. With two deputies, he rode out to the Circle RB ranch to talk with Randall Bragg, who owned the ranch and for whom the suspects worked. They met in the open area of hard, trampled dirt between the ranch house and the barn. Most of his hands stood near Bragg. All of them were armed.
“Randall,” Bell said. “I’m afraid I need to bring three of your boys back into town with me.”
Bragg was a spare man, wearing a black duster and a high-crowned black hat. He held a Winchester rifle. Bell could see that the hammer was back.
“Can’t spare ’em, Jack,” he said.
His voice was deep, but it had a hard sound to it, as if it were forced out through his nose.
“It’s serious legal business, Randall. I got to take them in.”
“No.”
Bell looked at Bragg and the cowboys ranged behind him. He looked over his shoulder at one of the deputies, and nodded at the walleyed man standing with his two friends near one end of the group.
“Cut those three out,” he said.
The deputy looked uncertain. Bell’s hand rested gently on his gun’s butt.
“Do what I tell you,” Bell said.
The deputy moved his horse forward and pitched suddenly off the horse as a shot was fired from the barn. Bell knew it was a Winchester; he’d heard enough of them. He turned his horse toward the shot and pulled his gun free, and a bullet hit him in the face and knocked him backward out of the saddle. The second deputy sat, frozen, in his saddle. He looked at the deputy and Bell sprawled in the dirt. He glanced at the barn and then at Bragg. Bragg, still holding the Winchester, smiled.
“Time to see what you’re made of,” he said to the deputy. “Ain’t it.”
The deputy pulled his horse sharply around and headed out at a gallop. No one in town knew where he went.
1
It was a long time ago, now, and there were many gunfights to follow, but I remember as well, perhaps, as I remember anything, the first time I saw Virgil Cole shoot. Time slowed down for him. He fought with an odd stateliness. Always steady and never fast, but always faster than the man he was fighting.
Like my father, I’d been West Point, and I was good at soldiering. But soldiering didn’t allow too much for expansion of the soul. So after five years in the Indian Wars, I turned in my commission and rode away to see how far I could expand it. To keep from starving to death while I was expanding it, I shot buffalo for the railroad, and rode beside the driver on Wells Fargo coaches with an eight-gauge shotgun, and scouted now and then for the Army. I sat lookout for a while in a gambling parlor in Durango. I did a short turn as a bouncer in a whorehouse in Canon City. I got in a fight in Tres Piedras, and killed the man and had to move on pretty quick. I tried to find a little gold in the mountains in Colorado and didn’t, and came down out of the San Juan Mountains, looking for something else to do. Along the way, I read a lot of books and fucked a lot of women, all of whom I liked. Now, with thirty dollars’ worth of gold in my pocket, on a dark bay gelding named Sugar that I’d won playing poker in Esmeralda, I came on into Trinidad in the midafternoon on a summer day with the sun warm on my back.
It wasn’t much of a town then. Two streets north and south. Three streets crossing east and west. Twelve blocks in all. It was one of those towns that existed mostly for people passing through. Cowboys who brought cattle to the railhead from the East Colorado grasslands. Soldiers on the way to Fort Carson. Hide hunters, teamsters, and miners occasionally, coming down to resupply. A few people trying to farm. People like me, moving from place to place because they didn’t know what else to do.
As I passed the Rattlesnake Saloon on my left, the swinging doors burst open and a big man in a buckskin shirt came through them faster, surely, than he would have wished, stumbled across the boardwalk, trying to catch his balance, and fell forward into the street. There was blood on one side of his face. Sugar shied a little, and I pulled him up. The man in the street had gotten himself onto all fours when the saloon doors opened more gently and a tall man came out wearing a black suit. The suit’s coat was pushed back on the right side to expose a big, bone-handled Colt. I could see the badge pinned to his white shirt. Very dignified and deliberate, he stepped off the boardwalk into the street and stopped maybe six feet from the man in the buckskin shirt, and waited. Behind him, five or six other men pushed out of the saloon and stood on the boardwalk. He didn’t seem to see them, but I noticed that he had turned slightly, so that he could look at the man in the street and the men on the boardwalk.
