The Virgil Cole-Everett Hitch Novels 1 – 4

Appaloosa

Resolution

Brimstone

Blue-Eyed Devil

Robert B Parker

Contents

PROLOGUE

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

47

48

49

50

51

52

53

54

55

56

57

58

59

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Appaloosa

A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2005 by Robert B. Parker

This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

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ISBN: 978-1-1012-0508-2

A BERKLEY BOOK®

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BERKLEY and the “B” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

Electronic edition: June, 2006

THE SPENSER NOVELS

Cold Service

Bad Business

Back Story

Widow’s Walk

Potshot

Hugger Mugger

Hush Money

Sudden Mischief

Small Vices

Chance

Thin Air

Walking Shadow

Paper Doll

Double Deuce

Pastime

Stardust

Playmates

Crimson Joy

Pale Kings and Princes

Taming a Sea-Horse

A Catskill Eagle

Valediction

The Widening Gyre

Ceremony

A Savage Place

Early Autumn

Looking for Rachel Wallace

The Judas Goat

Promised Land

Mortal Stakes

God Save the Child

The Godwulf Manuscript

THE JESSE STONE NOVELS

Stone Cold

Death in Paradise

Trouble in Paradise

Night Passage

THE SUNNY RANDALL NOVELS

Melancholy Baby

Shrink Rap

Perish Twice

Family Honor

ALSO BY ROBERT B. PARKER

Appaloosa

Double Play

Gunman’s Rhapsody

All Our Yesterdays

A Year at the Races (with Joan Parker)

Perchance to Dream

Poodle Springs (with Raymond Chandler)

Love and Glory

Wilderness

Three Weeks in Spring (with Joan Parker)

Training with Weights (with John R. Marsh)

Again, and always, for Joan

PROLOGUE

The Boston House Saloon was the best in Appaloosa. It had a long, teak bar with a big, gilt-framed mirror behind it. At night, the room was lit by coal oil lamps on a chandelier that could be lowered and raised on a chain and pulley. It was late afternoon, and the place was empty except for the bartender and three off-shift copper miners drinking beer. The bartender was Willis McDonough. McDonough was a fat man who always wore white shirts fresh from the Chinaman. He moved easily and with great dignity up and down the bar. He was polishing glasses with a clean towel when the two men came into the saloon and ordered two glasses of whiskey.

One of the men, the shorter one, had a small face with a narrow mouth and prominent front teeth, which he tried to conceal with a big, sweeping moustache. He carried a gun cross draw in a cheap holster. He wasn’t a miner, and he wasn’t a cowboy. The other man was taller, with a thick body and long, black hair that looked oily. He too had a gun. It was stuck into his right-hand pants pocket, with its dark walnut butt showing.

Between them, they drank a bottle of whiskey. They spoke only to each other. They paid no attention to McDonough or the three miners. When the whiskey was gone, they turned to leave.

“That’ll be three dollars,” McDonough said.

Both men turned and stared silently at McDonough for a moment. McDonough looked back at them and felt uncomfortable. They both had guns. Looking at them, he realized, as if they had told him, that they would shoot him if he persisted. He didn’t wish to die for three dollars. He shrugged.

“On the house, gentlemen.”

Neither one showed any reaction. They turned and left the bar. McDonough’s heart felt shaky in his chest.

THEY HAD JUST come from seeing a stereopticon show about Venice, Italy. Now they walked up Second Street, lit mostly by the moon and a little by the light that spilled out of the barrooms. She put her arm through his. She could feel how strong he was. It would be so exciting if they could ever go to Venice—or anyplace, really, as long as they were together. Coming toward them on the board sidewalk were three men. From the way they walked, she could tell they were drunk. She wanted to cross the street, but he said no. He didn’t cross the street for anyone. They met by the livery stable. One of the men asked them where they were going. He was a tall man, she remembered, with narrow shoulders and a walleye. His beard was scraggly, as if he had trouble growing one.

“We’re going home,” her husband said, “if you’ll kindly step out of the way.”

“Good-looking lady you got,” the walleyed man said.

“My wife,” her husband said, and she could hear the warning in his voice.

“She fuck as good as she looks?” the walleyed man said.

Her husband hit him very hard, and he staggered backward. One of his friends, a short, thick man with no hat, drew his gun and shot her husband in the chest. She screamed. Her husband collapsed in a heap. The tall man got his balance back and dragged her away from her husband and into the livery stable. The two other men followed. They forced her onto the floor and began to take off her clothes. She struggled as hard as she could. Then she was naked and one of them was on her. She felt as if she was surrounded by a vast, empty space in which her own screams echoed like those of someone else. Then she closed her eyes and set her jaw and waited.

JACK BELL had worked all the tough towns. He’d been a city marshal in cattle-trail towns and worked the wild mining towns like Tombstone and Silver City. He’d scouted for the army and rode shotgun for Wells Fargo. He’d once arrested John Wesley Hardin. When Clayton Johansson’s wife described the men who shot her husband and raped her, Bell was pretty sure who did it. With two deputies, he rode out to the Circle RB ranch to talk with Randall Bragg, who owned the ranch and for whom the suspects worked. They met in the open area of hard, trampled dirt between the ranch house and the barn. Most of his hands stood near Bragg. All of them were armed.

“Randall,” Bell said. “I’m afraid I need to bring three of your boys back into town with me.”

Bragg was a spare man, wearing a black duster and a high-crowned black hat. He held a Winchester rifle. Bell could see that the hammer was back.

“Can’t spare ’em, Jack,” he said.

His voice was deep, but it had a hard sound to it, as if it were forced out through his nose.

“It’s serious legal business, Randall. I got to take them in.”

“No.”

Bell looked at Bragg and the cowboys ranged behind him. He looked over his shoulder at one of the deputies, and nodded at the walleyed man standing with his two friends near one end of the group.

“Cut those three out,” he said.

The deputy looked uncertain. Bell’s hand rested gently on his gun’s butt.

“Do what I tell you,” Bell said.

The deputy moved his horse forward and pitched suddenly off the horse as a shot was fired from the barn. Bell knew it was a Winchester; he’d heard enough of them. He turned his horse toward the shot and pulled his gun free, and a bullet hit him in the face and knocked him backward out of the saddle. The second deputy sat, frozen, in his saddle. He looked at the deputy and Bell sprawled in the dirt. He glanced at the barn and then at Bragg. Bragg, still holding the Winchester, smiled.

“Time to see what you’re made of,” he said to the deputy. “Ain’t it.”

The deputy pulled his horse sharply around and headed out at a gallop. No one in town knew where he went.

1

It was a long time ago, now, and there were many gunfights to follow, but I remember as well, perhaps, as I remember anything, the first time I saw Virgil Cole shoot. Time slowed down for him. He fought with an odd stateliness. Always steady and never fast, but always faster than the man he was fighting.

Like my father, I’d been to West Point, and I was good at soldiering. But soldiering didn’t allow too much for expansion of the soul. So after five years in the Indian Wars, I turned in my commission and rode away to see how far I could expand it. To keep from starving to death while I was expanding it, I shot buffalo for the railroad, and rode beside the driver on Wells Fargo coaches with an eight-gauge shotgun, and scouted now and then for the Army. I sat lookout for a while in a gambling parlor in Durango. I did a short turn as a bouncer in a whorehouse in Canon City. I got in a fight in Tres Piedras, and killed the man and had to move on pretty quick. I tried to find a little gold in the mountains in Colorado and didn’t, and came down out of the San Juan Mountains, looking for something else to do. Along the way, I read a lot of books and fucked a lot of women, all of whom I liked. Now, with thirty dollars’ worth of gold in my pocket, on a dark bay gelding named Sugar that I’d won playing poker in Esmeralda, I came on into Trinidad in the midafternoon on a summer day with the sun warm on my back.

It wasn’t much of a town then. Two streets north and south. Three streets crossing east and west. Twelve blocks in all. It was one of those towns that existed mostly for people passing through. Cowboys who brought cattle to the railhead from the East Colorado grasslands. Soldiers on the way to Fort Carson. Hide hunters, teamsters, and miners occasionally, coming down to resupply. A few people trying to farm. People like me, moving from place to place because they didn’t know what else to do.

As I passed the Rattlesnake Saloon on my left, the swinging doors burst open and a big man in a buckskin shirt came through them faster, surely, than he would have wished, stumbled across the boardwalk, trying to catch his balance, and fell forward into the street. There was blood on one side of his face. Sugar shied a little, and I pulled him up. The man in the street had gotten himself onto all fours when the saloon doors opened more gently and a tall man came out wearing a black suit. The suit’s coat was pushed back on the right side to expose a big, bone-handled Colt. I could see the badge pinned to his white shirt. Very dignified and deliberate, he stepped off the boardwalk into the street and stopped maybe six feet from the man in the buckskin shirt, and waited. Behind him, five or six other men pushed out of the saloon and stood on the boardwalk. He didn’t seem to see them, but I noticed that he had turned slightly, so that he could look at the man in the street and the men on the boardwalk.

The man in the street was on his feet now. He was a big man, fat but strong-looking, with a black beard and long hair. His buckskin shirt looked as if he’d worn it since the buck was killed. On his belt, he wore a bowie knife and a big Army Colt in a flap holster. He smelled like a man who skinned buffalo. Some of the street dust had caked onto the blood on the left side of his face. He faced the man in the black suit.

“Goddamn you, Cole,” he said. “You got no business hitting me with that gun.”

“Time for you to come on with me, Bear,” Cole said. “Until you cool down.”

His voice was surprisingly light and soft.

“I ain’t going with anybody,” Bear said. “I paid that whore three dollars for an hour, and she fucked me once and said she was through.”

“Bear,” Cole said, “I would guess that you are only good for one an hour.”

“Don’t you rag me, Cole. Next time I see that sow, I’m going to gut her.”

“No.”

Cole’s voice didn’t get less soft, but something came into it that made the “no” crackle like summer lightning. Bear almost swayed for a moment. Then he steadied himself, and his eyes shifted to the other men on the boardwalk.

Somebody said, “We’re with you, Bear.”

Somebody else said, “Don’t let him run you.”

Bear turned his gaze back to Cole.

“I ain’t coming with you,” Bear said.

Cole didn’t move. Nobody spoke. The light wind that had followed me out of the mountains drifted along the street, kicking up tiny swirls of dust and hay and dried manure. The force of his motionless silence was hard to explain. But I could see it pushing at Bear. The men on the boardwalk began to spread out a little. They were all hide skinners, probably come into town with Bear. Been sleeping on the ground with him, cutting buffalo with him. Eating bad food and drinking lousy whiskey with him. They couldn’t back away from him now. One of the men slid the hammer loop off his Colt. I took the eight-gauge from under my right leg. Cole saw me, I knew. Already, I could tell that he saw everything. If he thought I was with the skinners, the increase in odds didn’t appear to bother him. I had no money on this one. But I didn’t think Bear should gut a woman, whore or otherwise, and I didn’t think one man should go against seven.

“Marshal,” I said, “I’m backing you in this.”

I said it softly, but it was so still that it almost echoed. Cole didn’t stop looking at Bear, but he made a barely visible nod. Bear still watched Cole. The men on the boardwalk glanced at me when I spoke, and spread a little farther. I cocked both barrels on the eight-gauge and rested the butt against my right hip. Then I moved Sugar a little closer so that I was nearly beside Cole. Again, the silence arched over us, made more intense somehow by the sound of the easy wind.

Bear said, “Fuck you, Marshal,” and went for his gun.

I brought the shotgun to my shoulder. Cole seemed in no hurry. Carefully, he drew the Colt, thumbed back the hammer, aimed at the middle of Bear’s big body, and shot him in the center of the chest. He recocked the Colt as he turned a half-turn so that the big, bone-handled Colt was steady on Bear’s supporters. Bear sagged and fell over, his gun half out of the holster.

Sugar didn’t mind gunfire. Sudden movement scared him, but noise had no effect. He held rock-still where I had set him, so that both barrels of the shotgun were steady toward the men on the boardwalk.

“You men go about your business now,” Cole said.

Nobody did anything.

“I won’t tell you again,” Cole said.

At the far right edge of the group, the right shoulder of the man who’d loosened his Colt made a kind of involuntary twitch and then froze. Everything teetered. Then the man turned and walked away, and the rest of the group followed him. Cole carefully let the hammer down on his Colt. He opened the cylinder, extracted the spent shell, put in a fresh one from his belt, closed the cylinder, and put the Colt carefully back in its holster. Then he looked up at me and nodded.

“Come see me in my office when you can,” he said.

