Bluebell.
“People can’t always decide for themselves. When they do, many times they decide the wrong thing.”
Neither Virgil nor I said anything.
“And they can’t ever make it up,” Allie said. “They try and try, but the thing they did was too wrong… and they can’t fix it.”
“Nothing can’t be fixed,” Virgil said.
Allie turned her head toward him. She didn’t speak for a time. Virgil didn’t say anything else.
“You really believe that, Virgil?”
“I do,” he said.
They looked silently at each other. Allie opened her mouth to speak and closed it without speaking. They looked some more.
Then Allie said, “Here’s your lunch. I got to go practice on the organ now.”
She handed the lunch basket to Virgil, who took it.
He said, “Thank you, Allie.”
She nodded and smiled sort of uncertainly, and then turned and headed south on Arrow Street toward the church. Virgil watched her go.
“Something up between Percival and Pike,” Virgil said.
“That what we was talking about?” I said.
“Partly,” Virgil said.
27
THE HOUSE WAS LITTLE MORE than a cabin, with a stock shed next to it. In front of it, in the trampled dirt yard, was a dead man facedown with part of his head blown off. An arrow protruded from his back below the ribs. In the stock shed, a milk cow was making some noise.
Virgil and I dismounted and went into the house. There were three rooms. All of them empty.
“There’s women’s clothes in both bedrooms,” I said to Virgil. “But no women.”
“And there’s a wagon and a plow in the yard but no horses,” Virgil said.
“Somebody took ’em both?”
“Maybe our Indian friend,” Virgil said.
We went back into the yard and squatted on our heels beside the body. I shooed the flies away and pulled out the arrow.
“Same kind of arrow,” I said. “No point.”
The cow was still complaining in the shed.
“Needs to be milked,” Virgil said.
“Sounds that way,” I said.
“You know how to do that?” Virgil said.
“Nope.”
“I do,” Virgil said, and went to the shed.
The cow was in one stall; the other two stalls were empty. Virgil found a milking stool and began to milk the cow, letting the milk soak into the hard earth of the shed.
“Shame to waste it,” I said.
“Cow don’t think so,” Virgil said.
While he milked the cow I studied what little sign there was on the hard-packed earth. When Virgil was through, he pitched some hay from the loft into the feed trough, and left the shed gate open.
“We’ll take her back to town when we go,” Virgil said. “Maybe Allie can do something with her.”
“Can’t read much here,” I said. “Ground’s too hard. But over there, leading toward the river, there’s the tracks of maybe three horses. Two of them probably shod, one of them not. I think.”
We stood together over the dead body.
“Killed the man,” Virgil said. “Took the horses and the women.”
“A while ago,” I said.
“He is getting kind of ripe,” Virgil said.
“We don’t smell good when we’re dead,” I said.
“Especially after a while,” Virgil said.
“Probably don’t care, though.”
“Probably don’t,” Virgil said.
He was looking off in the direction where the hoof prints led.
“Got a start on us,” Virgil said.
“Yep, but if he’s traveling with two women,” I said, “he might be going slower than we will.”
Virgil glanced suddenly over his shoulder back toward town. I could see dust rising along the road from town, and in another minute I heard the sound of horses and a wagon.
“Be the undertaker,” Virgil said. “He can take the body. We’ll take the cow.”
28
VIRGIL WAS FEEDING SHELLS into his Winchester when Pike came into the sheriff’s office with a dark, lean, hard-looking man.
“Virgil,” Pike said. “Everett.”
We both nodded.
“This here’s Pony Flores,” Pike said. “One of my employees.”
“From the old days?” I said.
Pike nodded.
“Old days,” he said.
Virgil and I both nodded at Flores. He nodded back.
“Understand some Indians killed Tom Ostermueller, and took his wife and daughter.”
“Something like that,” Virgil said.
“You going after them?”
“Yep.”
“Posse?”
“Nope.”
“Posse’d just get in the way,” Pike said.
“It would,” Virgil said.
“Bunch of townspeople with guns,” Pike said.
“Probably shoot their own horse, they ever have to clear a weapon,” Virgil said.
“Lend you some of mine,” Pike said.
Virgil shook his head.
“Me ’n Everett will do,” he said.
“Got a tracker?” Pike said.
“Everett can track some,” Virgil said.
“Pony can track a butterfly two days after,” Pike said.
Virgil looked at me.
“Where’d you learn to track?” I said.
“Apache,” Flores said.
“Pony’s mother is Apache,” Pike said.
“Chiricahua,” Flores said.