The man in the street was on his feet now. He was a big man, fat but strong-looking, with a black beard and long hair. His buckskin shirt looked as if he’d worn it since the buck was killed. On his belt, he wore a bowie knife and a big Army Colt in a flap holster. He smelled like a man who skinned buffalo. Some of the street dust had caked onto the blood on the left side of his face. He faced the man in the black suit.
“Goddamn you, Cole,” he said. “You got no business hitting me with that gun.”
“Time for you to come on with me, Bear,” Cole said. “Until you cool down.”
His voice was surprisingly light and soft.
“I ain’t going with anybody,” Bear said. “I paid that whore three dollars for an hour, and she fucked me once and said she was through.”
“Bear,” Cole said, “I would guess that you are only good for one an hour.”
“Don’t you rag me, Cole. Next time I see that sow, I’m going to gut her.”
“No.”
Cole’s voice didn’t get less soft, but something came into it that made the “no” crackle like summer lightning. Bear almost swayed for a moment. Then he steadied himself, and his eyes shifted to the other men on the boardwalk.
Somebody said, “We’re with you, Bear.”
Somebody else said, “Don’t let him run you.”
Bear turned his gaze back to Cole.
“I ain’t coming with you,” Bear said.
Cole didn’t move. Nobody spoke. The light wind that had followed me out of the mountains drifted along the street, kicking up tiny swirls of dust and hay and dried manure. The force of his motionless silence was hard to explain. But I could see it pushing at Bear. The men on the boardwalk began to spread out a little. They were all hide skinners, probably come into town with Bear. Been sleeping on the ground with him, cutting buffalo with him. Eating bad food and drinking lousy whiskey with him. They couldn’t back away from him now. One of the men slid the hammer loop off his Colt. I took the eight-gauge from under my right leg. Cole saw me, I knew. Already, I could tell that he saw everything. If he thought I was with the skinners, the increase in odds didn’t appear to bother him. I had no money on this one. But I didn’t think Bear should gut a woman, whore or otherwise, and I didn’t think one man should go against seven.
“Marshal,” I said. “I’m backing you in this.”
I said it softly, but it was so still that it almost echoed. Cole didn’t stop looking at Bear, but he made a barely visible nod. Bear still watched Cole. The men on the boardwalk glanced at me when I spoke, and spread a little farther. I cocked both barrels on the eight-gauge and rested the butt against my right hip. Then I moved Sugar a little closer so that I was nearly beside Cole. Again, the silence arched over us, made more intense somehow by the sound of the easy wind.
Bear said, “Fuck you, Marshal,” and went for his gun.
I brought the shotgun to my shoulder. Cole seemed in no hurry. Carefully, he drew the Colt, thumbed back the hammer, aimed at the middle of Bear’s big body, and shot him in the center of the chest. He recocked the Colt as he turned a half-turn so that the big, bone-handled Colt was steady on Bear’s supporters. Bear sagged and fell over, his gun half out of the holster.
Sugar didn’t mind gunfire. Sudden movement scared him, but noise had no effect. He held rock-still where I had set him, so that both barrels of the shotgun were steady toward the men on the boardwalk.
“You men go about your business now,” Cole said.
Nobody did anything.
“I won’t tell you again,” Cole said.
At the far right edge of the group, the right shoulder of the man who’d loosened his Colt made a kind of involuntary twitch and then froze. Everything teetered. Then the man turned and walked away, and the rest of the group followed him. Cole carefully let the hammer down on his Colt. He opened the cylinder, extracted the spent shell, put in a fresh one from his belt, closed the cylinder, and put the Colt carefully back in its holster. Then he looked up at me and nodded.
“Come see me in my office when you can,” he said.