Then he turned and walked away without a glance at the corpse. I stayed there for a time, watching as some people came out into the street and looked at Bear and stood around, and finally a man in a white coat came along with a wagon, and four of us helped him put Bear in the back, and he drove off. I tied Sugar to the rail, took the shotgun with me, and went on in and had a couple of whiskeys in the Rattlesnake, and a plate of beans and bacon. Some people stared at me, but no one said anything and, feeling warmer inside, I went on down to the jail and sat in the front room where Cole kept his office, and we talked. He asked me my name and I told him.

“Everett Hitch,” he said.

Like he was tasting it.

He asked me had I done much gun work, and I said I had done some, but no law officering. And he asked me what I had done, and I told him.

“West Point,” Cole said—not impressed, just recording it, like he did, and filing it.

“You didn’t like soldier boyin’?” he said.

I told Cole that I liked some of it. I liked the men, and sometimes, on mounted patrol, I liked the space, and how far you could see, and the way it seemed like possibility was rolling out ahead of us. But most of the time, I said, it was sort of crampsome.

“Nothin’ can cramp you,” Cole said, “if you don’t let it.”

And I told him I thought that was right, which was why I quit soldiering and rode off to see what possibilities there might be. He nodded at that. I don’t know if it meant he understood, or if it meant he approved, or if he was registering again. And filing.

“You quick with a handgun?” Cole asked.

I said I could shoot, but what I was really good with was the eight-gauge. Cole smiled.

“If she could pick it up,” Cole said, “my Aunt Liza could be good with an eight-gauge.”

I agreed that it was hard to miss with an eight-gauge.

“You ever hear of me?” Cole said.

I said I had. Cole took out a bottle of pretty good whiskey and two glasses, and poured us a drink. And we drank that drink and a couple more.

“I need somebody to back me up,” Cole said. “You and the eight-gauge want the job?”

“Sure,” I said.

Which is how, fifteen years ago, I got to be a peace officer and Virgil Cole’s deputy. Which was why I was with him now, still carrying the eight-gauge, walking the horses down a long, shale-scattered slope toward Appaloosa.

2

They’re living off us like coyotes live off a buffalo carcass, you know?”

“Everything eats meat likes a dead buffalo,” Cole said.

We sat at a round table in the saloon at the Boston House Hotel in Appaloosa. Cole sat back, out of the light a little, his face shadowed.

“They buy supplies in Olson’s store and don’t pay for them. They take whatever women they feel like. They use horses from the livery and don’t bring them back. They eat a meal, drink a bottle of whiskey, whatever, and leave without paying.”

The speaker was a white-haired man with bright blue eyes. His name was Abner Raines.

“You in charge?” Cole said,

“Three of us,” Raines said, “Board of Aldermen.”

He nodded at the two men with him. “I own this place. Olson runs the store and the livery stable. Earl here owns a couple of saloons.”

Phil Olson was much younger than Raines, and portly, with smooth, pink skin and blond hair. Earl May was bald and heavyset and wore glasses.

“And we got no law officers,” Raines said. “Marshal’s dead with one of the deputies. The other ones run off.”

“These people cattlemen?” I said. “Don’t seem like good cattle country.”

“It ain’t,” Raines said. “Most of the money in Appaloosa comes from the copper mine.”

“So what do they do?” I said.

“Bragg’s got some water up around his place, but they ain’t raising many cows. Mostly they steal them. And pretty much everything else.”

“How many hands,” Cole said.

“With Bragg? Fifteen, maybe twenty.”

“Gun hands?”

“They all carry guns,” May said.

“They any good with them?” Cole said. “Anybody can carry them.”

“Good enough for us,” Raines said. “We’re all miners and shopkeepers.”

“And we’re not,” Cole said.

“That’s for certain sure,” Olson said. “I heard after you and Hitch came in and sat on Gin Springs one summer, babies could play in the streets.”

“That’s why we sent for you,” Raines said. “We’re ready to pay your price.”

Cole looked at me.

“You game?” he said.

I shrugged.

“It’s what we do,” I said.

A smile like the flash of a spark spread across Cole’s face.

“It is,” he said, “ain’t it.”

The smile went as fast as it had come, and Cole turned his somber, shadowy face to the three aldermen.

“Money’s all right,” Cole said.

“Then you’ll do it?”

“Sure.”

The dining room smelled of cooking and tobacco and the lamp oil that kept it bright. The room was nearly full of men. The sound of cutlery and men’s voices sounded civilized and normal.

“What do we have to do?” May asked.

“Tell him, Hitch.”

“Who makes the laws in this town?” I said.

“The laws?” Raines said. “I guess we do: me and Earl and, ah, Phil. There’s a town meeting twice a year. But between times, we do it.”

“Cole and me’ll do the gun work,” I said. “But we’re going to button the town up like a nun’s corset. And we need you to make laws, so we can enforce them.”

“We got laws,” Raines said.

“You’re gonna have more. We need a lot of laws to make it all legal.”

“Well, sure, I mean, you tell us what you need,” Raines said, “and if it seems reasonable, we’ll put them right in the bylaws.”

Cole said, “No.”

“No what?” Raines said.

“No,” Cole said. “You do what we say or we move on. You solve your problem some other way.”

“Christ,” May said. “That would mean you was running the town.”

“It would,” Cole said.

“We can’t have that,” May said.

Cole didn’t say anything.

“I mean, you’re asking us, so to speak,” Raines said, “to turn the town over to you.”

Cole didn’t say anything.

“Far as I can see,” I said, “you’re gonna turn it over anyway. Us or Bragg.”

“But what if you ask for laws that we think are wrong?” May said.

Cole was entirely still.

Then he said, “We’ll give you a list.”

“A list.”

“A list of rules,” Cole said. “You agree, we have a deal. You don’t, we ride on.”

They all thought about it. The door in the hotel lobby opened, and it stirred the air in the dining room. The lamp flames moved in the stir, making the shadows shift in the room. The door closed. The flames steadied. The shadows quieted.

“Sounds fair,” Raines said after a while, as if he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“We’ll bring you the list in the morning,” Cole said.

“I’ll be here,” Raines said.

3

We’d had a list of rules printed up five towns ago, and in the morning, Cole took them down to the hotel and gave them to Raines in his office. The laws were Draconian. The paper had a lot of aforesaids and wherebys in it, but, if you prune the thing to its essence, what it said was that what Cole said was law. Raines frowned as he read it and moistened his lips. Then he read it again. He looked at Cole. Then he looked at the paper again. The door of Raines’s office opened suddenly and a round-faced little waitress came in. Her face was flushed.

“Mr. Raines,” she said.

Her voice sounded foreign. Swedish maybe. She seemed short of breath.

“Not now, Tilda,” Raines said.

“Trouble in the bar, Mr. Raines.”

“Can’t Willis handle it?”

“It’s Mr. Bragg’s men.”

“Jesus God,” Raines said.

He looked at us.

“Space for your signature down there at the bottom,” Cole said. “On the right.”

Raines looked at us and at the paper. Cole never moved.

“There’s four of them,” Tilda said. “They have guns.”

Raines’s mouth trembled very slightly, and I thought he was going to say something. But instead, he clamped his jaw, took out a pen, and signed the sheet. Cole picked it up, looked at the signature, waved it a minute to dry the ink, then folded it and put it inside his shirt. With no change of expression, he nodded toward the door and I went out. The bar was to the right of the lobby. You could enter it from the lobby, but most people went in through the street entrance on the opposite side. It was the kind of thing I’d learned to notice without even thinking about it. Always know where you are, Cole used to say.

I went straight through the lobby to the street, and turned right and walked to the corner and went in through the swinging mahogany doors of the saloon. The late-afternoon sun, slanting through the doorway, made the smoky air look sort of blue. I let the doors swing shut behind me and moved to the left of the door while my eyes adjusted.

The center of the room had cleared, tables had been pushed aside, and most of the people in the saloon were standing against the walls. Four men, all wearing guns, were drinking whiskey at the bar. Behind the bar, the strapping, red-faced bartender stood stiffly, not looking at anything. There was a big, brass spittoon in the center of the cleared space, and two of the men at the bar were trying to piss in it from that distance. Neither was having much success. Cole came into the saloon through the lobby door, and watched for a moment.

“Button them up,” he said in his light, clear voice.

One of the men faltered in his stream and looked at Cole.

“Who the fuck are you?” he said.

“Virgil Cole.”

“Virgil Cole? No shit? Hey, Chalk,” he said to his partner in piss. “Virgil Cole wants us to stop.”

Chalk turned toward Virgil, his equipment still fully exposed, like his partner’s.

“Step a little closer, Virgil Cole,” he said. “And I’ll piss in your pocket.”

Chalk was a skinny guy with a hard little potbelly that pushed out over his gun belt. He had a meager, shabby beard, and it looked, from where I stood, like he needed to trim his fingernails. His pal was tall and thick and had long hair like Bill Hickok, except Hickok’s was clean.

“I am the new city marshal,” Cole said. “Put it away or lose it.”

“Hey, Bronc,” Chalk said. “They got a new marshal.”

The other two men, who’d been leaning on the bar, straightened a little and moved slightly apart.

“Didn’t they have another marshal, ’while ago?” Bronc said.

“They did.”

“Keep using them fuckers up, don’t they?” Bronc said.

“Got no use for them anyway,” Chalk said.

Cole didn’t seem to mind the small talk. He seemed entirely relaxed, almost friendly, as he stood just inside the doorway from the lobby.

“Put them ugly little contraptions away,” he said. “I’m going to walk you down to the jail, and I don’t want to scare the horses.”

No one stirred in the room. It was like one of those high-plains days in the summer, when it’s hot and still and a storm is coming and you feel the tension of its coming long before it gets there. Both men buttoned up their pants. It’s easier to be dangerous with your breeding equipment stowed.

“You ain’t walking us nowhere, Virgil Cole,” Bronc said.

He was squat and muscular, wearing a little short-brimmed hat. His gun was butt-forward on the left side, almost in the middle. The walnut handle looked worn. Chalk stepped a little way from Bronc and loosened his shoulders. His Colt was in a low holster, tied to his thigh. It had a silvery finish with curlicue engravings. Chalk thought he was a fast-draw gunman.

“You pull on me, either one, and I’ll kill you both,” Cole said.

At the other end of the room, behind Cole, a thin man with no beard and limp, black hair took out a short revolver and held it on the tabletop.

Chalk and Bronc stared at Cole. Then Chalk laughed.

“Bullshit,” he said and dropped his hand.

Thoughtfully, Cole shot him before his hand ever touched the gun’s butt, and he was already beginning to fold as the man at the back table raised his gun. I shot him. Bronc had his gun just clear of the holster when Cole’s second shot hit him in the face and he fell backward against the bar and slid to the ground next to Chalk. The noise of the gunfire still rang in my ears. Cole was looking slowly around the room. No one moved. The fourth man held his hands high in the air; his face was pale, so the web of broken veins showed clear.

“I ain’t shootin’,” he said. “I ain’t shootin’.”

I walked over and took his gun out of its holster and handed it to the big, red-faced bartender.

“I warned them,” Cole said, and opened the cylinder on his Colt, replaced the two expended shells, closed the cylinder, and put the gun away. It was one of Cole’s rules: Reload as soon as the shooting is over. I put a fresh bullet in my own piece and put it back in its holster. Cole walked to each of the three down men and felt for a pulse. None had one.

4

Cole and I rode up north of town one morning to look at the wild horses in the hills, a little west of where Randall Bragg had his ranch. They were there for the same reason Bragg was, because of the water. We sat our animals on top of a low hill and watched the herd graze in the sun on the eastern flank of the next hill. Seven mares, two foals, and a gray leopard Appaloosa stallion that looked to be maybe sixteen hands. The stallion raised his head and stared at us. His nostrils were flared, trying to catch more scent. His tail was up. His skin twitched. He pranced a couple of steps toward us, putting himself between us and the mares. We didn’t move. The stallion arched his neck a little.

“They hate the geldings,” I said.

“Stallions don’t like much,” Cole said.

“They like mares,” I said.

The stallion went back to grazing, but always between us and the mares.

“Virgil,” I said. “I’m not minding it, but why are we up here, looking at these horses?”

“I like wild horses,” Cole said.

“Well, that’s nice, Virgil.”

Cole nodded. The horses moved across the hillside, grazing, their tails flicking occasionally to brush away a fly, the stallion now and then raising his head, sniffing the wind, looking at us. There was no breeze. Occasionally, one of the mares would snort and toss her head, and the stallion would look at her rigidly for a moment, until she went back to grazing.

“Easy life,” Cole said. “They get through here, there’s another hill.”

“Stallion looks a little tense,” I said.

