“What?” I said.

“Some people have been killed.”

Skinny Jack looked to Curtis, then back to me.

“Go on,” I said.

“There was an attack at the Rio Blanco Bridge.”

“What kind of attack?”

“The bridge . . . has been . . . blown up.”

“Good God,” Curtis said.

“What?”

Skinny Jack nodded.

“Why on earth?” Curtis said.

Skinny Jack shook his head.

“Don’t know. That’s what the telegram said. Somebody blew up the bridge. I left the wire in the office on account I didn’t want to get it all wet and smudge out what was on it, but the bridge was blown up and some people were killed.”

“When?”

“Two days back,” Skinny Jack said.

“And this telegram was just received?” I said.

Skinny Jack nodded.

“Note said the wire had been cut,” Skinny Jack said. “I suspect it took that long to find the break, fix it. I don’t know. All I know is what was on the wire.”

“Good God,” Curtis said again.

“Wire from Sheriff Driskill?” I said.

“No,” Skinny Jack said. “It was from the way station operator.”

“Where are Sheriff Driskill and the other deputies, Karl and Chip?” I said.

“No word,” Skinny Jack said with a gulp.

— 24 —

This news of the bridge disaster temporarily shut Curtis up. Silence swelled in the billiard room for a moment as the thought of what Skinny Jack said lingered.

“My God,” Curtis said. “That bridge was a massive construction. Tons of wood and iron well over two hundred feet long . . . my God.”

Skinny Jack nodded.

“Who was killed?” I said.

Skinny Jack just shook his head.

“Goodness,” Curtis said. “Was G. W. Cox one of them?”

Skinny Jack shook his head.

“I don’t know, the telegram didn’t say.”

“What do you know about G. W. Cox?” I said.

“He’s the Rio Blanco contractor, wealthiest man in Appaloosa these days. Was an attorney from Philadelphia, a damn fine one, but he’s in the contracting business now,” Curtis said. “His company was the one that won the territory bid to build the bridge.”

“Any back and forth with telegrams?” I said to Skinny Jack.

“No,” Skinny Jack said. “Just the one, then I came to find you. It’s just plumb awful. Two of my good friends was working there.”

“Curtis?”

Curtis looked at me, raising his nose up a bit.

“This G. W. Cox,” I said. “He live here, in Appaloosa?”

“He does,” Curtis said. “Unless he’s on the road. He travels a lot, back east.”

“He spend time at the bridge?”

“He’s the contractor, like I said, so he’s there some,” Curtis said. “At least I would imagine so.”

“You know where he is now?”

“I think he’s here,” Curtis said, “in Appaloosa, but I don’t know for certain.”

“You know where he lives?”

“Why, yes,” Curtis said. “He lives in the big house at the top of Fourth Street.”

I nodded and set my cue down flat on the table.

“I know you have a gift of gab, Curtis,” I said. “And under most circumstances it don’t bother me none too much, but under this particular circumstance I need you to keep your mouth shut about this.”

Curtis looked at me like I’d hurt his feelings as I put on my slicker.

“Understand?” I said.

“Oh, why, yes,” Curtis said. “Goddamn, sure, Everett, sure. Not to be shared. That I understand. Completely. I won’t say a thing to anybody, Everett, I promise.”

“Good,” I said.

“This is just awful, though, just awful,” Curtis said. “Millicent and I were by there on our way back from visiting her sister. We watched them work on the bridge for a while . . . it’s massive . . . my God . . . was massive . . .”

Curtis kept talking as I snugged on my hat. He followed Skinny Jack and me to the door. I opened the door and stepped out into the worsening weather. Skinny Jack followed, closing the door behind us, silencing Curtis.

We crossed the muddy street in the sleeting rain to the opposite boardwalk and walked south toward the sheriff’s office.

When we got in the office the door to the cells was open and Bolger was on his bunk, snoring away with his mouth open. I closed the door separating us from Bolger, and Book got up from the desk and handed me the telegram. Book and Skinny Jack looked over my shoulder as I read.

“This is heinous, is it not, Deputy Marshal Hitch?” Book said.

“What’s that mean?” Skinny Jack said.

“Um . . . wicked,” Book said.

“It most certainly is, Book,” I said, then folded the telegram and put it in the dryness of my shirt pocket. “It most certainly is.”

I retrieved my eight-gauge from the gun rack. I’d been keeping the double barrel in the office for safekeeping since our return to Appaloosa.

“Where’s Chastain?”

“Walking the town,” Book said.

“He know about this?” I said.

Skinny Jack shook his head.

“Not yet,” Skinny Jack said. “I came looking for you right away, didn’t see him ’fore I found you.”

Book moved his big body to the window with his hands shoved in the front pockets of his baggy trousers.

“Who could have done this?” Book said.

“Hard to say,” I said.

“You think the attackers might come here to Appaloosa,” Book said.

Book remained looking out the window.

“Come here and try and do something heinous?” Book said.

“Naw,” Skinny Jack said. “That ain’t gonna happen, be foolish to try that. We got too many people.”

“They could actually be here,” Book said, wide-eyed. “A lot of people come and go in and out of Appaloosa, Skinny Jack. They could be here now, right amongst us, and we’d never know it.”

Skinny Jack looked at Book for a moment and his Adam’s apple moved up then down in his throat as he considered Book’s assessment.

“Maybe Sheriff Driskill, Karl, and Chip caught whoever did this?” Skinny Jack said hopefully.

I grabbed my shell belt and strapped it on.

“Maybe,” I said.

Book and Skinny Jack followed me as I moved to the door.

“What will you do?” Book said.

“Get Virgil. Figure, sort things out,” I said, as I opened the door, meeting the cold air.

“What should we do?” Book said.

“Find Chastain, let him know,” I said. “Get my horse and Virgil’s horse saddled and ready. Get panniers on one of the mules, too. Pack some feed, kindling, coffee, grub, medicines, hand tools, and get us some blankets, cold-weather coats and gloves from the locker.”

Book nodded and looked out the door past me.

“Snowing,” Book said.

“Is,” I said.

— 25 —

I walked the wet streets in the falling snow to Virgil and Allie’s place. I could see embers rising from the chimney and could smell the wood burning in their fireplace as I neared. I walked up the steps and knocked on the door. After a moment Allie looked out the window. I waved to her and she opened the door, holding a glass of whiskey.

“Everett, how about this? Snow.”

“Yes, it is.”

“What a pleasant surprise,” she said with a little slur. “Come on in.”

She leaned close and kissed me on the cheek next to my lips. I could smell the whiskey on her breath.

“Where’s Virgil?”

“He’s out back getting some wood for the fire.”

She held up her glass.

“Having a nightcap, would you care for one?”

I shut the door and leaned my eight-gauge on the wall next to the jamb.

“Sure.”

“Make yourself comfortable,” Allie said.

I took off my slicker and hat and hung them on the coat rack. Allie retrieved a glass from the breakfront in the dining room and poured me some whiskey.

“What brings you to see us?” she said.

Thankfully, Virgil entered from the back door carrying a bundle of scrap lumber in his arms and diverted the necessity of me needing to answer Allie’s question.