Then he turned and walked away without a glance at the corpse. I stayed there for a time, watching as some people came out into the street and looked at Bear and stood around, and finally a man in a white coat came along with a wagon, and four of us helped him put Bear in the back, and he drove off. I tied Sugar to the rail, took the shotgun with me, and went on in and had a couple of whiskeys in the Rattlesnake, and a plate of beans and bacon. Some people stared at me, but no one said anything and, feeling warmer inside, I went on down to the jail and sat in the front room where Cole kept his office, and we talked. He asked me my name and I told him.
“Everett Hitch,” he said.
Like he was tasting it.
He asked me had I done much gun work, and said I had done some, but no law officering. And he asked me what I had done, and I told him.
“West Point,” Cole said—not impressed, just recording it, like he did, and filing it.
“You didn’t like soldier boyin’?” he said.
I told Cole that I liked some of it. I liked the men, and sometimes, on mounted patrol, I liked the space, and how far you could see, and the way it seemed like possibility was rolling out ahead of us. But most of the time, I said, it was sort of crampsome.
“Nothin’ can cramp you,” Cole said, “if you don’t let it.”
And I told him I thought that was right, which was why I quit soldiering and rode off to see what possibilities there might be. He nodded at that. I don’t know if it meant he understood, or if it meant he approved, or if he was registering again. And filing.
“You quick with a handgun?” Cole asked.
I said I could shoot, but what I was really good with was the eight-gauge. Cole smiled.
“If she could pick it up,” Cole said, “my Aunt Liza could be good with an eight-gauge.”
I agreed that it was hard to miss with an eight-gauge.
“You ever hear of me?” Cole said.
I said I had. Cole took out a bottle of pretty good whiskey and two glasses, and poured us a drink. And we drank that drink and a couple more.
“I need somebody to back me up,” Cole said. “You and the eight-gauge want the job?”
“Sure,” I said.
Which is how, fifteen years ago, I got to be a peace officer and Virgil Cole’s deputy. Which was why I was with him now, still carrying the eight-gauge, walking the horses down a long, shale-scattered slope toward Appaloosa.
2
They’re living off us like coyotes live off a buffalo carcass, you know?”
“Everything eats meat likes a dead buffalo,” Cole said.
We sat at a round table in the saloon at the Boston House Hotel in Appaloosa. Cole sat back, out of the light a little, his face shadowed.
“They buy supplies in Olson’s store and don’t pay for them. They take whatever women they feel like. They use horses from the livery and don’t bring them back. They eat a meal, drink a bottle of whiskey, whatever, and leave without paying.”
The speaker was a white-haired man with bright blue eyes. His name was Abner Raines.
“You in charge?” Cole said,
“Three of us,” Raines said, “Board of Aldermen.”
He nodded at the two men with him. “I own this place. Olson runs the store and the livery stable. Earl here owns a couple of saloons.”
Phil Olson was much younger than Raines, and portly, with smooth, pink skin and blond hair. Earl May was bald and heavy-set and wore glasses.
“And we got no law officers,” Raines said. “Marshal’s dead with one of the deputies. The other ones run off.”
“These people cattlemen?” I said. “Don’t seem like good cattle country.”
“It ain’t,” Raines said. “Most of the money in Appaloosa comes from the copper mine.”
“So what do they do?” I said.
“Bragg’s got some water up around his place, but they ain’t raising many cows. Mostly they steal them. And pretty much everything else.”
“How many hands,” Cole said.
“With Bragg? Fifteen, maybe twenty.”
“Gun hands?”
“They all carry guns,” May said.
“They any good with them?” Cole said. “Anybody can carry them.”
“Good enough for us,” Raines said. “We’re all miners and shopkeepers.”
“And we’re not,” Cole said.
“That’s for certain sure,” Olson said. “I heard after you and Hitch came in and sat on Gin Springs one summer, babies could play in the streets.”
“That’s why we sent for you,” Raines said. “We’re ready to pay your price.”
Cole looked at me.
“You game?” he said.
I shrugged.
“It’s what we do,” I said.
A smile like the flash of a spark spread across Cole’s face.
“It is,” he said, “ain’t it.”