“He’s watchful,” Cole said.

“Don’t you suppose he gets worn down,” I said, “all the time watchful? For wolves and coyotes and people and other stallions?”

“He’s free,” Cole said. “He’s alive. He does what he wants. He goes where he wants. He’s got what he wants. And all he got to do is fight for it.”

“Guess he’s won all the fights,” I said.

In a cluster of rocks on top of one of the hills west of us and the horses, several coyotes sat silently, watching the herd with yellow eyes.

“Foals better not stray,” I said to Cole.

“The stud knows about them,” Cole said. “See how he looks over there. Foals are all right long as they stay with the herd.”

The sun was quite high now. Maybe eleven in the morning. Our own horses stood silently, heads dropped, waiting.

“Virgil,” I said after a time, “these are very nice horses, but shouldn’t somebody be upholding the law in Appaloosa?”

Cole nodded, but he didn’t say anything. And he didn’t move. To the east of us, a thin stream of dark smoke moved along the horizon. The stallion spotted it. He straightened, staring, his ears forward, his tail arched. Small in the distance, barely significant, more than a mile away, a locomotive appeared from behind the hill, trailing five cars. The stallion stared. I could see his skin twitch. The train moved along the plain, toward Appaloosa. Then the stallion wheeled toward the herd and nipped at one of the mares and the herd was in motion, the stallion behind them, herding them, the foals going flat out, all legs and angles but keeping up.

We watched as they disappeared west over the hill, away from the train. And Cole stared a long time after them before he turned his horse east toward Appaloosa.

5

We had a jail, but when there was nobody in it, Cole liked to sit in the saloon and watch what was going on. He liked to nurse a glass of whiskey while he watched, and so did I. We’d sit together most of the time. But if there might be trouble, we sat on opposite sides of the room. It was Cole who decided. It was one of his rules. Today we were on opposite sides of the room. While we were sitting and nursing, inside on a hot, bright morning, Randall Bragg came to see us. He walked into the saloon with half a dozen men, and paused inside the door and looked around while he waited for his eyes to adjust. Then he nodded his men toward the bar, and walked over to where Cole was sitting. His spurs jangled loudly in the suddenly quiet saloon.

“My name’s Randall Bragg,” he said.

“Virgil Cole.”

“I know who you are,” Bragg said. “We need to talk.”

Cole nodded toward a chair. Along the bar, Bragg’s men had spread out, watching Cole. Bragg sat down.

“I see the big fella across the room with a shotgun,” Bragg said.

“Eight-gauge,” Cole said.

“Good idea, spreading out like that.”

“It is,” Cole said.

Bragg gestured toward the bar, and one of Bragg’s men brought him a bottle of whiskey and a glass. Bragg poured himself a shot and looked at it, like he was thinking about it. Then he drank the shot down and poured himself another one.

“You a drinking man?” he said to Cole.

“Not so much,” Cole said.

“And Mr. Eight-gauge over there?”

“Everett,” Cole said. “Everett Hitch.”

Without looking at me, Bragg said, “You a drinking man, Everett?”

“Not so much,” I said.

“Hard to like a man that don’t drink a little,” Bragg said.

His high, black hat was set square on his head. Even sitting, you could see that he was tall, and the hat made him look taller. He had on a starchy white shirt and black pants with a fine chalk stripe tucked into hand-tooled black boots. His spurs were silver. His gun belt was studded with silver conchos, and in his holster was a Colt with white pearl grips. Cole smiled.

“But not impossible,” Cole said.

“Well,” Bragg said, “we’ll see.”

He drank most of his second drink and wiped the corners of his mouth with his thumb and forefinger, pinching his lower lip in the process.

“You shot three of my hands,” Bragg said.

He wasn’t looking at Cole when he said it. He was carefully pouring more whiskey into his near-empty glass.

“Matter of fact,” Cole said, “I only shot two. Hitch shot the other one.”

I smiled and shrugged.

“Point is,” Bragg said, “I can’t keep having my hands come in here and you boys shooting them.”

“I can see how you’d feel that way,” Cole said.

“So we need to make an arrangement,” Bragg said.

“We do.”

Bragg smiled slightly and nodded. Everyone was looking at Cole and Bragg. While they were looking, I picked my shotgun up off the floor under my table and held it in my lap just below the tabletop.

“You have a suggestion, Marshal?”

“There’s a set of town bylaws posted right outside the door of this here very saloon,” Cole said. “Your boys do like the bylaws say, and everything will be muy bueno.”

Bragg’s face pinched a little.

“And if they don’t?” he said.

“Then I arrest them.”

“And if they don’t go along?”

“I shoot them.”

Cole smiled sort of happily at Bragg. He nodded toward me.

“Or Everett does.”

I had moved the shotgun onto the tabletop. As Bragg looked over at me, I cocked it.

“That’s your idea of an arrangement?” Bragg said after a moment.

“The law is all the arrangement there is,” Cole said.

“Your law,” Bragg said.

“Same thing,” Cole said.

The men along the bar were looking at Bragg and looking at the shotgun. Bragg sat silently for a moment, looking at Cole. Deep in thought, maybe.

Then he said, “This town belongs to me. I was here first.”

“Can’t file no claim on a town, Bragg.”

“I was here first.”

Cole didn’t say anything. He sat perfectly still with his hands relaxed on the top of the table.

Leaning forward toward him, Bragg said, “I got near thirty hands, Cole.”

“So far,” Cole said.

“You proposin’ to kill us all?”

“That’d be up to you boys,” Cole said.

“Maybe you ain’t good enough,” Bragg said.

I could see it in the way he sat, in the way he held his head and hands. He was trying to decide. Could he beat Cole? Should he try?

“Don’t be so sure you’re quicker than me,” Bragg said.

He was trying to talk himself into it.

“So far I been quick enough,” Cole said.

Bragg was silent for a moment. Then I could see him give up. He stood carefully with his hands apart and flat on the tabletop.

“This ain’t the time,” he said.

“Um-hm.”

“Don’t mean there won’t be a time,” Bragg said.

“I see you are heeled and your boys there are heeled. I know you haven’t had a chance to read the bylaws yet, so I’m gonna let it pass. But the bylaws say that it’s illegal to carry guns inside town limits, so next time I’ll have to disarm you and lock you up for a bit.”

Bragg’s body stiffened. His shoulders seemed to hunch. He opened his mouth and closed it and stood for another moment. Then he turned without a word and walked out of the saloon. His ranch hands straggled after him.

6

The woman got off the train in the morning carrying a big carpetbag, and walked slowly up the main street and into Café Paris, where Cole and I were having breakfast. I’d never been to Paris, but I’d read about it, and I was pretty sure there were no cafés there like this one. One of the Chinamen who cooked there kept some chickens, so now and then they had some eggs on the menu. But today, like a lot of days, we were eating pinto beans and fried salt pork along with coffee and some sourdough biscuits. The biscuits were pretty tasty. The woman sat at a table near us and looked at the menu for a long time and finally ordered coffee and a biscuit.

“No sell,” the Chinaboy said.

“But they’re on the menu,” she said.

“With breakfast.”

“But all I want is a biscuit.”

“No sell.”

Cole was wiping his plate with half a biscuit.

Without looking up, he said, “Chin, sell her a biscuit.”

The Chinaboy looked at Cole for a moment, outraged at the impropriety of it.

“Boss say . . .”

“Sell her a biscuit,” Cole said again and looked up from his plate. The Chinaboy looked quickly away from Cole and went and brought the woman coffee and two biscuits on a plate. He added a pitcher of sorghum, to show that there was no ill will. The woman gave him twenty-five cents and looked across at Cole.

“Thank you,” she said.

Cole smiled at her.

“It was my pleasure,” he said.

She was a little travel-worn, but still good-looking, with a strong young body that her dress didn’t hide. I could see her looking at the star on Cole’s chest.

“Are you the sheriff here?” she said.

“City marshal,” Cole said. “Virgil Cole. Big blond fella here is my deputy, Everett Hitch.”

“How do you do,” she said. “Could you direct me to a clean, inexpensive hotel?”

“We only got one,” Cole said.

“Is it expensive?”

“Probably more than it should be, there being no other choices.”

“I only have a dollar,” she said.

Cole nodded.

“What’s your name?” he said.

“Mrs. French,” she said. “Allison French.”

“You have a husband, Mrs. French.”

“He died.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Cole said. “You do any kind of work.”

“I play the organ,” she said. “And the piano.”

“You’re not a whore.”

“Don’t be crude,” she said. “No, I am not what you said.”

“No need fluffing your feathers about it,” Cole said. “Don’t see a lot of single women here that ain’t whores.”

“Well, I’m one.”

“Sprightly thing,” Cole said to me.

I nodded. Cole was always improving himself, reading books, making lists of words, which he usually misused slightly.

“Will the hotel let me stay for a dollar?” Mrs. French said.

Cole grinned.

“For as long as you’d like, Mrs. French.”

She frowned.

“How can that be?” she said.

“Might hire you to play the piano, too,” Cole said. “You think so, Everett?”

“I do,” I said.

“When you finish your breakfast,” Cole said, “Everett here will escort you down and help you get settled.”

“Be my pleasure,” I said.

She finished her biscuit and slipped the other one into her carpetbag. Then she smiled and stood.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Cole, for your kindness.”

“No trouble at all, Mrs. French,” he said. “Everett, you will speak with Mr. Raines.”

“I will.”

Cole stood. Like all his movements, he seemed to go from sitting to standing without effort.

“Good,” Cole said. “I hope to see you again, Mrs. French.”

“Yes, Mr. Cole, that would be nice.”

I picked up her carpetbag, and we walked down Main Street toward the hotel.

“You have freckles,” Mrs. French said. “Sandy hair and freckles.”

“Yes,” I said.

“I think that’s so cute in a man.”

“Me, too,” I said.

I was more aware than I had been of the way her body moved under her skirts.

“How can Mr. Cole be so sure that they will give me a room,” she said as we walked along the plank sidewalk.

I smiled. “Because I’m going to tell the man who owns the place that Mr. Cole wants them to.”

“Does Mr. Cole always get what he wants?” she said.

“Pretty much,” I said.

7

Mrs. French played the piano very badly, but she played loud, and she was pretty and she smiled nice and wore dresses with a low neck and generated considerable heat and mostly nobody noticed. During her break she came over and sat at a table with me. I was drinking coffee.

I said, “Care for a drink, Mrs. French?”

“No, but I’ll have some coffee with you,” she said. “And, please, call me Allie.”

I nodded at Tilda and she came over with coffee for Allie, and a second cup for me.

“Have you known Mr. Cole for long, Mr. Hitch?”

“Call me Everett, and I’m pretty sure you should call Mr. Cole Virgil.”

She smiled and looked down. The gesture looked practiced. Probably was.

“Have you known Virgil long, Everett?” she said.

“Yes.”

“And have you and he always been marshals here?”

“No. We just arrived couple weeks ago,” I said.

“Where were you before?”

“We been all over out here,” I said. “Virgil gets hired to settle things down in towns that need settling, and I go with him, and after the town gets settled, then we move on and find another town that needs settling.”

“Are you what they call ‘town tamers’?” she said.

“If you read those dime novels.”

“What do you call yourselves?” she said.

“Don’t know as we ever have,” I said.

“Do you kill people?”

“Now and then,” I said.

“Many?”

Her eyes were up now and on me. It was always about the killing. I’d met a lot of women who were fascinated with the killing. They were horrified, too, but it was more than that.

“A few,” I said.

“And Virgil?”

“More than a few,” I said.

“What’s it like?”

“It’s like driving a nail,” I said.

“Like what?”

“Driving a nail, splitting firewood. It’s work. It’s quick.”

“No more than that?”

“Not after you’ve done it a couple times.”

“Do you like it?”

“Well, it’s kind of clean and complete,” I said. “You got him, he didn’t get you.”

“But, if you feel that way,” she was frowning, thinking about it, interested, “what’s to prevent you from just killing anyone you feel like?”

“The law,” I said. “Virgil always says, people obey the law, you don’t have a reason to kill them.”

“Any law?”

“Don’t get to complicating it,” I said.

“You know which law,” she said.

“We do.”

I liked how she was interested. How she hadn’t decided what she thought before we started talking.

“How about the other people, the people you shoot?”

“Virgil always posts the laws,” I said. “In any town we work.”

She drank her coffee, looking at me while she did.

“What if they kill you?”

“Hard thing to plan for,” I said.

“Do you think about it?”

“Try not to,” I said.

Neither of us said anything for a while. Tilda came over and poured us more coffee.

“I guess I disapprove,” Allie said.

