“I know,” Virgil said. “But I ain’t sure Laurel can sleep by herself.”
“No,” I said. “Probably can’t.”
Virgil paid for breakfast.
“So we’re back to the long walks,” I said.
We stood.
“Thing is,” Virgil said as we left Cafe Paris, “Allie says she feels funny doing it now that there’s a child in the house.”
“Even if the child is out for walk?” I said. “With me?”
Virgil shrugged. We strolled along Main Street to the Boston House and sat on the front porch and looked at the town.
“Be worth a try,” Virgil said.
We sat without talking. There was nothing uncomfortable in the silence. We could sit quiet for a long time. And we’d shared a lot of silences in the years we’d been together.
The land north of Appaloosa rose gradually through the mesquite. A wagon road ran up the rise to the edge of town, where it became Main Street. From town, unless you were at the very northern edge, you couldn’t see the road. It was as if Appaloosa stood long at the edge of a cliff, and when anything entered town from that direction it seemed simply to appear. There wasn’t a lot of traffic yet on Main Street. Two freight wagons appeared, each hauled by four big draft horses, their wide hooves kicking up little scatters of dust as they came. The early stage to Blue Rock went past us, heading north with two passengers and the driver up top next to the shotgun messenger.
“Town don’t bustle much,” Virgil said, “this early.”
“Later,” I said. “It’ll bustle later.”
Virgil nodded toward the north end of Main Street.
“Couple riders,” he said.
I looked.
“So?” I said.
“Recognize anybody?” Virgil said.
“Not yet,” I said.
“One on the left’ll be Pony Flores,” Virgil said.
I studied the riders.
Then I said, “I believe it will.”
9
THE RIDERS pulled up and sat their horses in front of the Boston House.
“Pony,” Virgil said.
Pony nodded at him. His Stetson was tipped forward, shading his face.
“Thought you was going to live Chiricahua for a spell,” I said.
Pony shrugged and tipped his head toward the rider beside him.
“My brother,” he said, “Kha-to-nay.”
We said, “Hello.”
Kha-to-nay had no reaction.
“He speak English?” Virgil said.
“Can,” Pony said. “Won’t.”
“Don’t like English?” Virgil said.
“He raised Chiricahua,” Pony said. “Don’t like white men.”
“He understand what we say?” I asked.
“Sure,” Pony said. “But only listen Chiricahua. Only talk Chiricahua.”
“Should introduce him to Laurel,” I said. “She only talks Virgil.”
“Chiquita,” Pony said. “She is well?”
“Doin’ fine,” Virgil said. “Kinda quiet, is all.” Kha-to-nay was motionless on his horse. As far as I could tell, watching him sit a horse, he was a little shorter than Pony, and a little wider. Pony had on buckskin leggings and high moccasins. The handle of a knife showed at the top of the right moccasin. He had on a dark blue shirt that might have once belonged to a soldier, and a big horn-handled Colt on a concho-studded belt. There was a Winchester in his saddle scabbard. Kha-to-nay wore a dark suit and a black-and-white striped shirt buttoned up tight to his neck. His black hair came to his shoulders. He, too, had a Winchester, and he wore a bowie knife on his belt.
“You lawmen again?” Pony said.
“Not at present,” Virgil said.
Pony nodded.
“Need help,” he said.
“Okay,” Virgil said.
“How the law in this town?” Pony said.
“Got a police chief,” I said. “Name of Amos Callico. Seems pretty set in his ways.”
Pony looked at Virgil.
“Don’t like him,” Virgil said.
“You live someplace?” Pony said.
“Got a house,” Virgil said.
“We go there and talk,” Pony said.
“Sure,” Virgil said. “Allie be glad to see you.”
We stood, and with Pony and Kha-to-nay walking their horses beside us, we went down Main Street toward Virgil’s house.
“What’s Kha-to-nay mean, in English?” I said to Pony. Pony thought a minute.
“Sees a Snake,” he said. “I think.”
“You think?” I said.
Pony pointed to his head.
“Change into Spanish,” he said. “Then Spanish to English.”
We could have been speaking Egyptian for all the attention Kha-to-nay paid. He rode silently, his eyes shifting left and right as he rode. We went down to First Street and turned right and walked a block to Front Street, where Virgil’s house was.
Allie was on the front porch in a rocker, reading to Laurel. I knew what she was reading. It was a book called Ladies’ Book of Etiquette, Fashion, and Manual of Politeness. She’d been reading a chapter a day to Laurel since we left Brimstone. I didn’t know if it was doing Laurel any good, but Allie appeared to be soaking it up.
They both looked up as we came into the small yard. Neither of them said anything for a moment. Then Laurel stood up abruptly and stepped off the porch. She walked to Pony, being careful not to look at Kha-to-nay, and took the derringer out of her apron pocket, and held it out so Pony could see it. Pony smiled, threw a leg over the pommel of his saddle, and slid fluidly off his horse.
“Chiquita,” he said.
She jumped into his arms, and he held her, rocking gently side to side. Kha-to-nay sat silent as a stone.
“Pony Flores,” Allie said. “How perfectly lovely. Come sit on the porch, you and your friend.”
Pony said something to Kha-to-nay in Apache. Kha-to-nay shook his head. Pony spoke again. Kha-to-nay did not answer, nor did he look at any of us.
“My brother is a donkey,” Pony said. “But he is my brother.”
10
