Brimstone, стр. 11

Brother Percival strode gravely up the aisle.

“Isn’t she wonderful?” he said, nodding at Allie above.

“Wonderful,” Virgil said.

“She’s practicing now,” Percival said.

“Good,” Virgil said.

“Pretty little woman,” Percival said. “Been coming here every day for morning service. Last week she asked if she could try playing the organ. Now she plays every day.”

“Big trail herd being delivered here tomorrow,” Virgil said. “Town will be full of drunken cowboys.”

“Why is that my concern?”

“Might cause some trouble,” Virgil said.

“That should be your concern.”

“Is,” Virgil said. “Why I’m coming around… making a tactical assessment.”

“We can take care of ourselves,” Brother Percival said. “Ours is a muscular and militant Christianity.”

“Being as Choctaw is one of your deacons, made me kind of suspect that,” Virgil said.

“Deacon Brown is a fine church member,” Percival said.

“Sure,” Virgil said.

“And I can’t believe these cowboys would invade a church,” Percival said.

“Ain’t likely,” Virgil said.

“But if they should, we can and will defend ourselves.”

“Only thing is,” Virgil said, “if you got to defend yourself, I’d like to be sure that Choctaw don’t get too militant and muscular.”

“Deacon Brown, like all of us here in the congregation, will do what he must,” Percival said.

“Don’t we all,” Virgil said.

“It is God’s work,” Percival said.

Virgil nodded and looked up in the choir loft where Allie was still laboring over the organ. I didn’t recognize what she was playing.

“Hope so,” Virgil said.

ABE LESTER BROUGHT HIS HERD in from the south, right after sunrise. He trailed them along the river so he wouldn’t have to run them through town. At the pens they made a lot of noise and kicked up a lot of dust as the drovers herded them in. It took nearly all day to get them penned, and by midafternoon the dust was hanging over the town like smoke above a brush fire.

When Lester began to pay off the drovers, Virgil and I strolled down to observe.

“Every man taken care of his string, Spanish?” Lester said to a Mexican cowboy standing to the side.

“Si,” the vaquero said. “All in the remuda pen, been rubbed down, got feed and water.”

We were in the tally shack at the pens. Lester was at a table with a big box in front of him. Virgil and I stood behind him. Both of us were wearing our badges. I was carrying the eight-gauge, which almost always got people’s attention.

Before the first man stepped up to be paid, Virgil spoke.

“My name’s Virgil Cole,” he said. “Fella with the eight-gauge is Everett Hitch. We want to welcome you to Brimstone. We want you to have a hell of a good time in Brimstone. And we want you to do it without hurting anybody or breaking anything.”

No one said anything.

Finally, Lester spoke.

“I pay you off,” he said, “and you don’t have no reason to do what I tell you anymore.”

From the back of the line somebody gave a soft rebel yell. A couple of the men laughed.

“On the other hand,” Lester said, “I got no obligation to help you out, you get in trouble. I assume some of you boys know who Virgil Cole is.”

Nobody spoke.

“Okay,” Lester said.

The drovers came up, one at a time, still sweating, with dust caked on their faces, and took their money. Several of them looked us over. None of them said anything. The Mexican wrangler was the last. With the money distributed and the box empty, Lester closed the lid and stood.

“Good luck with them,” he said.

Virgil nodded.

Lester put the box under his arm and walked out of the tally shed.

“Lotta cowboys,” I said to Virgil.

“Yep.”

“Don’t seem a bad lot,” I said.

“Yet,” Virgil said.

“Some of them were heeled,” I said. “Some weren’t.”

“Don’t matter if they’re heeled right now,” Virgil said.

“I know,” I said.

“Matter more tonight,” Virgil said.

“What’s your guess?” I said.

“ ’Bout tonight?” Virgil said.

“Yeah,” I said. “Think we’ll have to kill one?”

“Might,” Virgil said.

BY MIDNIGHT MOST OF THE drovers had settled in with a whore or passed out somewhere. Two of them were in our jail. Virgil and I walked along Arrow Street past The Church of the Brotherhood. It was dark and still.

“No cowboys,” I said.

“No deacons, either,” Virgil said.

“Guess the cowboys got other things to do,” I said.

“Don’t nobody seem much interested in the church,” Virgil said. “ ’Cept Allie.”

“She goes a lot?” I said.

“ ’Bout every day.”

“That bad?” I said.

“Hell, no,” Virgil said. “It’s good. Otherwise, she’d be home cooking and washing. She’s ruined half my shirts.”

“She’s trying,” I said.

“She is,” Virgil said.

“She’s had a rough go,” I said.

“Yep.”

“S’pose she brought most of it on herself,” I said.

“She did,” Virgil said.

“Maybe the church will help her,” I said.

“Hope so,” Virgil said.

Arrow Street was mostly dark now. The shops were closed, and the saloons that were still open were quiet. Ahead, at the corner of Fifth and Arrow, a group of drovers was standing in the street. In the quiet I heard their voices.

“You got no business treating us like that, Pike.”

As we got closer, I could see Pike standing on the boardwalk in front of the Palace.

“Ah, but I do, my friend,” Pike said.

J.D. and Kirby stood on the boardwalk with him. All three wore Colts.

“You broke Charlie’s arm,” the cowboy said.

“I did,” Pike said. “Keep yammering at me, I might break yours.”

The door to the Palace opened and a fourth man came out wearing a gun.

“Choctaw,” Virgil said to me.

He quickened his pace.

“He wasn’t doin’ anything,” the cowboy said.

“He was messing up my saloon,” Pike said. “I don’t tolerate anybody messing up my saloon.”

“Well,” the cowboy said, “we don’t tolerate nobody hurting our friend.”

The man’s voice had risen. I could hear the whiskey in it.

But we weren’t close enough.

“Well, then, my friend,” Pike said. “You best make your move.”

Virgil yelled, “Hold it.”

But it was too late. The cowboy fumbled at his gun and a couple of men beside him did the same. Pike shot three of them before they got anywhere near clearing their holsters. One bullet each. The rest of the cowboys froze. J.D. and Kirby and Choctaw had their guns out but didn’t shoot.

“Fast,” I said.

“And eager,” Virgil said.

Then he raised his voice.

“Everything stops,” he said.

We were close enough now. The men stood poised and motionless, as if posing for a photograph.

Then Pike smiled and said, “Virgil.”

I veered off across the street with the eight-gauge and stood behind the cowboys. Virgil stepped up onto the boardwalk.

“Seen you coming up the street,” Pike said. “Glad you’re here.”

“You can put it away now,” Virgil said.

Pike smiled some more.

“Glad to,” he said.

He opened the cylinder of his Colt, ejected the three spent shells, added three fresh ones from his coat pocket, closed the cylinder, and slid the Colt softly into its holster.

“You saw him pull on me,” Pike said.

“I did,” Virgil said.

“And those other boys,” Pike said.

“Yep.”

“They pulled on me, too,” Pike said cheerfully.

“And you shot three drunks,” Virgil said.

“That made it easier,” Pike said.

The cowboys had gathered silently around the three dead men. None of them knew what to do.

“They’re dead,” Virgil said to the cowboys. “There’s an undertaker down past the livery corral on Second Street. One of you go roust him out. Tell him I want him up here.”