I nodded.

“But I know I don’t know enough about it, really,” she said. “You seem like a nice man, and so does Mr. Cole, Virgil.”

“I’m pretty nice,” I said. “I’m not so sure ’bout Virgil.”

“Are either of you married?”

“I’m not,” I said.

“And, Mr. . . . Virgil?”

“Not that I know about.”

“But you’re his closest friend—wouldn’t you know?”

“Virgil don’t tell you much,” I said.

“Really? He seemed so talkative in the restaurant,” Allie said.

“Oh, he’s talkative. Talks a lot of the time. He just don’t tell you much.”

“Well,” she said. “I’m going to ask him.”

8

Appaloosa sat in a short valley. There were hills east and west, allowing the wind to funnel in from the north and rip through the town, swirling dust as high as the rooftops. From where Cole and I sat, drinking coffee on the front porch of the jail on a nice Sunday morning, we could see the valley rim to the west. Along the rim, two riders moved in slow silhouette.

“So,” Cole said, “you been talking with Mrs. French.”

“I have, Virgil.”

The riders on the rim paused and sat motionless, facing the town. It was a little far to see exactly who they were.

“What’s she like to talk about?” Cole said.

“She was asking me a lot about you, Virgil.”

“She was. Was she asking in a liking way?”

“Wanted to know if you were married,” I said.

On the rim of the western slope, one of the horses nosed the flank of the other.

“She did, did she. By God. What’d you tell her.”

“Said I didn’t know.”

“Well, hell, Everett,” Cole said. “You see a wife around here?”

“I don’t.”

“Then why the hell you tell her you didn’t know.”

“Might have a wife in Silver City,” I said. “Or Nogales, or Bisbee.”

“Had an Apache woman, lived with me once. Kinda like a wife, I guess. But there was never any words spoke over us or anything, and one day when I come home, she was gone.”

“Where?”

“Don’t know.”

“You ever look for her?”

“I was going to,” Cole said. “But then I got a job up in Durango, and I went up there. Never did know where she went. Back to the tribe, is most probable.”

The horsemen on the hill pulled their horses around and started off again, south, at a slow walk. One of them had rolled a cigarette, and even though they were a piece off, I could smell the tobacco.

“Well, Allie says she’s going to ask you, so you might want to have an answer ready.”

He looked at me and frowned a little.

“She’s going to ask me if I been married?”

“I think she’s more interested in if you are presently married.”

“Hell, no, I’m not presently married.”

“She’ll be pleased,” I said.

Cole nodded. He was looking at the horsemen on the rim.

“Been there since dawn,” Cole said.

“The riders?”

“Yep. Riding back and forth, looking at the town. There’s two on the hill east of us.”

“Whaddya think?” I said.

“I think Mrs. French might become exclusively interesting,” Cole said.

“Whaddya think about the men in the hills?” I said.

“I think you and me might want to ride up and see what they’re doing up there.”

“Can I finish my coffee first?”

“You surely may,” Cole said.

9

Cole and I fell in on each side of one of the ridge riders. The sun was behind us and made our three shadows stretch out long on the shaley trail.

“Howdy,” Cole said to the rider.

Without looking at either of us, the rider said, “The town don’t come out this far, Marshal.”

“By God,” Cole said, “I believe you’re right. I believe it ends just down there at the foot of the hill where that little wash runs.”

“So up here,” the rider said, “you’re just another cowboy with a gun.”

“You think that’s right, Everett,” Cole said.

“I think no matter where you are, Cole, that you ain’t just another cowboy with a gun.”

“That’d be my thought,” Cole said. “So what are you doing riding round and round up here.”

“We ain’t doing nothing wrong,” the rider said. “And you ain’t got no jurdiction up here.”

“ ‘Jurdiction’?” Cole said and looked at me.

“I believe he means jurisdiction,” I said.

“I believe he does. And he’s, by God, right about it.”

Cole smiled at the rider.

“So what are you doing riding round and round up here?”

The rider smirked a little.

“Just keepin’ an eye on things.”

“On the town?” Cole said.

“Yeah.”

“For who?”

The rider shrugged. With an easy movement, Cole pulled the big Colt from its holster and hit the rider in the face with it. It knocked the rider out of his saddle, and by the time he hit the ground, the gun was back in its holster and Cole was leaning easily with his forearms resting on the horn of his saddle.

“You fucking broke my teeth,” the rider said, his hands to his face.

“Colt makes a heavy firearm,” Cole said. “That’s a fact. Who you riding for?”

The rider’s nose was bleeding, and there was blood on his mouth.

“Bragg,” he said.

“And why’s he want you riding round and round?”

“I don’t know. He just told me to do it. Mr. Bragg don’t tell you why.”

“Think Bragg’s attempting to frighten us, Everett?” Cole said.

“Be my guess,” I said.

“What’s your name?” Cole said to the rider.

“Dean.”

“Well, Dean, you may as well head back to Mr. Bragg and report that we ain’t too frightened.”

“Mr. Bragg ain’t gonna like it that you hit me,” Dean said.

“I don’t guess that you liked it all that much, yourself, Dean,” Cole said.

“That’s right.”

“So you and Mr. Bragg can, ah, co- . . . Everett, what word am I trying for?”

“Commiserate,” I said.

“Commiserate,” Cole said. “That’s the word. You and Bragg can commiserate each other.”

Riding downhill toward town, I said to Cole, “That fella wasn’t actually doing nothing illegal.”

“He was annoying the hell out me,” Cole said.

“That’s not illegal, Virgil.”

“No,” Cole said. “It’s personal.”

10

When it was possible, Cole would sit with his one glass of whiskey and nurse it and watch Mrs. French play the piano. She played with both hands, raising them high and bringing them down firmly with no difference that I could hear between the two. When she was through playing, she would come and sit with him. Cole wasn’t expecting trouble today. I sat with them, too.

“So, tell me, Mr. Cole,” she said. “How long you been killing people for a living.”

“Call me Virgil,” he said.

He always said that and, to tease him, she always started out calling him Mr. Cole.

“Of course, Virgil. How long?”

“I don’t kill people for a living,” Virgil said. “I enforce the law. Killing’s sometimes a sorta side thing of that. . . . That ain’t what I want to say. What am I aiming at, Everett?”

“By-product,” I said.

“Killing’s sometimes a by-product,” Cole said.

“And you’ve never killed anybody except as a lawman?”

“Never,” Cole said. “You gonna be killing people, you got to do it by the rules. Every man has his chance to surrender peaceable.”

“Is he telling me the truth, Everett?”

“Virgil always tells the truth,” I said.

“Nobody always tells the truth,” she said.

“Why not?” Cole said.

“Well,” Mrs. French said, “they, well, for heaven’s sake, Virgil, they just don’t.”

“Always thought the truth was simpler. Tell a man what you mean.”

“And a woman?” she said.

“A woman?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Allie, I don’t really remember telling a woman anything.”

“Virgil Cole,” she said. “Are you telling me you’ve never had a woman?”

Cole’s face got a little red.

“Well, hell, Allie, I don’t think that’s a thing I should be discussing with you.”

“But have you?” Allie said.

“Well, a’ course,” he said. “Assuredly, I have.”

“And did you never tell them anything?”

“Mostly I just did what we were there to do,” Virgil said.

His face was definitely red. She smiled at him, her head half turned away, looking at him sideways.

“And what was that?” she said.

It was like watching a cat play with prey.

There was a moment when nothing happened. Then Virgil’s face closed. It was over. He wasn’t prey anymore. She had inched across the line. It wasn’t smart to cross a line on Virgil. The problem was, it was never clear where the line was. Men had died making that mistake.

“We won’t talk about this anymore,” he said.

He spoke softly, and his expression didn’t change. But the redness left his face and something happened in his voice and in his eyes. It scared her.

“Virgil,” she said. “I was just funning you.”

“I didn’t enjoy it,” he said.

She sat frozen for a moment, then turned toward me.

“Everett,” she said. “You ever lie?”

Her voice sounded stretched.

“All the time, Allie,” I said. “All the time.”

“Well,” she said. “Then I understand you.”

Virgil was quiet. There was no color in his face. Across the room, two men at the bar were in a contest to see who could drink a beer faster. I knew one of them, a pale man with soft hands who worked in a feed store. The other one was a teamster with a teamster’s build: big belly from sitting all day on a wagon seat, and big muscles in his arms and shoulders from sawing on the reins of a six-mule rig over bad roads. The feed-store clerk was winning.

“You scrawny little bastard,” the teamster said in a loud voice. “Where you putting it all? You ain’t even pissed yet.”

The feed clerk laughed.

“Can’t always tell somethin’,” the clerk said, “just by looking.”

“Goddamn,” the teamster said in his big voice. “Two more, Willis. No fucking feed-store clerk is gonna back me down.”

Cole turned his head to look at them.

McDonough drew two glasses of beer. The men faced each other and each put a hand on his beer glass.

“Say when, Willis.”

“Now,” McDonough said, and the two men drank.

The feed clerk finished first.

“Shit!” the teamster said. “Shit!”

Cole stood suddenly and walked to the bar.

“Shut up,” he said to the teamster.

The teamster looked startled.

“What’s that, Marshal?”

“Shut your mouth and get out of here.”

“I ain’t done nothing.” he said. “Hell, Marshal, we’re just drinking beer.”

Cole kicked him in the groin, and the teamster grunted and doubled over. The feed clerk ducked away as Cole hit the man. Cole was only middle-sized, and the teamster was big, but it was a slaughter. Cole hit him with both fists, one fist, then the other. He caught hold of the teamster’s hair and slammed his face against the bar, and pulled it up and slammed it down again.

“Virgil,” I said.

The teamster was defenseless. Cole held him propped against the bar with his left shoulder while he hit him methodically with his right fist. Allie was watching. She seemed interested. I stepped over to them. The teamster’s head lolled back. I could see that his eyes had rolled back. Blood and spittle trickled from his slack mouth. I got my arms around Cole’s waist and picked him up off the ground and walked backward with him. He was still pumping his fist.

“Virgil,” I said. “Virgil.”

He didn’t fight me. He seemed unaware of me, as if his focus on the teamster was so enveloping that nothing else was real.

“Virgil,” I said.

He stopped moving his fist and held it, still cocked but still. I held on to him, listening to his breath snarl in and out of him. It felt as if there were something popping inside him, at his center.

“Virgil.”

His breath slowed. The popping eased.

“You can let go,” he said to me.

I relaxed a little but kept my arms around his waist.

“You can let go,” Virgil said.

I let go. He stood silently, his fist still cocked. Without Cole’s shoulder to hold him, the teamster had sagged to the floor, his head twisted against the foot rail of the bar, his face covered with blood. Cole gazed at him steadily. I stood waiting. Willis McDonough had backed away down the bar and was polishing glasses at the far end. The feed clerk had disappeared. Everyone else in the room was motionless and silent. The only sound was Cole’s breathing. Then I heard something else. It wasn’t just Cole’s breathing. Behind me. It was Allison French. She was breathing hard, too. We all held that way for a time that was probably much shorter then it seemed. Cole’s breathing slowed. He still stared at the teamster.

“Loudmouthed bastard,” he said and walked out of the bar.

The room stayed silent. I went back and sat down at the table with Allison. Her face was flushed, but her breathing, too, had slowed.

“My God,” she said.

“Virgil gets fractious when he’s annoyed,” I said.

“But he let you pull him away.”

“Part of my duties.”

“He’ll let you do that?”

“He wants me to,” I said.

“They didn’t do anything,” Allison said. “They were just drinking beer and having a good time. Why did he get so mad at the fat man?”

“He was mad at you,” I said.

11

I was keeping company with a clean, dark-haired young whore named Katie Goode, who was a quarter Kiowa, a quarter Mex, and half some sort of travelin’ Yankee. She and two other girls had a small house at the north end of town where they lived and conducted business. Katie had just finished conducting it with me, and we were lying in her bed in the back room.

“I heard the marshal almost killed Tub Gillis yesterday,” Katie said.

“Hit him a lot,” I said.

“I heard he done it for no reason,” Katie said.

“He had his reasons,” I said.

“I heard Tub wasn’t doin’ nothin’ but drinking some beer with Bertie Frye.”

“Virgil was annoyed,” I said.

“At Tub?”

“Mrs. French was raggin’ him a little,” I said.

“Her,” Katie said.

“Her?”

“You heard me. You think she’s such a sweet thing,” Katie said. “All you men. Girls know better. She should move up to the north end with the rest of us.”

“You think she’s a whore?”

“She’s wiggling her sweet ass for money just like the rest of us.”

“Except you,” I said. “With me.”

