Robert B. Parker's Blackjack Read Online Free PDF

think as old and beat-up as I am that I’d be familiar with all kinds of subterfuge, including when someone doesn’t hear or chooses not to believe what I say.”
    “Tell us what you know,” Virgil said.
    “I told you,” he said.
    Pritchard’s face flushed red.
    “I did not know the man,” he said. “But by the nature of this inquiry, I can only assume you are suggesting that I am in some way connected to this altercation and that I must be propagating deceitfulness.”
    “We are not suggesting anything,” I said.
    “Goddamn sure sounds like it,” he said.
    “Just trying to put together the comings and goings of all this, Mr. Pritchard,” I said.
    “You might not know,” Virgil said, “but at this point in time you know more than we do, and until we know more than you do we will keep asking questions of you or anybody else until we get to the bottom of this.”
    “It’s what we do,” I said.
    “I was not in Denver,” Pritchard said.
    His face flushed even more and his eyes were now bulging.
    “I was through Denver on my way to here. I subsequently changed trains there, passing through there is all, but did not stay over. I was planning on actually stopping by, spend a few days there at my gambling establishment on my return.”
    “To?” Virgil said.
    “Saint Louis,” he said. “Where I live.”
    “When were you last in Denver?”
    “A few months ago, Marshal Cole.”
    “What about Bill Black?” Virgil said. “When was he last in Denver?”
    “He was there with me,” he said. “Same time.”
    Pritchard pulled his watch from his vest pocket, checked the time. Then, with the support of his glossy brass-topped lion-head cane he slowly lifted himself from his chair.
    “Now,” he said, “if you will excuse me, I have someone coming to collect me about now. If you need anything else from me you can find me at the Colcord Hotel, room twelve. But right now, I’m tired and unwilling to chew any more of this cud.”
    “We’ll knock on your door,” Virgil said.

9.
    W hat was left of the day, Virgil and I spent searching Appaloosa and its outskirts for Truitt Shirley and Boston Bill, but there was no sign of either one of them. After dark, Virgil and I made our way back to the sheriff’s office, and when we arrived Chastain was sitting on the porch.
    A sconce on the wall above him was engulfed with a swarm of moths and early-summer bugs. When we neared, Chastain got to his feet. He was chewing a huge plug of tobacco. He moved to the edge of the porch and spit.
    “Find anything?” Virgil said.
    Chastain shook his head.
    “Hard to say,” he said.
    He pointed south.
    “Skinny Jack said he talked to a ranch hand near the river yonder that was putting out salt for his cattle. Hand said he saw some riders in the early afternoon, caught a quick glimpse of them riding off down toward the hard rock ford, said they was far off, riding close together, and couldn’t tell how many exactly, that’s all we know . . .”
    “Nothing else?” Virgil said.
    “Nope, not a goddamn thing,” he said. “Y’all?”
    “No,” I said.
    “You’d think they’d not have been able to just up and get gone like they done,” Chastain said.
    “You would,” I said.
    “Might well be them the ranch hand saw,” he said.
    Chastain spit.
    “Other than that, none of us found any other sign . . .” he said. “Did, though, get word back from Denver.”
    Chastain fished the telegram from his vest pocket, unfolded it, and held it out.
    “Not sure what to make of it,” he said, shaking his head. “Hell of a deal. Take a look.”
    He waved the telegram a little, holding it a bit outright some more.
    I stepped out of the saddle, took the note from Chastain, then moved under the sconce, where I could read it.
    “I told everybody to keep at it, keep looking,” Chastain said. “Until I talked to you, Virgil. See what you wanted to do. Also I told them if they so much as even get a whiff of Boston Bill or