Blue-Eyed Devil by Robert B. Parker Page A

Street, with space between them so that each target was single. Kha-to-nay was first. There were vertical white lines painted beside each eye, and his chin was painted black. He was bare-chested, riding a tall bay horse marked with similar war paint. There was a big bowie knife on his belt and a Winchester resting across his saddle in front of him. I could almost hear the collective gasp of the old people, women, and children peering out of their civilized houses at these other people.
    He looked carefully left and right as he came. It was probably the way Caesar had looked, riding into a conquered city. He saw me, and pointed at me. They kept coming. I counted them as they came. Ten men, plus Kah-to-nay. Either Pony was mistaken or there were eight missing. Pony was rarely mistaken. When the column was halfway past me, Virgil stepped out from the pool room and walked slowly to the middle of the street. He would have seen the number. He would know there were eight fighters missing.
    “Virgil Cole,” Kah-to-nay said. “Why are you not out across the river with the other fools?”
    His English was flawless, except that it was too precise, like something carefully learned.
    “Speaking English now,” Virgil said.
    “I am here to burn your town to the ground,” he said. “I will take some women, probably, and kill everyone else. Therefore it is appropriate to speak the language of the Blue-Eyed Devil.”
    “But first you want to brag about it,” Virgil said.
    Again Kah-to-nay shook his head sharply.
    “My brother who calls himself Pony Flores says you are his friend. My brother is no longer Chiricahua, but he is my brother. You may ride away, before we begin.”
    I was shocked. “You may ride away”? Virgil Cole?
    “Pony is my friend,” Virgil said. “And because you are his brother I will make you the same offer.”
    Kah-to-nay stared at Virgil for a time.
    “I will try not to kill you,” Kah-to-nay said.
    “And me you,” Virgil said.
    “But if I must,” Kah-to-nay said, “I hope you find that it is a good day to die.”
    “I s’pect they’re all about the same,” Virgil said. Without raising his voice, and looking straight at Kah-to-nay, Virgil said, “Anybody see the other eight Indians?”
    “Four of them.” Chauncey Teagarden’s voice came from the stable. “Livery corral behind me. One street over.”
    “Other four are probably one street over the other way,” Virgil mused.
    Kah-to-nay turned his head and spoke to his warriors in Apache. Then silence.
    Kah-to-nay looked back up at where I was, and over at where Teagarden was.
    “How many are you?” he said.
    “Enough,” Virgil said.
    Kah-to-nay raised his voice slightly and said something in Apache. From the pool room, Pony answered.
    Then Kah-to-nay began to back his horse slowly away from Virgil. Suddenly he put his head back and screamed. It was a shocking sound in the twisting silence, a sound from another word. He kicked his horse forward and drove him straight at Virgil. Just before he reached him he yanked the horse right and drove the horse down the alley past the Boston House. His warriors came behind him, running straight at Virgil and turning just as they reached him, half going left. Half going right. Virgil stood motionless as they ran at him.
    As soon as the Indians disappeared down the side street, a wisp of smoke began to rise on the left, from behind the buildings facing Main Street. Then smoke came from the right. I could smell the coal oil.
    In the center of the empty street Virgil put his hands above his head and gestured for us to join him. The balloon was up.

45
    T HE FLAMES were beginning to frolic above the roof-lines. The smoke was thick and black and smelled of coal oil. No Indians were in sight on Main Street. But there were periodic gunshots from the side streets, and people, mostly women and children, rushed out of them and began to mill on Main Street.
    “He’s corralling them on Main Street,” I