“Of course, Everett.”

“How do you know about Mrs. French?”

“I go in there. She sees me, she looks like she’s looking at a bug. But I see the way she is. She’s looking to get those hooks of hers into some man. Might be Marshal Cole.”

“He’s taken with her,” I said.

“How about you, Everett? Are you taken with her?”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” I said.

“Not a good idea what?”

“To be taken with her,” I said.

“ ’Cause of Marshal Cole?”

“Nope.”

“So you don’t think she’s such a prize cow, either, do you,” Katie said.

“I don’t know about her,” I said. “But I wish Virgil weren’t quite so taken up with her. “

“She have a husband?”

“She says so. Says he died.”

“Probably fucked him to death, be my guess,” Katie said.

“Not a bad way to go,” I said.

“You like the way she plays the piano?”

“No.”

“Me neither.”

“I don’t want you sayin’ nothing to Virgil about this,” I said.

“I don’t talk to him. I’m scared of him.”

“Yes,” I said. “Virgil can be a touch intimidatin’. And I don’t think he’s had as much experience with women as I have. But he’s got the right to fall for any woman he wants.”

“You got a lot of experience with women, Everett?”

“From Fort Worth to Cheyenne,” I said. “I got more notches on my pecker than a handsaw.”

“Well, you learned one thing good,” Katie said.

“I hope so.”

“You can do it again, for free,” Katie said, “if you want to.”

“I believe I do,” I said.

“Then go right ahead, Everett.”

“I believe I will.”

12

The teamster had a room at a place on Front Street, behind the livery. He was in his drawers when I went in, lying on an unmade bed against the wall. The room was hot. There was some air coming through the open window, but the air was hot, too. His face was badly swollen. One eye was shut up tight. The bruising had begun to darken all over him. When I came in, he sat up stiffly on the bed. His torso was bruised. I put a bottle of whiskey on the table in front of the window.

“Somethin’ to sip on,” I said. “Kill the pain.”

“Whatcha want?” he said.

His voice was strained through his swollen mouth. It was hard for him to speak. The one eye he could see out of looked frightened. It’s easy to be frightened when you’re hurt.

“Just want to see how you’re holdin’ up,” I said. “Bring you the bottle.”

The teamster opened the bottle and drank from the neck. He flinched when the whiskey went in. His mouth was probably cut up inside. And he shuddered when he swallowed. But as soon as he got the swallow down, he took another drink.

“How come he done that?” he said.

“Virgil was mad,” I said. “You was there.”

“I wasn’t doing nothin’.”

“Doctor seen you?” I said.

“Says my nose is broke.”

“Pack it with lint?”

“Ya. How come the marshal done that?”

“No accountin’ for things, sometimes,” I said. “Virgil says to tell you he’s very sorry ’bout it. Asked me to give you some money, pay the doctor, maybe buy some more whiskey.”

I put some money on the table next to the bottle. The teamster squinted at it.

“He shouldn’t a done that,” the teamster mumbled. “He gimme no warning.”

“Coulda been worse. Coulda shot you.”

“He shouldn’t a.”

“He knows that,” I said. “Why he sent me over.”

“Why didn’ he come?”

“Virgil don’t do things like that,” I said.

“He don’?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“He’s Virgil Cole,” I said.

The teamster nodded, and it hurt, and he stopped and took another pull on the bottle.

“Whiskey might help,” he said. “Can you get me ’nother bottle?”

“I will,” I said. “You need any food?”

“Jesus, no,” the teamster said.

“Anything else?”

“No. Yes. Whiskey.”

He drank some more.

“Help?” I said.

“Maybe,” he said. “Maybe help.”

“I’ll go get you another bottle,” I said. “And I’ll stop now and then, see how you are.”

“Thanks.”

“You rest up. When you can eat, I’ll bring you something.”

“Thanks.”

“Marshal and me are both real sorry,” I said, “that this happened.”

“Me, too,” the teamster said.

13

I was in the marshal’s office on First Street when Phil Olson came in. It was a hot day, and Olson’s pink face was damp.

“Cole around?” he said.

“Walkin’ the town,” I said.

“We need to talk.”

“Talk to me,” I said.

“Really should be him,” Olson said. “It’s about that teamster he busted up.”

“Might be better you talked with me about that,” I said. “Virgil can get grouchy sometimes when he done something he wishes he hadn’t.”

“You think he wishes he hadn’t?”

“He does,” I said.

“What happened?” Olson said.

“Virgil was kind of riled,” I said. “Teamster was a handy target.”

“He wasn’t even riled at Mr. Gillis?”

“That his name?”

“Yes. His employer came and spoke to me about it.”

“I been to visit him.” I said.

“Mr. Gillis?”

“Yes.”

“How is he?”

“Lotta swelling,” I said. “He’ll recover.”

“My God. Is he going to sue us?”

“Us?”

“The town. Mr. Cole is a town employee. Mr. Gillis’s employer said he was going to advise him to sue the town.”

“I’m not so sure he can do that,” I said. “When Judge Callison comes around, you oughta ask him.”

“Well, whether he can or not,” Olson said, “we can’t have our law officers beating people half to death for no good reason.”

I leaned back in my chair and shifted my hips a little so my gun wouldn’t dig into my side, and put my feet up on the desk and looked up at the tan-painted pressed-tin ceiling for a time without saying anything while I collected my thoughts.

“Thing is,” I said, “you got to see Virgil from all sides, so to speak. Takes a certain kind of man to be Virgil Cole. You hire him to do your gun work for you because you ain’t that kind of man. No need feelin’ bad about it. Most people ain’t that kind of man. But Virgil is, and what makes him that kind of man can’t always just be lit up and blowed out like a candle.”

“What he did was crazy,” Olson said.

“Virgil is crazy. You think a man ain’t crazy will make his living as a gun hand? You ever been in a gunfight?”

Olson didn’t say anything.

“You ever?” I said again.

“No.”

“Gun’s right there looking at you, hammer’s back. You see the snouts of the bullets peeking out of the cylinder like reptiles in a hole. Most people can’t stand up to that. Most people start to feel their intestines loosen. Virgil don’t. Virgil been doing that for years, and he ain’t never backed down, and he ain’t never run, and he ain’t never lost,” I said. “Because he’s a little crazy. And crazy is what it takes.”

“Don’t give him the right to go around busting up innocent people,” Olson said.

“No,” I said. “It don’t. And mostly, innocent people don’t get busted up. And if they do, every once in a while, it’s because of who Virgil Cole is, and what he is, and you hired him to be Virgil Cole. You hired the craziness.”

Olson was silent for a time, thinking about what I said. I kept looking at the tin ceiling.

“You’re not crazy,” Olson said finally.

“Maybe, maybe not,” I said. “But whatever I am, I ain’t Virgil Cole.”

“But you been working with him for years. I saw you shoot that man, Bragg’s man, in the bar.”

“I ain’t Virgil,” I said. “I’m his helper.”

“And that makes a difference?” Olson said.

“All the difference,” I said.

“But,” Olson said. “Cole works for us. I feel we have the right to tell him when he’s done something wrong.”

“You got the right,” I said.

“But you think we shouldn’t.”

“I think you shouldn’t.”

“What would happen?” Olson said.

He wasn’t combative. He seemed more curious than anything.

“Make Virgil peevish,” I said.

“What would he do.”

“Hard to be sure,” I said. “But making Virgil peevish is never good.”

“But I can talk to you about it.”

“I tole you. I ain’t Virgil.”

“You’re his helper.”

“I am.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Olson said.

“No,” I said. “I’m not sure you do, either.”

14

Since Virgil had taken up with Allie French, they liked to sleep in. And I usually had breakfast alone at Café Paris, or, if I wanted something better than fried salt pork and refried pinto beans, at the Boston House. I was at the Boston House, smoking a cigar and drinking coffee after breakfast, when Allie and Virgil came down the hotel stairs and into the dining room. Allie came over and gave me a kiss on the top of my head and sat down at the table. Virgil sat beside her.

“Morning,” he said.

I said good morning. Tilda came over and poured coffee. They consulted on the menu and decided on pancakes.

“I went over and seen that teamster,” I said to Virgil.

“He all right?” Virgil said.

“He will be, soon’s the swelling goes down.”

“Good.”

That was as close as Virgil could come to admitting anything about his assault on Mr. Gillis. I knew it, and knew it was heartfelt.

“He might not be all right if Everett hadn’t pulled you off him,” Allie said.

“I know,” Virgil said.

Which was as close as he was ever going to get to admitting that he was glad I’d done it.

“I gave him some money,” I said. “Help him out while he can’t work.”

Virgil nodded. It would never occur to him that he should reimburse me, and it would never occur to me that I should ask. It was part of being Virgil’s helper. Allie was watching both of us. She took a delicate sip of her coffee and made a delicate shudder to show us that she was a lady and not made for strong brew.

“I swear,” she said. “Sometimes I sit here and watch you two grunt at each other, and have the feeling that there’s a whole conversation going on that I don’t even hear.”

I grinned at her.

“No,” I said. “We’re just grunting, Allie.”

“Well,” she said, “whatever it is, I just always feel left out.”

“For God’s sake, Allie,” Cole said. “We ain’t talking about nothing. We don’t have that much to talk about.”

A tall cowboy with a big hat came into the dining room and waited for his eyes to adjust, and looked around the room. He saw us and studied us for a minute. I saw Cole shift a little in his chair so that his gun hand was loose and free.

“You know him,” Cole said.

“No.”

“Know who?” Allie said.

“He heeled?” Cole said.

“Right-hand pants pocket,” I said.

“Are you talking about that tall man?” Allie said.

Allie was on my right. I hitched my chair a little away from her, so that my right hand was free. Virgil stood and turned so he was in front of Allie, between her and the tall cowboy. The cowboy came toward us.

“You the marshal?” he said.

“Virgil Cole.”

“Name’s Whitfield,” he said. “I need to talk.”

“That’ll be fine,” Virgil said, “but I need to take that iron you got in your pocket.”

“You want my gun?”

“Just while you’re in town,” Virgil said. “ ’Gainst the law in town.”

Whitfield reached to his right-hand pocket.

“Very slow,” I said.

“This your deputy?” Whitfield said.

“Everett Hitch,” Cole said. “Hold it by the barrel.”

Whitfield handed it butt-first to Cole. It was a pocket gun, hammerless and nickel-plated. It looked like a .32.

“What’s this for?” Cole said, “shooting women?”

“It’ll keep somebody off ya,” Whitfield said. “If they’re close.”

Cole put the gun on the table next to me. Allie sat very still, watching everything that happened. She seemed to like it.

“Have a seat,” Cole said. “Maybe some coffee?”

“Coffee be good,” Whitfield said.

Whitfield took his hat off and put it on the table. He looked at Allie.

“This the missus?” he said.

Cole’s face colored a little.

“No,” Cole said. “This is Mrs. French.”

The cowboy said, “Pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Allie said. “I’m sure.”

Tilda brought some more coffee. Nobody said anything. Allie waited, interested. Whitfield was silent. Finally, Cole said, “Allie, I got to talk to this fella alone.”

“Oh? Well, certainly, Virgil. I’ve got to do my piano exercises anyway.”

She stood.

“Nice meeting you,” she said to Whitfield.

“My pleasure, ma’am,” Whitfield said.

Allie walked off toward the piano beyond the bar, and sat at it. She opened the cover and began to play some sort of musical exercises that didn’t sound much different than when she really played.

“I used to be a deputy here,” Whitfield said.

Cole was quiet.

“Worked with Jack Bell.”

Cole nodded.

“I knew Jack,” Cole said.

“Went up to Bragg’s place with him one day to arrest coupl’a Bragg’s men.”

Cole nodded.

“Bragg wouldn’t give ’em up,” Whitfield said. “They was too many, but Jack, he . . .”

“I know what happened,” Cole said.

“Was me,” Whitfield said. “And Dave Long, and Jack.”

Cole nodded.

“They was too many,” Whitfield said.

“I know,” Cole said. “And they shot Bell and the other deputy and you skedaddled.”

Whitfield nodded.

“You know it happened,” he said.

“Know it, can’t prove it,” Cole said.

“No witnesses,” Whitfield said.

“Un-huh.”

“I run off like a yellow dog,” Whitfield said.

“No reason to die for nothing,” Cole said.

“But I come back.”

Cole nodded.

“And I’ll be your witness.”

“Good,” Cole said. “Care to go with us?”

“Go with you?”

“When we go to apprehend Mr. Bragg,” Cole said.

Whitfield shook his head.

“Can’t,” he said. “I . . . I dunno, it busted me up inside when Jack got killed and I run. I . . . can’t do gun work no more.”

