Pritchard’s face flushed red.
“I did not know the man,” he said. “But by the nature of this inquiry, I can only assume you are suggesting that I am in some way connected to this altercation and that I must be propagating deceitfulness.”
“We are not suggesting anything,” I said.
“Goddamn sure sounds like it,” he said.
“Just trying to put together the comings and goings of all this, Mr. Pritchard,” I said.
“You might not know,” Virgil said, “but at this point in time you know more than we do, and until we know more than you do we will keep asking questions of you or anybody else until we get to the bottom of this.”
“It’s what we do,” I said.
“I was not in Denver,” Pritchard said.
His face flushed even more and his eyes were now bulging.
“I was through Denver on my way to here. I subsequently changed trains there, passing through there is all, but did not stay over. I was planning on actually stopping by, spend a few days there at my gambling establishment on my return.”
“To?” Virgil said.
“Saint Louis,” he said. “Where I live.”
“When were you last in Denver?”
“A few months ago, Marshal Cole.”
“What about Bill Black?” Virgil said. “When was he last in Denver?”
“He was there with me,” he said. “Same time.”
Pritchard pulled his watch from his vest pocket, checked the time. Then, with the support of his glossy brass-topped lion-head cane he slowly lifted himself from his chair.
“Now,” he said, “if you will excuse me, I have someone coming to collect me about now. If you need anything else from me you can find me at the Colcord Hotel, room twelve. But right now, I’m tired and unwilling to chew any more of this cud.”
“We’ll knock on your door,” Virgil said.
9
What was left of the day, Virgil and I spent searching Appaloosa and its outskirts for Truitt Shirley and Boston Bill, but there was no sign of either one of them. After dark, Virgil and I made our way back to the sheriff’s office, and when we arrived Chastain was sitting on the porch.
A sconce on the wall above him was engulfed with a swarm of moths and early-summer bugs. When we neared, Chastain got to his feet. He was chewing a huge plug of tobacco. He moved to the edge of the porch and spit.
“Find anything?” Virgil said.
Chastain shook his head.
“Hard to say,” he said.
He pointed south.
“Skinny Jack said he talked to a ranch hand near the river yonder that was putting out salt for his cattle. Hand said he saw some riders in the early afternoon, caught a quick glimpse of them riding off down toward the hard rock ford, said they was far off, riding close together, and couldn’t tell how many exactly, that’s all we know...”
“Nothing else?” Virgil said.
“Nope, not a goddamn thing,” he said. “Y’all?”
“No,” I said.
“You’d think they’d not have been able to just up and get gone like they done,” Chastain said.
“You would,” I said.
“Might well be them the ranch hand saw,” he said.
Chastain spit.
“Other than that, none of us found any other sign...” he said. “Did, though, get word back from Denver.”
Chastain fished the telegram from his vest pocket, unfolded it, and held it out.
“Not sure what to make of it,” he said, shaking his head. “Hell of a deal. Take a look.”
He waved the telegram a little, holding it a bit outright some more.
I stepped out of the saddle, took the note from Chastain, then moved under the sconce, where I could read it.
“I told everybody to keep at it, keep looking,” Chastain said. “Until I talked to you, Virgil. See what you wanted to do. Also I told them if they so much as even get a whiff of Boston Bill or Truitt Shirley to just let me know, so nothing else happens. I told them if they had nothing by nine, to come back here.”
Virgil remained mounted as I sat on the bench under the light and read the telegram.
“What about Messenger,” Virgil said. “You check on him?”
“I did. I just talked to the doc and he said his condition was the same. Was surprised he was still holding on, figured he’d have died by now, but evidently he ain’t.”
“Well, I’ll be damn,” I said, looking up from the note. “Is a hell of a deal.”
“What?” Virgil said.
“Boston Bill Black is damn sure wanted for murder,” I said. “He’s wanted for the murder of a woman named Ruth Ann Messenger.”
Chastain nodded.
“How about that shit?” Chastain said. “Figure that has to be Roger Messenger’s sister or maybe his wife.”
“Yep,” I said. “No coincidence.”
“There’s more there, too, about the goddamn money,” Chastain said. “Says there is a hefty bounty on his head, too.”
“How much?” Virgil said.
Chastain spit.
“Three thousand,” I said.
“How about that shit?” Chastain said. “Hefty.”
“Who’s that wire from?” Virgil said.
“Police Captain G. W. McPherson,” I said. “The Department of Law Enforcement, Denver, Colorado.”
“That it?” Virgil said.
Chastain shook his head.
“Not quite,” I said. “Says here the department is appreciative of the information and the communication, and that they will be subsequently dispatching a unit to follow up.”
“Unit to follow up?” Virgil said.
“That’s the shit I don’t understand,” Chastain said. “Follow up with what, exactly?”
“I would imagine they want to make certain Boston Bill Black is either arrested or killed.”
“Or collect their own money,” Virgil said.
Chastain pulled his watch and looked at it.
“It’s almost nine now,” he said. “You want me to get a posse together?”
Virgil thought for a moment and shook his head.
“No, lot of places they could be, and for all we know they could still be right here. What do you think, Everett?”
“I doubt it, but it’s not out of the question.”
Chastain agreed.
“Unless we find them tonight,” I said, “or get some other sign as to their direction, I’d say we will go with the notion the riders that the ranch hand saw heading toward the ford have to be Truitt and Boston Bill and the other fella.”
Virgil looked to Chastain.
“Let’s stay after it tonight, keep looking, and come morning if we’ve found no sign, Everett and me will go with Skinny Jack, ride to the rancher’s place, get a direction on where the riders were headed.”
“All we can do,” I said.
“Is,” Virgil said.
10
After an extensive search and finding no sign of Boston Bill or Truitt Shirley or the third man, Virgil and I sat on the front porch of his house and drank some whiskey before turning in. It was after two o’clock in the morning, and with the exception of the saloons on the north end of town that stayed open twenty-four hours a day, the whole of Appaloosa, including Allie, was fast asleep.
“Lot of money on Boston Bill’s head,” I said.
“Damn sure is,” Virgil said.
“Not good,” I said.
“Not,” Virgil said.
“Been our experience,” I said. “Comes the money, comes the trouble.”
“Yep,” Virgil said.
“I guess killing a lawman’s family member had to raise the ante,” I said.
“They obviously got some kind of strong proof,” Virgil said. “Some evidence on Boston Bill.”
“Why now?” I said.
“I was wondering the same thing,” Virgil said.
“Boston Bill has been here in Appaloosa for, hell, a good damn while,” I said. “I mean, we’ve not been keeping a tab on him or anything, even though you had your suspicions about him, he’s given no cause, no reason, but the thought of him catching a train back to Denver, killing a woman named Ruth Ann Messenger, and then returning to Appaloosa to get back to work at building a goddamn gambling parlor sounds suspect at best.”