The smile went as fast as it had come, and Cole turned his somber, shadowy face to the three aldermen.
“Money’s all right,” Cole said.
“Then you’ll do it?”
“Sure.”
The dining room smelled of cooking and tobacco and the lamp oil that kept it bright. The room was nearly full of men. The sound of cutlery and men’s voices sounded civilized and normal.
“What do we have to do?” May asked.
“Tell him, Hitch.”
“Who makes the laws in this town?” I said.
“The laws?” Raines said. “I guess we do: me and Earl and, ah, Phil. There’s a town meeting twice a year. But between times, we do it.”
“Cole and me’ll do the gun work,” I said. “But we’re going to button the town up like a nun’s corset. And we need you to make laws, so we can enforce them.”
“We got laws,” Raines said.
“You’re gonna have more. We need a lot of laws to make it all legal.”
“Well, sure, I mean, you tell us what you need,” Raines said, “and if it seems reasonable, we’ll put them right in the bylaws.”
Cole said, “No.”
“No what?” Raines said.
“No,” Cole said. “You do what we say or we move on. You solve your problem some other way.”
“Christ,” May said. “That would mean you was running the town.”
“It would,” Cole said.
“We can’t have that,” May said.
Cole didn’t say anything.
“I mean, you’re asking us, so to speak,” Raines said, “to turn the town over to you.”
Cole didn’t say anything.
“Far as I can see,” I said, “you’re gonna turn it over anyway. Us or Bragg.”
“But what if you ask for laws that we think are wrong?” May said.
Cole was entirely still.
Then he said, “We’ll give you a list.”
“A list.”
“A list of rules,” Cole said. “You agree, we have a deal. You don’t, we ride on.”
They all thought about it. The door in the hotel lobby opened, and it stirred the air in the dining room. The lamp flames moved in the stir, making the shadows shift in the room. The door closed. The flames steadied. The shadows quieted.
“Sounds fair,” Raines said after a while, as if he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“We’ll bring you the list in the morning,” Cole said.
“I’ll be here,” Raines said.
3
We’d had a list of rules printed up five towns ago, and in the morning, Cole took them down to the hotel and gave them to Raines in his office. The laws were Draconian. The paper had a lot of aforesaids and wherebys in it, but, if you prune the thing to its essence, what it said was that what Cole said was law. Raines frowned as he read it and moistened his lips. Then he read it again. He looked at Cole. Then he looked at the paper again. The door of Raines’s office opened suddenly and a round-faced little waitress came in. Her face was flushed.
“Mr. Raines,” she said.
Her voice sounded foreign. Swedish maybe. She seemed short of breath.
“Not now, Tilda,” Raines said.
“Trouble in the bar, Mr. Raines.”
“Can’t Willis handle it?”
“It’s Mr. Bragg’s men.”
“Jesus God,” Raines said.
He looked at us.
“Space for your signature down there at the bottom,” Cole said. “On the right.”
Raines looked at us and at the paper. Cole never moved.
“There’s four of them,” Tilda said. “They have guns.”
Raines’s mouth trembled very slightly, and I thought he was going to say something. But instead, he clamped his jaw, took out a pen, and signed the sheet. Cole picked it up, looked at the signature, waved it a minute to dry the ink, then folded it and put it inside his shirt. With no change of expression, he nodded toward the door and I went out. The bar was to the right of the lobby. You could enter it from the lobby, but most people went in through the street entrance on the opposite side. It was the kind of thing I’d learned to notice without even thinking about it. Always know where you are, Cole used to say.
I went straight through the lobby to the street, and turned right and walked to the corner and went in through the swinging mahogany doors of the saloon. The late-afternoon sun, slanting through the doorway, made the smoky air look sort of blue. I let the doors swing shut behind me and moved to the left of the door while my eyes adjusted.