“But you’ll testify,” Cole said.

“I will.”

“With Bragg looking right at you,” Cole said.

“I will.”

“I don’t want to go up there,” Cole said, “and shoot up a lotta people, and get Bragg into court, and have you dry up and blow away.”

“I won’t.”

“You won’t relinquish on your testimony.”

“I’ll say what I seen,” Whitfield said.

Cole was silent. He looked at me. I nodded. Whitfield saw the nod.

“That’s right,” he said. “I’ll stand. I can’t do gun work no more, but I can say what I seen, and I’ll stand and say it.”

“I got your word on that?” Cole said.

“You do.”

“All right,” Cole said. “Everett and me will go up and apprehend him.”

15

Alone?” Raines said.

“Me and Everett,” Cole said.

“But that’s all?” Raines said. “You two alone?”

“Me and Everett,” Cole said again.

“Bragg’s got forty gun hands up there.”

“Twenty-five,” Cole said.

“You say that like it made a difference.”

“Makes a difference of, ah, how much, Everett?”

“Fifteen,” I said.

“It’s still so many,” Raines said.

“Specimens I’ve seen so far don’t enliven me much,” Cole said.

“We could get a posse up, deputize a bunch of us.”

“Coulda done that ’fore you hired us, Abner,” Cole said.

“You don’t want help?”

“No. I got help, I gotta worry about them. They get in trouble, I got to get them out. Better just me and Everett.”

I thought Raines looked relieved.

“Well, you say so, Virgil. It’s your kinda work, I guess.”

“It is,” Cole said.

Raines stood and walked out of the marshal’s office. He turned left on the boardwalk and disappeared.

“You got a plan?” I said to Cole.

“Well, we ain’t going to go riding in there bold as brass,” Cole said. “Like Jack Bell done.”

“I hear Bell was good,” I said.

“He was. He was good with a gun. Worked a lot of tough towns.”

“Overconfident?” I said.

“Be my surmise,” Cole said. “Thought he could back Bragg down. Thought they wouldn’t shoot lawmen.”

“You think you could back Bragg down?” I said.

“Just me and him?” Cole said. “Just the two of us? I could back him a ways. And then he wouldn’t back no farther.”

“You know this?”

“Sure.”

“How?”

“Been doing this a long time, Everett. Ain’t just gun work. Gotta think about men, too.”

“Which would, I guess, be one reason you’re here and Jack Bell ain’t,” I said.

“Yep,” Cole said and nodded his head. “That’d be a reason. You’d be another.”

I opened my mouth and closed it and sat. I didn’t know what to say. Cole had never been quite so straight with me about what I was worth. I sort of smiled to myself.

“What you smilin’ about,” Cole said.

“I caught myself thinking,” I said. “And what I was thinking was that you was right.”

Cole didn’t comment.

“So,” he said. “What we got to do next is drift on up there and look at Bragg’s layout.”

16

Bragg’s ranch was on an upland meadow with a stream. There were some trees along the stream, and a small herd of beef cattle grazed in the grass under their shade.

“Pretty place,” Cole said.

We were sitting our horses behind the ranch, on a hill that looked over it. We could see across it to Appaloosa in the sere valley below. Someone spotted us there, and several men gathered on the porch of the big ranch house and looked up at us. I saw Bragg was taller than anyone else.

“No cover,” I said.

“Nope, nothin’ much,” Cole said. “Maybe a little among them trees.”

“For how long?” I said.

“Long as it would take them to send some people around behind us,” Cole said.

“No real way to slide in on them without them knowing it,” I said.

“Depends how hard they sleep,” Cole said.

“Don’t think they got a nighthawk?” I said.

“If they did, depend on how hard he listened.”

“There’s a way to find out,” I said.

“Un-huh.”

“ ’Cept now they seen us,” I said. “Makes it likely they’ll be more careful.”

“Don’t matter,” Cole said. “We’ll expedite us a way.”

“ ’Spose we will,” I said.

Cole was silent, looking down at the gray, weathered ranch buildings. There was a barn with a corral. Some horses stood quietly in the corral, the way horses do, heads down, doing nothing. There was a bunkhouse on the other side of the barn, with a cookshack angling off it. There were two outhouses: a big one near the bunkhouse, and another smaller one near the ranch house.

“We’ll ride on back to town,” Cole said. “Give them time to relax a little, and maybe two, three nights from now, we’ll ride on back up and see what happens at night.”

The horses knew the way back, and they moved almost without guidance. Behind us, as we moved downhill toward Appaloosa in the punch bowl, half a dozen riders from Bragg’s outfit sat their horses on the hilltop where we’d been and watched us go.

I said, “Law’s a little thin on this, Virgil.”

“Don’t see why. Bragg killed the marshal. Now I’m the marshal and I can prove he done it.”

“There’ll be twenty of them all swear he didn’t.”

“That ain’t up to me,” Cole said. “That’s for the trial.”

“Ain’t even sure we got jurisdiction,” I said. “We city lawmen. Bragg might not even be in the city.”

“He’s close enough,” Cole said. “He killed Jack Bell.”

“Might be able to prove Jack Bell got killed up there. Hard to prove exactly who done it.”

“Everett,” Cole said. “You gettin’ gun-shy.”

“Just examining the situation, Virgil.”

“Pretty soon you’ll be telling me Jack Bell ain’t dead.”

“Truth is, Virgil, we don’t know that he is.”

“Well, where the hell is he?”

“Oh, I’m sure he’s dead. But we don’t know it, you understand, we only been told it.”

“What’s the difference,” Cole said. “You know it. I know it. You ever read this man Ralph Emerson?”

“Some sort of philosopher,” I said.

“ ‘What I must do concerns me, not what people think.’ ”

“He said that?”

“He did,” Cole said

“He might not’a been talking about the Appaloosa marshal,” I said.

“I knew Jack Bell,” Cole said.

Cole’s horse tossed his head and skittered a couple of quick steps sideways. I didn’t know if Virgil asked him, or if something had caught his notice. Didn’t matter. I knew there was no point talking to Virgil anymore. He was going to do what he was going to do. All I could do is trail along with him and keep him from getting back shot.

“Everything good with you and Allie,” I said when I got beside him again.

“Lovely,” Cole said. “She’s a lovely woman, and everything’s lovely between us.”

“She can rile you a little,” I said.

“She’s playful,” Cole said. “It don’t rile me at all.”

“Didn’t have nothin’ to do with you pounding on the teamster, Gillis.”

Cole didn’t answer. It was as if he hadn’t heard.

“Sorta thought it mighta had somethin’ to do with you bein’ annoyed at Allie.”

“She’s a very lovely lady,” Cole said. “Very lovely.”

17

We looked at Bragg’s spread for half of a brightly moonlit night. We rode up there in the afternoon another day. Always we sat, looking down at the ranch in plain sight. One day we rode up real early, while it was still dark.

Dawn was just starting to streak the eastern sky when we got there and held up on the hill above the ranch, where they could see us.

“Might be more clever,” I said to Cole, “if we was to sneak a little.”

“No need to sneak,” Cole said. “We’re the law.”

“Might be more clever if we got him to come into town and jumped him there.”

“I’m going to take him out here at his ranch and bring him in like Jack Bell was going to do.”

“Because?”

Cole didn’t answer. He sat his horse, looking at the ranch.

“You close with Bell?” I said.

“Not so much,” Cole said.

“But he was city marshal and now you’re city marshal.”

Cole nodded.

“And this is all about the law?”

“Killing a city marshal ain’t legal,” Cole said.

“Ralph philosopher fella say that?”

Cole grinned.

“Virgil Cole,” he said.

We sat some more. I had looked at the ranch so much that I felt as though I’d worked there. Smoke began to wisp up out of the cookshack. A couple of hands stumbled down to the big outhouse. Somebody lit a lamp in the main house, and then Bragg came out shirtless with his pants on and walked to the small outhouse.

“Now, you see that,” Cole said. “They got them a big privy down there, probably a four-holer, for the hands. And Bragg got his own personal one, nearer the house.”

I nodded. Cole never talked just to be talking, though when he did talk, he seemed to ramble. That was mostly he wasn’t talking, he was thinking out loud and new thoughts occurred to him in the process. For actual talking, if it wasn’t for me prodding him, he might not talk at all.

“All we got to do,” Cole said, “is get hold of him. Once we got him, it don’t matter how many gun hands he got.”

I nodded.

“See how them orange Osage come off at a angle from the cottonwoods along the stream?”

I nodded just to be doing something. Cole wasn’t really talking to me.

“Probably ran it up there for a windbreak in the winter,” Cole said. “Ain’t enough of it planted to fence off cattle.”

“Too short a span,” I said, just to be saying something.

“If we was to set in there behind that Osage orange, with an extra saddle horse, and maybe we be there before the sun’s up. Then we wait, and when Bragg comes down to use the privy, we move in close and take him.”

“What about the night rider?” I said.

“He’ll be looking for us up on the hill,” Cole said.

“That’s why we let them see us up there all that time,” I said. “That’s where they’ll expect us to be.”

Cole paid no attention to me.

“Before or after?” I said.

“Before or after what?”

“Before he goes into the privy, or after he comes out.”

“After,” Cole said. “I don’t want to get pissed on.”

18

There was a night rider. I couldn’t see him, but I heard his horse blow from the direction of the hill. We had a livery horse, saddled, on a lead. We were on foot, leading the horses as we went in the darkness down along the row of trees. We stopped fifty feet away from the privy. It was still too dark to see, but we could smell it. I took the shotgun off my saddle. We tied the horses loosely to one of the hedge apples. And we stood. Somewhere far off, some prairie chickens boomed. The sky in the east began to lighten. A rooster crowed. We stood. I smelled wood smoke. The sky was pale now in the east. We could see the outhouse on the other side of the trees. Uphill toward where we always sat and watched, I could see the night rider moving across the slope halfway up.

In back of us, I could hear the bunkhouse’s door open, as some of the hands went to their privy. I smelled coffee mixed with the wood smoke. Then bacon. Beside me, Cole murmured.

“Here he comes.”

I didn’t hear anything. But I was used to that. Cole always heard things sooner than I did and saw things sooner. I heard his footsteps. I heard the door to the privy open and swing shut. Then nothing.

Cole gestured toward the privy. I slipped through the trees and along one side of it. Cole went around the back to the other side. And we waited. When Bragg came out, we were on either side of him. Cole took a handful of Bragg’s hair in his left hand and pressed the barrel of his Colt against Bragg’s temple.

“Not a fucking sound,” he said softly.

I pressed the two barrels of the eight-gauge up under Bragg’s chin. And packed close together, we walked back behind the Osage orange trees toward the horses. When we reached the horses, Cole let go of Bragg’s hair.

“Mount up,” Cole said.

I eased off on the shotgun so Bragg could climb into the saddle. It made him a little braver.

“You can’t do this,” he said.

“Can or can’t,” Cole said. “Won’t make no difference to you. First time there’s trouble, we kill you.”

Bragg’s mount had no reins. The horse was on a lead, tethered to my saddle horn.

“Ride,” Cole said.

We moved down the line of trees, walking the horses. Cole rode on one side of Bragg and I rode on the other with the eight-gauge resting across my saddle, pointing at Bragg. As we cleared the trees near the stream, the nighthawk spotted us and came down the hill at a gallop, shouting.

“Pull the horses in tight as we can,” Cole said. “Make it hard to shoot us without shooting Bragg.”

We kept walking. By the time we neared the river, there were half a dozen horsemen coming toward us on the run.

“Put that brush cutter right up against him, if you would, Everett,” Cole said. “Being sure that it’s cocked.”

It was too hard to ride tight and keep the gun under Bragg’s chin. I settled for pressing it into his side. We reached the river and moved toward the ford. At the ford, there were maybe twelve riders with guns.

“Tell them to let us pass,” Cole said.

Bragg was silent. We kept walking toward the ford. Holding the reins in his left hand, Cole drew his Colt, cocked it, and placed it carefully against Bragg’s cheekbone. If it began, Bragg didn’t have a prayer. We were bunched together, so we were barely more than a single target. Cole had a gun against Bragg’s face. The two barrels of my shotgun were digging into his side.

“What you want us to do, Mr. Bragg?” one of the riders said.

“Hold off, Vince,” Bragg said.

His voice was hoarse and strained. Vince was hatless, and there was a pale line on his forehead. He was smallish, with big hands and a big blond moustache stained with something. Tobacco juice, maybe. Maybe coffee. He sat on a blue roan gelding that looked like a runner, and he held a Winchester in one hand, the butt resting on his thigh. We kept walking our horses toward the ford. The sun was up now, still low, and the western edge of the sky still dark purple, but everyone could see clearly.

