Free Blue-Eyed Devil by Robert B. Parker Page A

are,” Virgil said.
    Pony nodded.
    “Speak for Pony to Chiquita,” he said.
    We all stood up.
    “Thank you for help,” Pony said to Cato and Rose. “Kahto-nay know he should say thank you, but he not.”
    “We know ’bout Kah-to-nay,” Rose said.
    They shook hands.
    Virgil handed the bottle to Pony.
    “Take the rest of this with you,” he said.
    Pony took the bottle. We swung up into our saddles and rode away from them, back toward town.

32
    A S WE CAME INTO TOWN, I could see a group of riders gathered at the far end of Main Street in front of the jail, where Cato and Rose kept office.
    “Callico,” Virgil said.
    “Gossip travels fast,” Rose said.
    “Might be good,” Virgil said, “if me ’n Everett drift over and settle in across from the jail.”
    “Have them between us,” Cato said.
    Virgil nodded and pulled his horse left. We’d been riding together so long that my horse went with him without prompting. Virgil noticed.
    “Smart animal,” he said.
    “You figure to have trouble with Callico?” I said.
    “He ain’t gonna be happy,” Virgil said, “that Pony and his brother flew the coop.”
    “True.”
    Virgil grinned.
    “And Frank Rose will annoy him,” he said.
    “Pretty sure,” I said.
    “Besides,” Virgil said. “Better prepare for what your enemy can do, not what you think he’s gonna do.”
    “True,” I said.
    “Who was it said that? German fella?”
    “Carl von Clausewitz,” I said. “Book called On War. ”
    “That’s a good one,” Virgil said. “Best book you ever give me.”
    We turned down past the laundry and on past the buildings that lined Main Street. Past the slop barrels, and the privies, the busted wagon wheels and rusting leaf springs, the middens of trash and garbage where coyotes scavenged. We faced Main Street, where the buildings had false fronts. From here you could see that most had been made of green lumber that had split and warped as it dried in the sun. Most towns looked like this from the back side.
    “Long way for the police chief of Appaloosa to come chasing a couple of Indians,” I said.
    “Wants to be the man brought them fearsome savages to justice,” Virgil said.
    “Like Custer,” I said.
    Virgil grinned.
    “Just like him,” he said.
    We turned up the alley between the Excelsior saloon and the feed store and came out on Main Street in back of Callico, where he and his men sat their horses. Cato and Rose had dismounted and spread out in front of the jail to the width of the building.
    Rose was talking.
    “Got no idea, Chief, where them Indians went,” Rose said.
    “How long they been gone?” Callico said.
    Rose shook his head slowly. “Hard to say. You know how it is. You notice when you see something. But if you don’t see something, you don’t notice you’re not seeing it.”
    “For crissake, Marshal,” Callico said. “When’s the last time you saw them?”
    “Week or so, maybe,” Rose said. “My work, one day’s pretty much like another one. Don’t you find it that way?”
    “Where were they staying,” Callico said. “While they were here?”
    “Guess they slept where they could,” Rose said. “You know how Indians are.”
    “One of ’em’s an Indian,” Callico said. “Other one’s a breed.”
    “Same thing, ain’t it?” Rose said. “Got Indian blood, they act like Indians. Never seen it to fail. You?”
    Callico shook his head. Short, quick shakes like he had a fly in his ear.
    “You got anything to tell me about the two fugitives?” he said.
    “We lay eyes on ’em,” Rose said, “we’ll arrest them. Ain’t that right, Cato?”
    “Sure,” Cato said.
    Callico shook his head again, and wheeled his horse and looked at us.
    “You men,” he said. “You seen . . . for crissake!”
    “Afternoon, Amos,” Virgil said.
    “What the fuck are you doing up here?” Callico said.
    “Visitin’.”
    “Visiting, my ass,” Callico said. “You come up here and warned them fucking