The center of the room had cleared, tables had been pushed aside, and most of the people in the saloon were standing against the walls. Four men, all wearing guns, were drinking whiskey at the bar. Behind the bar, the strapping, red-faced bartender stood stiffly, not looking at anything. There was a big, brass spittoon in the center of the cleared space, and two of the men at the bar were trying to piss in it from that distance. Neither was having much success. Cole came into the saloon through the lobby door, and watched for a moment.
“Button them up,” he said in his light, clear voice.
One of the men faltered in his stream and looked at Cole.
“Who the fuck are you?” he said.
“Virgil Cole.”
“Virgil Cole? No shit? Hey, Chalk,” he said to his partner in piss. “Virgil Cole wants us to stop.”
Chalk turned toward Virgil, his equipment still fully exposed, like his partner’s.
“Step a little closer, Virgil Cole,” he said. “And I’ll piss in your pocket.”
Chalk was a skinny guy with a hard little potbelly that pushed out over his gun belt. He had a meager, shabby beard, and it looked, from where I stood, like he needed to trim his fingernails. His pal was tall and thick and had long hair like Bill Hickok, except Hickok’s was clean.
“I am the new city marshal,” Cole said. “Put it away or lose it.”
“Hey, Bronc,” Chalk said. “They got a new marshal.”
The other two men, who’d been leaning on the bar, straightened a little and moved slightly apart.
“Didn’t they have another marshal, ’while ago?” Bronc said.
“They did.”
“Keep using them fuckers up, don’t they?” Bronc said.
“Got no use for them anyway,” Chalk said.
Cole didn’t seem to mind the small talk. He seemed entirely relaxed, almost friendly, as he stood just inside the doorway from the lobby.
“Put them ugly little contraptions away,” he said. “I’m going to walk you down to the jail, and I don’t want to scare the horses.”
No one stirred in the room. It was like one of those high-plains days in the summer, when it’s hot and still and a storm is coming and you feel the tension of its coming long before it gets there. Both men buttoned up their pants. It’s easier to be dangerous with your breeding equipment stowed.
“You ain’t walking us nowhere, Virgil Cole,” Bronc said.
He was squat and muscular, wearing a little short-brimmed hat. His gun was butt-forward on the left side, almost in the middle. The walnut handle looked worn. Chalk stepped a little way from Bronc and loosened his shoulders. His Colt was in a low holster, tied to his thigh. It had a silvery finish with curlicue engravings. Chalk thought he was a fast-draw gunman.
“You pull on me, either one, and I’ll kill you both,” Cole said.
At the other end of the room, behind Cole, a thin man with no beard and limp, black hair took out a short revolver and held it on the tabletop.
Chalk and Bronc stared at Cole. Then Chalk laughed.
“Bullshit,” he said and dropped his hand.
Thoughtfully, Cole shot him before his hand ever touched the gun’s butt, and he was already beginning to fold as the man at the back table raised his gun. I shot him. Bronc had his gun just clear of the holster when Cole’s second shot hit him in the face and he fell backward against the bar and slid to the ground next to Chalk. The noise of the gunfire still rang in my ears. Cole was looking slowly around the room. No one moved. The fourth man held his hands high in the air; his face was pale, so the web of broken veins showed clear.
“I ain’t shootin’,” he said. “I ain’t shootin’.”
I walked over and took his gun out of holster and handed it to the big, red-faced bartender.
“I warned them,” Cole said, and opened the cylinder on his Colt, replaced the two expended shells, closed the cylinder, and put the gun away. It was one of Cole’s rules: Reload as soon as the shooting is over. I put a fresh bullet in my own piece and put it back in its holster. Cole walked to each of the three down men and felt for a pulse. None had one.
4
Cole and I rode up north of town one morning to look at the wild horses in the hills, a little west of where Randall Bragg had his ranch. They were there for the same reason Bragg was, because of the water. We sat our animals on top of a low hill and watched the herd graze in the sun on the eastern flank of the next hill. Seven mares, two foals, and a gray leopard Appaloosa stallion that looked to be maybe sixteen hands. The stallion raised his head and stared at us. His nostrils were flared, trying to catch more scent. His tail was up. His skin twitched. He pranced a couple of steps toward us, putting himself between us and the mares. We didn’t move. The stallion arched his neck a little.
