“Bring Laurel back, too,” she said. “For a visit.”
“No,” Virgil said. “He’ll bring you down there to stay with Laurel. I don’t want either of you around town for a time.”
“Just like that?” Allie said. “Go gallivanting off with Everett for a two-day trip.”
“You can make it in a day,” Virgil said. “And keep your hands off Everett.”
Allie blushed.
“Virgil,” I said. “You spoil everything.”
61
I LEFT ALLIE to stay with Laurel in the little shed next to the livery corral, where she and Pony lived while he wrangled the livery string and broke an occasional mustang.
“She talk?” I said.
“Some,” Pony said.
“Enough?” I said.
“Yes.”
It was cloudy and gray riding north, but there was no rain.
“She mind you going?” I said.
“When see you, she know why you here,” Pony said.
“She say she understand.”
“Does she?”
“Yes.”
“Wish Allie did,” I said. “She bitched the whole way down here yesterday.”
“Why she bitch?”
I did a high-voiced imitation of Allie.
“ ‘What if he’s killed? What happens to me? This isn’t his fight… Why is he involved at all… If he loved me, he wouldn’t…’ ”
Pony looked at the dark sky.
“Apache man warrior,” he said. “Apache woman proud.”
“I know,” I said.
Pony grinned.
“In land of Blue-Eyed Devil, not so simple,” he said. “Man can’t always be warrior. Man get to be cowboy and store man and saloon man. And man who sit in office. Not warrior, I just man who saddle horse. Pitch hay. Pick up horse shit. But I go with you and Virgil, I warrior.”
“Not everybody wants to be a warrior,” I said.
“No. But nobody want to be pick-up-horse-shit man, either,” Pony said.
“Some people like it ’cause it’s safe, I guess.”
“Life not lived to be safe. Safe make you weak,” Pony said. “Make you slow. Make you tired.”
We pretty much gave the horses their head, keeping them pointed north but letting them pick the trail. Half a day on the trail and it began to rain again. Not too hard but steady. The horses paid no attention. We put on our slickers and buttoned them up and pulled the brims of our hats down and hunched a little forward over the necks of the horses.
“Things turn out the way they heading,” I said, “you ain’t gonna be tired for a good while.”
62
ON THE FOLLOWING MONDAY, Callico declared a state of martial law to exist in Appaloosa, and called off the election.
The office of the chief of police is now the highest authority in Appaloosa, the proclamation read. It was signed Amos A. Callico, chief of police.
“Ain’t martial law supposed to be the Army?” Virgil said.
“Twenty-five policemen in a town this size is an Army,” I said.
“That’s a fact,” Virgil said.
The rain that had been coming down steadily for more than a week was tapering, and as we sat drinking coffee in Cafe Paris, it had stopped completely.
“Question is,” I said, “what’s the general going to do?”
“Yep.”
“Which,” I said, “will then lead to the question what are we going to do?”
“You didn’t go down and get Pony,” Virgil said. “’Cause we needed a fourth for whist.”
I nodded.
Chauncey Teagarden came in with his slicker unbuttoned. He hung his white hat on the rack and sat down at our table.
“Ain’t raining,” he said.
“Will again,” I said.
“Often does,” Chauncey said. “The general would like you boys to come out and see him, soon’s you can.”
“The election?” I said.
“You boys heard about that,” Chauncey said.
“We did,” I said.
“General says he can’t do that,” Chauncey said.
“He can do what people will let him do,” Virgil said.
“Think that’s what he might want to talk about,” Chauncey said.
“In fact,” Virgil said, “might just as well ride back on out there with you when you go.”
“That’ll be soon’s I finish my coffee,” Chauncey said.
“Okay,” Virgil said. “Everett, bring the eight-gauge. Looks impressive.”
63
THE RAIN had picked up again by the time we got to the Lazy L. We hung our coats and hats in the front hall and went into the living room to sit by the big stone fireplace and let the fire dry us out.
The houseboy poured whiskey.
“Fine-looking decanter,” Virgil said.
He loved learning a new word and tried to use it as often as possible. The results weren’t always pretty, but he got this one right.
“I’m going after Callico,” the general said.
“So I understand,” Virgil said.
“I employ cattle hands. Not gunmen. They were ready to fight the Indian raid, self-defense. They are not ready to fight Callico and his police force.”
“No volunteers,” Virgil said.
The general drank some whiskey.
“None,” he said.
“Bad odds,” Virgil said.
The general nodded.
“They’re cowboys,” he said. “That’s what they signed on for.”