As we reached them, Bragg’s riders parted, half to one side, half to the other, and the three of us rode slowly between them. No one spoke. I could feel the pressure of the silence all through me. The only sound was the horses’ hooves and their breathing, and the creak of saddle leather. The horses hesitated at the water, but Cole and I kicked ours forward and the three of us went in. The line of riders that had parted to let us through closed ranks behind us and turned toward the river. It was as if I could feel them looking at us. It made the muscles across my back tighten. The water was higher than the stirrups; my boots and the lower half of my pants were wet. The river smelled very fresh in the early morning air. The horses climbed the far bank, and we stood for a moment on the other side. Without lowering his gun, Cole turned in the saddle and looked back across the river.

“Tell them not to follow,” he said to Bragg.

Again, Bragg was silent. I could see the flush of redness on his cheekbones.

“I’d like you dead, Bragg,” Cole said quietly. “I’m taking you in legal, like a law officer, but if you attempt to escape or impede me in my duty, I got every right to shoot you dead, and no one will say no.”

“If you kill me,” Bragg said, “then there ain’t no reason for my men not to chase you down and kill you.”

“If they can,” Cole said. “Either way, won’t make no difference to you.”

Bragg was silent. Cole was silent. The horses stood quietly, tossing their heads every once in a while for reasons of their own.

“Tell ’em not follow us,” Cole said to Bragg, “or I’ll shoot you dead right here. Right now.”

Again, there was silence. Cole’s face showed nothing. I could hear Bragg’s breathing. He looked at me.

“You?” he said.

“Both barrels,” I said.

He turned his head slowly away from Cole’s gun and looked back at the line of riders back across the river.

“Vince,” he hollered.

“Yessir, Mr. Bragg.”

“Don’t follow us. You understand.”

“They making you say that, Mr. Bragg?”

“They are. But I mean it. Stay put.”

“You say so, Mr. Bragg.”

We moved the horses forward again. A half mile from the ranch, Cole holstered his Colt, and I slid the shotgun back in the saddle scabbard.

“Do hope you’ll make a run for it,” Cole said to Bragg. “Save us all a lot of time and trouble.”

“I’m riding in with you,” Bragg said.

Which he did.

19

There were two jail cells along the right wall of the marshal’s office as you entered. Both cell doors stood open.

“You prefer one to another?” Cole said when we brought Bragg in.

“Don’t matter,” Bragg said. “I won’t be here long.”

“Circuit judge don’t come through for two and a half weeks, if he’s on time,” Cole said.

“I won’t be here long,” Bragg said again.

He went into the first cell and pulled the door shut behind him. I locked it and took the key. The rest of the office was very plain: a stove for winter, a big old table that Cole used for a desk, two straight chairs against the wall opposite the cells, a spittoon in the corner, and a wooden water bucket and dipper sitting on one of the chairs. Bragg sat on the cot in the cell and looked at us.

“Need to be on him all the time,” Cole said to me. “Round the clock.”

I nodded.

“I’ll stay here,” Cole said. “You go down, get something to eat, and come back. Bring him some.”

“I’ll be at the Chinaman’s,” I said. “Won’t take long.”

Cole sat down at the big table and laid his Winchester on it. I leaned my shotgun against the wall next to Cole and handed him the key to Bragg’s cell. He tossed it on the table, put his feet up, and tilted his chair back. I went to lunch.

When I came back with boiled beef and navy beans on a tin plate for Bragg, Cole was in the same position. As far as I could tell, he hadn’t moved. Except that his eyes were open, I’d have thought he was asleep. There was a small pass-through in the cell door. I passed the food in. Bragg took it silently and sat back down and set it on the cot beside him.

“I’m goin’ to have lunch with Allie,” Cole said. “Be back before suppertime. Any trouble, you fire off a couple of rounds and I’ll hear you.”

“ ’Less you’re riding at a hard gallop,” I said.

Cole stopped at the doorway and turned.

“We known each other a long time, Everett,” Cole said. “But I don’t care for them kinds of remarks, ’bout Allie French.”

“No, and you shouldn’t,” I said. “I apologize.”

Cole nodded.

“Apology accepted,” Cole said. “You meant no harm.”

He paused for a moment on his way out. Then he gestured for me to join him and stepped out onto the boardwalk. I went out with him and left the door open.

“I figure,” he said to me quietly, “that we’re going to need to keep an eye on Whitfield.”

“We’ll need him,” I said, “when the judge gets here.”

“And we have to watch Bragg,” Cole said.

“Maybe we can keep him a secret,” I said.

Cole shook his head.

“Town’s too small,” he said. “Half the people in town already know he’s back.”

“We could put him in the other cell,” I said. “Then one of us could watch them both.”

Cole was quiet for a minute.

“Yes, we’ll do that,” he said. “I’ll bring him down soon as I’ve seen Allie.”

He turned without saying anything else and started toward the hotel. I went back into the office and sat in the chair he’d vacated and turned and looked at Bragg. He looked back. Neither of us said anything. He hadn’t touched the food. After a while I put my feet up on the desk and tilted the chair back the same as Cole had and tilted my hat down and closed my eyes and had a nap.

20

We kept Whitfield in one cell and Bragg in the other, the only difference being that Bragg’s cell was locked. Bragg spent much of his time looking at Whitfield like a hangman looking at a felon. It made Whitfield nervous, but there was nothing to be done. He spent a lot of time sitting outside the office with me, watching whatever was happening on Main Street. When I sat out there, I left the office door open and held the eight-gauge across my lap.

“When’s that judge coming through here, now?” Whitfield said.

“Ten more days.”

“You think they’ll put Bragg in jail?”

“Ain’t my department,” I said.

“What happens to me after the trial.”

“You ride on back to wherever you rode on to the first time,” I said.

“You think they’ll try to get me?”

“You ain’t sleeping in the jail for comfort,” I said.

“Even after the trial?”

“Straight on,” I said. “We’ll ride you out away, give you a head start, and you can disappear. You done it before.”

“Why the hell am I doing this?” Whitfield said.

“The right thing to do?”

“Get my ass shot,” Whitfield said. “That’s what I’ll do.”

From where I sat, I could glance back through the open door and see Bragg’s cell. He was lying on his bunk, staring at the ceiling.

“Me ’n Virgil will prevent that,” I said.

“I run off once,” Whitfield said.

Across the street, two women in bonnets and long dresses walked past. One of them walked with a beguiling wiggle. We both watched until she turned into McKenzie’s Store. And then we both watched the store, waiting for her to come out.

“I run off before,” Whitfield said. “I couldn’t stop myself. I seen Jack go down and the other deputy—hell, I don’t even remember his name—and I was running ’fore I even knew it.”

“It can happen,” I said.

“Ever happen to you?”

An eight-horse team pulled a lumber wagon past us, kicking up the dust in the street. I watched them go past.

“Did it?”

“Did it what?” I said.

“Ever happen to you?”

“You mean did I ever run off in the heat of battle?” I said.

“Yeah.”

I shook my head.

“Nope, can’t say I ever did.”

“I done it.”

“I know,” I said. “And I ain’t saying I won’t. Men break when they break, mostly.”

The two women came out of McKenzie’s carrying parcels. They headed back the way they had come. The one with the wiggle was walking closest to the street. Her dress was tight.

“Good-looking ass,” Whitfield said.

“I noticed that, too,” I said.

We watched her move away from us. At the corner of Second Street, she glanced back over her shoulder at us and then turned the corner and disappeared.

“I’m bettin’ Virgil Cole never run.”

“Be a good bet,” I said. “I honestly don’t think Virgil’s ever even been afraid.”

“What kind of man ain’t afraid,” Whitfield said.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I been with Virgil Cole a long time, and I don’t know much of anything about him.”

“You ever afraid?”

“I am.”

“But you don’t run.”

“Not yet,” I said.

“I was all right with the drunks and the sodbusters,” Whitfield said. “But first time it got tough, I run.”

“And you’re afraid you’ll do it again,” I said.

A lone rider came around the corner from First Street at the far end of town and began to ride down Main Street. Tilda scuttled past us on her way to work, furtive as a small desert animal.

“I guess maybe I am,” Whitfield said. “I hope I don’t. I don’t want to live like that all the rest of my life.”

The lone rider came closer. He was smallish, with big hands and a thick, unsightly blond moustache. He was chewing tobacco. Now and then he would lean out in the saddle so as to spit and not get it on the horse. I recognized him. It was Bragg’s foreman. He stopped when he came opposite the marshal’s office and sat his horse and looked at us.

I nodded.

He didn’t respond.

I said, “Howdy, Vince.”

He didn’t say anything. He looked at me briefly, and at Whitfield for a long time. Then he surveyed the office and the street and the buildings on each side of the office.

I could hear Whitfield’s breathing.

Vince leaned out away from the horse and spit his chew into the street. Then he straightened, took a large plug out of his shirt pocket and a jackknife out of his pants pocket, and cut off a chunk and fed it off the knife blade into his mouth. He folded the plug back up in its paper, closed the jackknife, and put it back in his pants. He sat straight now in his saddle, both hands resting on the saddle horn, and chewed the fresh cut of tobacco until it felt right to him. Then, without a word, he turned the horse slowly and rode on down Main Street and turned out of sight onto First.

Beside me, I heard Whitfield exhale.

“Know him?” I said.

“No, but he’s a gun hand,” Whitfield said. “I ain’t seen ’em like you have. But I seen enough to know.”

“Yeah,” I said. “He’s a gun hand.”

“He with Bragg?” Whitfield said.

“Un-huh.”

Whitfield didn’t say anything else. We both sat quiet. But I could hear the breath go in and out of him, and I could hear him swallow.

21

I spent more time guarding Bragg and protecting Whitfield than Cole did. Cole was building a house, and he spent a lot of time at it while I minded the store. He and Allie had picked out a lot on the corner of First Street and Front Street, which put them at the very edge of town and would give them a back-window view of the easy upslope of the hills. It was raining one day when Cole came into the marshal’s office, his hat pulled down, the collar up on his slicker.

“Allie’s been chewin’ on me like a young dog,” Cole said. “I don’t spend enough time with her. All I do is be a marshal and sit around with you, minding prisoners. She says I care more about marshalin’ than her. That I ain’t even brung you down to see the house.”

“House ain’t finished, is it?” I said.

“Nope.”

“I was figuring to come down when it was,” I said.

“Go on down and take a look at it,” Cole said. “Calm Allie down a little. Tell her you like it.”

“It’s raining like hell,” I said.

“Go ahead,” Cole said. “I’ll mind the prisoners.”

“I ain’t a prisoner,” Whitfield said.

“No, a ’course you ain’t,” Cole said. “I wasn’t thinkin’. I’m sorry about sayin’ it.”

“Got a roof on it yet?” I said.

“Sure has,” Cole said. “Tight one, too. I got me a carpenter used to build boats in Rhode Island.”

“Long as I don’t get a soaking while I’m admiring the work,” I said.

“You go on down there,” Cole said. “Allie’s down there with an umbrella, planning the furniture.”

Cole sat at his desk with his coat and hat still on. I put on my hat and slicker and went out into the rain. I stayed on the boardwalk. The street was mud by now, probably deep above my ankles. Enough to suck the boot right off your foot. I was all right until I got to Front Street. Cole’s house was on the other side, and I had to drag through the mud to get across. At the building site, I mucked a few more yards to the house and stepped up onto the first-floor decking. Allie was there, with her skirts tucked up, wearing a pair of men’s boots that was much too big for her, and carrying an umbrella, still open, even under the in-place roof. Cole had been right. It didn’t leak.

“Everett,” she said. “Oh, my God, look at me.”

She bent over and untucked her skirt, letting it fall over the big, wet boots.

“You look fine to me, Allie.”

“I must look like a drowned cat,” she said. “My hair all wet, and these boots . . .”

“You always look good, Allie.”

“You’re too kind, Everett.”

“House is hurrying right along,” I said.

“Yes,” Allie said. “It’s going to be very grand. If Virgil ever bothers to come live in it.”

“Pretty sure he will,” I said.

“Don’t pay no attention to the house,” she said. “Hell, Everett. He don’t pay no attention to me. Just sits up there in the jail with his gun, being marshal.”

“Well,” I said. “Been sorta lively of late.”

“It’s his job,” Allie said. “It’s not his damn life.”

“Well,” I said, “show me around. I’ll tell him about it.”

She had, as we talked, moved closer to me. Now she took my hand and began to lead me around the various rooms that had been studded off.