“They hate the geldings,” I said.
“Stallions don’t like much,” Cole said.
“They like mares,” I said.
The stallion went back to grazing, but always between us and the mares.
“Virgil,” I said. “I’m not minding it, but why are we up here, looking at these horses?”
“I like wild horses,” Cole said.
“Well, that’s nice, Virgil.”
Cole nodded. The horses moved across the hillside, grazing, their tails flicking occasionally to brush away a fly, the stallion now and then raising his head, sniffing the wind, looking at us. There was no breeze. Occasionally, one of the mares would snort and toss her head, and the stallion would look at her rigidly for a moment, until she went back to grazing.
“Easy life,” Cole said. “They get through here, there’s another hill.”
“Stallion looks a little tense,” I said.
“He’s watchful,” Cole said.
“Don’t you suppose he gets worn down,” I said, “all the time watchful? For wolves and coyotes and people and other stallions?”
“He’s free,” Cole said. “He’s alive. He does what he wants. He goes where he wants. He’s got what he wants. And all he got to do is fight for it.”
“Guess he’s won all the fights,” I said.
In a cluster of rocks on top of one of the hills west of us and the horses, several coyotes sat silently, watching the herd with yellow eyes.
“Foals better not stray,” I said to Cole.
“The stud knows about them,” Cole said. “See how he looks over there. Foals are all right long as they stay with the herd.”
The sun was quite high now. Maybe eleven in the morning. Our own horses stood silently, heads dropped, waiting.
“Virgil,” I said after a time, “these are very nice horses, but shouldn’t somebody be upholding the law in Appaloosa?”
Cole nodded, but he didn’t say anything. And he didn’t move. To the east of us, a thin stream of dark smoke moved along the horizon. The stallion spotted it. He straightened, staring, his ears forward, his tail arched. Small in the distance, barely significant, more than a mile away, a locomotive appeared from behind the hill, trailing five cars. The stallion stared. I could see his skin twitch. The train moved along the plain, toward Appaloosa. Then the stallion wheeled toward the herd and nipped at one of the mares and the herd was in motion, the stallion behind them, herding them, the foals going flat out, all legs and angles but keeping up.
We watched as they disappeared west over the hill, away from the train. And Cole stared a long time after them before he turned his horse east toward Appaloosa.
5
We had a jail, but when there was nobody in it, Cole liked to sit in the saloon and watch what was going on. He liked to nurse a glass of whiskey while he watched, and so did I. We’d sit together most of the time. But if there might be trouble, we sat on opposite sides of the room. It was Cole who decided. It was one of his rules. Today we were on opposite sides of the room. While we were sitting and nursing, inside on a hot, bright morning, Randall Bragg came to see us. He walked into the saloon with half a dozen men, and paused inside the door and looked around while he waited for his eyes to adjust. Then he nodded his men toward the bar, and walked over to where Cole was sitting. His spurs jangled loudly in the suddenly quiet saloon.
“My name’s Randall Bragg,” he said.
“Virgil Cole.”
“I know who you are,” Bragg said. “We need to talk.”
Cole nodded toward a chair. Along the bar, Bragg’s men had spread out, watching Cole. Bragg sat down.
“I see the big fella across the room with a shotgun,” Bragg said.
“Eight-gauge,” Cole said.
“Good idea, spreading out like that.”
“It is,” Cole said.
Bragg gestured toward the bar, and one of Bragg’s men brought him a bottle of whiskey and a glass. Bragg poured himself a shot and looked at it, like he was thinking about it. Then he drank the shot down and poured himself another one.
“You a drinking man?” he said to Cole.
“Not so much,” Cole said.
“And Mr. Eight-gauge over there?”
“Everett,” Cole said. “Everett Hitch.”
Without looking at me, Bragg said, “You a drinking man, Everett?”
“Not so much,” I said.
