“I heard he won a pile of nuggets from some drunken miner in a poker game in Abilene,” I said. “And I heard he took a fortune off a Wells Fargo stage in Clovis.”
Tilda came by and filled our coffee cups. Cole drank some. Then he grinned.
“Maybe he worked hard and honest for it,” Cole said.
“That’s probably it,” I said.
“What we do know,” Cole said, “is he’s got a big payroll up at that ranch for a lot of riders that so far’s I can see, don’t do nothing.”
“And he bought two saloons,” I said. “Earl get a good price?”
“Seemed happy with it.”
“Any chance Bragg run him off?”
“Don’t think so,” Cole said. “You might ask him.”
“Sure,” I said. “Why do you think he came back here?”
“Got land here,” Cole said.
“Easy enough to sell.”
“He’s got us here, too,” Cole said.
“Think it’s got something to do with us?”
“Might. Bragg was the big dog ’round here till we showed up.”
“You think it’s got something to do with pride?”
“Pride’s a funny thing,” Cole said.
I drank some more coffee and looked at Cole for a time.
“How would you know that?” I said.
Appaloosa had two town meetings every year: one on the first of June, before it got too hot to have a meeting, the other on the first of December, before the real winter hit. The meetings took place in the church at the end of Second Street. They usually lasted all day, and me or Cole always went, to see to it there was no fistfights broke out over ticklish points.
I was there for the June meeting, in the back of the church, by the door, sitting on a saloon lookout chair that was brought in special for the meeting. The aldermen sat in a row up front, beside the pulpit where the pastor stood, moderating the meeting. As always, after the lunch break there was a clean smell of whiskey in the room. While the latecomers were sitting down, Randall Bragg came in and walked alone down the center aisle and sat in the front row. He was dressed in a dark suit. He had a gold watch chain across his vest. He took his hat off as he came into the church and placed it carefully in his lap when he sat down.
Nobody had a gavel in town, so when it was time for the meeting to start for the afternoon, the pastor came out and stood silently at the pulpit until things got quiet. I was always surprised that it worked. But it always did.
“Before we begin this afternoon’s session,” the pastor said, “we have had a special request from a member of the community to address the members of the meeting.”
The pastor was a strapping man who obviously considered himself a sure bet for heaven.
“With the concurrence of our Board of Aldermen,” the pastor said, “I have agreed to the request. Mr. Bragg?”
Bragg stood, laid his hat on his chair, and stepped to the pulpit. He was clean-shaven, freshly barbered, and, probably, if the room smelled less of whiskey, he would have smelled of bay rum. He glanced toward the ceiling for a moment and then turned to the audience.
“I was fearing maybe there’d be a lightning bolt when I stepped to the pulpit,” he said.
The audience laughed politely.
“And if the Lord had chosen to send one,” Bragg said, “who could have blamed him.”
The audience laughed again. Bragg smiled at them.
“Most of you know who I am,” he said. “My name is Randall Bragg, and I have been an evil man for some years.”
Everyone got very quiet.
“A year or so ago, I faced death several times and escaped with my life. It made me wonder why. Why did I not die when so many others had?”
My answer was that in at least one instance, it was because he turned and ran. But I kept my answer to myself.
“It came to me one day like the sun coming through a cloud, that the answer lay in a higher power. God had plans for me. He wanted me to come back to where I’d done so much that was bad, and try to do some good.”
You couldn’t even hear people breathing in the room. The big preacher stood beside Bragg, beaming with pride.
“And,” Bragg said, and bowed his head as he said it, “here I am.”
A sort of long sigh ran through the crowd.
“I’ve been blessed,” Bragg said. “In this last year, I’ve come into money, and I’m back here to use that money, to build this town, where only a short while ago I did so much harm.”
There was a little scattered clapping. Bragg put his hands out to ask for quiet.
“I’ve bought some property in town, from Earl May,” Bragg said. “And I’m fixing to renovate it, and today I’d like to tell you all that I’ve bought the Boston House from Abner Raines.”
A lot of the audience whispered to each other.
“I’m going to turn it into the finest hotel between Saint Louis and Denver,” he said, “and, with God’s help, I’ll make Appaloosa into the finest, richest town between the Rockies and the Mississippi River. It’ll be a town where people will come to spend money. It’ll be a town where a man, any man willing to work, can be not just well off, he can be rich.”
When Bragg started talking about God’s help, I wondered about a thunderbolt myself. But none came. Instead, the audience began to clap and somebody stood up and cheered, and then everyone was on their feet, clapping and cheering. Bragg stood silently, his head bowed reverently, his hands clasped in front of him, and accepted the clapping and cheering modestly and gratefully.
He didn’t make clear exactly how he was going to accomplish all this, but nobody seemed to notice. They all liked the idea of working hard and getting rich. Bragg raised his eyes as the applause began to quiet.
“To any here whom I have ever offended, I beg you to forgive me. To all of you here, I thank you for having me back.”
Then he lowered his eyes again, and with his hands still clasped in front of him like some kind of friar, he walked down the aisle of the church to the door. He looked up a little bit as he passed me and nodded and smiled.
It was a hell of a performance.
The bull showed up in a boxcar in the dead heat of July. Two of Bragg’s hands met him at the train and began to haze him slowly though town on his way to the ranch. He was a squat, compact bull with a black coat and no horns.
“Ever see one looked like that?” I said to Cole as they moved the bull up Main Street.
“Nope.”
A few boys followed along, looking at the black bull. Some men came to the doors of shops. People stood in the doorway of Bragg’s two saloons to look.