“Hard to like a man that don’t drink a little,” Bragg said.
His high, black hat was set square on his head. Even sitting, you could see that he was tall, and the hat made him look taller. He had on a starchy white shirt and black pants with a fine chalk stripe tucked into hand-tooled black boots. His spurs were silver. His gun belt was studded with silver conchos, and in his holster was a Colt with white pearl grips. Cole smiled.
“But not impossible,” Cole said.
“Well,” Bragg said, “we’ll see.”
He drank most of his second drink and wiped the corners of his mouth with his thumb and forefinger, pinching his lower lip in the process.
“You shot three of my hands,” Bragg said.
He wasn’t looking at Cole when he said it. He was carefully pouring more whiskey into his near-empty glass.
“Matter of fact,” Cole said, “I only shot two. Hitch shot the other one.”
I smiled and shrugged.
“Point is,” Bragg said, “I can’t keep having my hands come in here and you boys shooting them.”
“I can see how you’d feel that way,” Cole said.
“So we need to make an arrangement,” Bragg said.
“We do.”
Bragg smiled slightly and nodded. Everyone was looking at Cole and Bragg. While they were looking, I picked my shotgun up off the floor under my table and held it in my lap just below the tabletop.
“You have a suggestion, Marshal?”
“There’s a set of town bylaws posted right outside the door of this here very saloon,” Cole said. “Your boys do like the bylaws say, and everything will be muy bueno.”
Bragg’s face pinched a little.
“And if they don’t?” he said.
“Then I arrest them.”
“And if they don’t go along?”
“I shoot them.”
Cole smiled sort of happily at Bragg. He nodded toward me.
“Or Everett does.”
I had moved the shotgun onto the tabletop. As Bragg looked over at me, I cocked it.
“That’s your idea of an arrangement?” Bragg said after a moment.
“The law is all the arrangement there is,” Cole said.
“Your law,” Bragg said.
“Same thing,” Cole said.
The men along the bar were looking at Bragg and looking at the shotgun. Bragg sat silently for a moment, looking at Cole. Deep in thought, maybe.
Then he said, “This town belongs to me. I was here first.”
“Can’t file no claim on a town, Bragg.”
“I was here first.”
Cole didn’t say anything. He sat perfectly still with his hands relaxed on the top of the table.
Leaning forward toward him, Bragg said, “I got near thirty hands, Cole.”
“So far,” Cole said.
“You proposin’ to kill us all?”
“That’d be up to you boys,” Cole said.
“Maybe you ain’t good enough,” Bragg said.
I could see it in the way he sat, in the way he held his head and hands. He was trying to decide. Could he beat Cole? Should he try?
“Don’t be so sure you’re quicker than me,” Bragg said.
He was trying to talk himself into it.
“So far I been quick enough,” Cole said.
Bragg was silent for a moment. Then I could see him give up. He stood carefully with his hands apart and flat on the tabletop.
“This ain’t the time,” he said.
“Um-hm.”
“Don’t mean there won’t be a time,” Bragg said.
“I see you are heeled and your boys there are heeled. I know you haven’t had a chance to read the bylaws yet, so I’m gonna let it pass. But the bylaws say that it’s illegal to carry guns inside town limits, so next time I’ll have to disarm you and lock you up for a bit.”
Bragg’s body stiffened. His shoulders seemed to hunch. He opened his mouth and closed it and stood for another moment. Then he turned without a word and walked out of the saloon. His ranch hands straggled after him.
6
The woman got off the train in the morning carrying a big carpetbag, and walked slowly up the main street and into Café Paris, where Cole and I were having breakfast. I’d never been to Paris, but I’d read about it, and I was pretty sure there were no cafés there like this one. One of the Chinamen who cooked there kept some chickens, so now and then they had some eggs on the menu. But today, like a lot of days, we were eating pinto beans and fried salt pork along with coffee and some sourdough biscuits. The biscuits were pretty tasty. The woman sat at a table near us and looked at the menu for a long time and finally ordered coffee and a biscuit.
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Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