“We’ll have our parlor here,” she said, “where we can look out and see who’s coming to call. And this will be the kitchen.”

There’s always something sort of dreamish about being sheltered on a rainy day. The rain drummed pleasantly on the roof. And, as it fell outside, it formed a kind of silvery curtain around the open sides of the unfinished building. There was coziness inside under the roof, even though there were no walls. Allie still held the hand with which she’d led me through the small framing. Her shoulder touched my arm.

“You think it will be nice, Everett?”

“It’ll be elegant,” I said.

She rubbed her cheek against my shoulder.

“Will you come often and visit us?”

“Every time I’m invited.”

“I can cook, you know,” Allie said.

She had put her hand on my back and was beginning to move it up and down my spine.

“I never thought you couldn’t,” I said.

She turned in toward me and put both arms around my waist. She looked up at me, and her eyes looked sort of dazed, as if she wasn’t focusing too well.

“Do you think I’m pretty?”

“Yes.”

I sounded hoarse. I felt as if my throat had closed up a little. She tightened her arms around my waist and pressed herself against me, arching her back a little to look up at me. The movement made her pelvis press against me, and caused me some excitement.

“Allie,” I said.

“I want you to kiss me, Everett.”

“Allie,” I said again. “I think we ought to stop here.”

She slid her hands up my back and behind my neck and pulled herself up on tiptoes and bent my head down toward her a little and kissed me hard with her mouth open. She smelled good. I kissed her back. Then I forced her away from me and held her there at arm’s length.

“I’m with Virgil,” I said. “And so are you.”

“Virgil’s not here,” she said. “Mostly, Virgil’s never here.”

She was trying to press back against me.

“Ain’t true, Allie,” I said. “But even if it was, we ain’t with each other. We’re both with him.”

She was silent; her face had turned white. She was pressing hard against my hands as I held her away.

“Allie,” I said. “For Christ’s sake, we’re right out in the open here.”

“Let me go,” she said.

Her voice was harsh and unlovely.

“Let me go, goddamn you,” she said.

“I’m leaving, Allie,” I said.

“You bastard,” she said. “You sonova bitch.”

The words came out slurred and almost hissing with rage. Her face was perfectly white and twisted with anger. There were tears in her eyes, though she wasn’t crying yet. I gave her a little shove that set her back for a moment and turned and ran.

“You prick,” she screamed after me.

I ran through the sucking mud and got up on the dry boardwalk and walked fast up Front Street toward Second.

“You fucking prick,” she screamed.

I hunched my shoulders a little and kept walking through the hard rain.

22

Vince came back with twenty riders on a hot, still day with no clouds and a hard sun. I was sitting out front with Whitfield when they turned the corner at Second Street and started down toward us at a slow walk, nobody saying anything.

“God, Jesus,” Whitfield said and stood up.

“There’s a loaded gun in the table drawer,” I said to him. “If they rush us, shoot Bragg.”

Whitfield went inside the office. I took out my Colt and fired two shots in the air and reloaded and holstered. A couple of the horses in Vince’s party shied at the gunfire. No one else reacted. I picked up the eight-gauge and stood. There were people on the sidewalks on Main Street. As the riders approached, the people disappeared into the nearest doors. The riders fanned out across the street behind Vince three rows deep, halted in front of the office, and turned their horses toward me. The riders in the second and third rows moved slowly sideways to form a big single-file circle in front of me. Some of them had Winchesters.

“Morning, Hitch,” Vince said to me.

“Vince,” I said.

“We come for Mr. Bragg,” Vince said.

“Can’t have him,” I said.

“We’ll take him if we have to.”

The rider on the far right end of the circle had a riderless saddle horse on a lead. To my right, Virgil Cole came walking on the boardwalk toward us. He didn’t seem to raise his voice, but everyone heard him clear.

“If you do, he’ll be dead.”

No one said anything.

“Everett,” Cole said, “you step on into the office with that eight-gauge and first thing, anything happens, you blow Mr. Bragg’s head off.”

I wanted to say that Whitfield had that assignment and I could do him more good out here. But I didn’t. I did what he told me. I always did what he told me, because in a lot of towns over a lot of years, I’d learned that in a tight crease, you’d best do what Virgil Cole told you. No questions. Virgil always knew the situation better than you did, and he always knew what he was doing better than anyone did. I reached behind me and pushed open the office door and went inside.

Behind me, I heard Cole say, “You boys best wheel them animals around and shoo.”

I glanced over my shoulder at Bragg.

Bragg was standing in his cell, close to the bars, looking at me.

“We come for Bragg,” Vince said.

I glanced at Whitfield. There was no Whitfield. Past the two cells was a door that led down a little hall to the store behind us that sold dry goods and hardware. The door was open.

“Can’t have him,” Cole said.

I went and closed it and slid the bolt. Bragg smiled at me.

“We know you’re good, Cole,” I heard Vince say. “But you ain’t as good as twenty of us.”

“You know the arrangement, boys,” Cole said pleasantly.

I went to the table drawer and opened it. The gun Whitfield was supposed to use was still there.

“First time one of you does an ineluctable thing . . .” Cole said.

He didn’t finish the sentence. But I knew, because I’d seen him do this before, that he had pointed at the office and pretended to shoot Bragg with his thumb and forefinger.

“You can’t just shoot a prisoner,” Vince said. “You’re a fucking lawman.”

I smiled. Cole already had them backing up a little. He didn’t need me out there with the shotgun.

It ain’t firepower, he’d always said. It was firepower, we’d lose most of the time, because most of the time it’s just you and me against a whole passel.

“Prisoner tries to escape, I’m supposed to shoot him,” Cole said.

“You shoot him, you think we’ll ride off?”

“Nope.”

“We’ll kill you and Hitch,” Vince said.

“You’ll try.”

“There’s twenty of us, for God’s sake,” Vince said. “You willing to die to keep us from taking him?”

“Sure,” Cole said.

Everyone was silent. I could see Vince staring hard at Cole. Vince was a hard case. Jack Bell had been a hard case. But Vince was looking at something Vince had never seen before.

“Hitch?” Vince raised his voice. “You willing to die, too?”

I stood near the corner of the two cells, against the wall, where I wouldn’t get shot right away, and where I could get a clear shot at Bragg if they came. I could see Vince and some of the riders through the window. I couldn’t see Cole.

“ ’Course he’s willin’ to die,” Cole said. “You think we do this kinda work ’cause we scared to die?”

Even though I couldn’t see him, I knew how he was. I’d seen him at other times. He was motionless. His six-gun was still holstered. His arms were relaxed at his side. He was looking at Vince with no expression, and his eyes were perfectly dead, like two stones.

“Any man’s scared a dying,” Vince said.

“He’s got ’em turned,” I said softly to Bragg. “They’re arguing with him.”

Bragg was silent, struggling, I assumed, with hope, fear, and rage.

“You?” Cole said.

Vince said, “Me?”

“You afraid to die,” Cole said.

“I ain’t afraid,” he said.

“Good,” Cole said. “ ’Cause you go first.”

Vince rocked very slightly back in his saddle. He probably didn’t know that he’d done it.

“Ball goes up,” Cole said. “Two things certain. Bragg’s dead. You’re dead.”

Then I could see Cole. He had stepped forward to the edge of the boardwalk so he was closer to Vince. He appeared to be looking straight at him, but he pointed, apparently without looking, off to his right.

“And the boy with the Winchester,” Cole said, “with the red scarf. He goes next.”

The way Cole could see all around him was always sort of magical. And I knew he meant it. I’d been with him in so many gunfights that I knew what he’d do. If it started, he’d shoot Vince long before Vince got a hand on his weapon; then, if there was someone with a rifle, he’d wheel in a comfortable crouch and shoot him. Then, when he’d emptied the sidearm, if he was still alive, he’d dive through the open office door and continue matters with the Winchester he kept just inside. As soon as I’d killed Bragg, of course, I would be shooting past him through the window. No one said anything for a long, quiet moment. Then Cole stepped off the boardwalk and into the street.

“Go on home, Vince,” Cole said. “Too many people die if you don’t.”

He took his hat off with his left hand and swatted Vince’s horse across the face. The horse reared and wheeled half around. Cole slapped it on the hindquarters, and the horse reared against the bit and tried to run, with Vince wrestling hard to hold him.

“Go on,” Cole said, pushing among the horses, his right hand hanging loose near his gun, his left hand slapping with the hat. “Go on home.”

It’s always one person at a time, Cole would tell me. No matter how many there are, you back them down one at a time so it’s always you against him. And he knows you’re quicker.

Vince brought his surging horse under control and held him.

“There’ll be another time, Cole,” he said.

Then he gave the horse his head, and one after the other, Bragg’s riders headed out of town.

23

As soon as the riders were gone, I came out of the office, still carrying the eight-gauge. I took each barrel off cock as I came.

“Whitfield run off,” I said.

“Too bad,” Cole said.

He had his hat back on and set right, and as far as you could tell, he had just gotten up from a nap.

Up the street, Allie French came out of the Boston House and ran along the boardwalk toward Cole.

“Oh, Virgil,” she said. “Virgil.”

Cole stood and waited.

“Oh, Virgil,” she said again. “Are you all right?”

“I am,” Cole said.

She ran right into him and pressed her face against his chest and put her arms around him.

“That was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen. Just you and all those men. That was wonderful.”

Cole seemed a little uneasy about what to do. Being Virgil Cole, he didn’t show much. But he stood still with his arms at his sides and didn’t look at anything.

“Everett was with me,” he said.

People had come out of the shops and saloons and housing, where they had earlier taken refuge.

“Oh, pooh on Everett,” Allie said. “He was inside, hiding. It was you out there all alone, Virgil. That was heroic.”

“Everett wasn’t exactly hiding, Allie.”

The people began to gather round, looking at Cole and Allie. I saw Katie Goode in the crowd and nodded at her. Allie lifted her face from Cole’s chest and turned toward the crowd, her arms still holding on to Cole in proud ownership.

“Isn’t that the most heroic thing you folks have ever seen?” she said.

Somebody began to clap, and then pretty soon everyone was clapping. Allie stood, holding on to Cole, smiling at the crowd as if they were clapping for her. I was watching Cole. For maybe the first time since I’d met him, he didn’t quite know what was going on. And he didn’t quite know what to do about it.

“That’ll be fine,” he said to the crowd. “That’ll be fine.”

Then he turned away and steered Allie away, and they walked into the marshal’s office.

As they went by, Cole said softly to me, “Send them home, Everett.”

After I got the crowd moving, I walked with Katie Goode back toward the Boston House.

“You need a drink?” she said.

“Be nice,” I said.

“Yesterday was payday at the mine,” Katie said. “I’ll buy.”

“Be nice,” I said.

We had a table near the bar. I drank some beer. Katie had a whiskey.

“Mr. Raines don’t normally want us to drink in here,” Katie said. “But if I’m with you, he won’t say nothing.”

“So you had more reason than just how good-lookin’ I am,” I said. “To buy me a beer.”

“Good-lookin’s enough,” she said.

Some miners who still had money left were lining the bar. The rainstorm had broken the heat, and it was cool again today, with some air moving in through the street door.

“He really is something,” Katie said. “Isn’t he?”

She had on a flowered dress with puffy shoulders and a bonnet. She could have been a ranch woman, or a miner’s wife, except she looked too good, and she smelled sort of soapy. She told me once that she washed herself all over, every day.

“Virgil?” I said. “I ain’t seen a man like Virgil Cole, ever.”

“Is he really not afraid to die?”

“Never seen no sign of it,” I said.

“Does he feel anything?”

“I don’t know. I believe he’s feeling something for Allie French.”

“Her,” Katie said.

“Don’t know how many women Virgil’s ever actually spent time with. I mean, he has women whenever he wants them, but it’s mostly in and out real quick, without much conversation.”

“Lotta men are like that,” Katie said.

“Yes,” I said. “I imagine. But I ain’t sure Virgil ever had a woman call him heroic, ’cept she was drunk and had her drawers off.”

“Did you like her little performance?” Katie said.

“Not so much,” I said.

“You think Mr. Cole liked it?”

“Hard to say what Virgil likes,” I said. “He wasn’t Virgil Cole, I’d say he might have been embarrassed.”

“Or flattered.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I said. “Virgil don’t normally think about things like that.”

“That’s an evil woman, Everett.”

I didn’t say anything.

“She is,” Katie said. “I know about evil women, Everett, and I know about sex. And I know how silly men are about it.”

“Not all of us,” I said.

“No, you seem pretty level, Everett. I got to say that. But I’ll bet you when Mr. Cole’s not around, she flirts with you.”

“How do you know that?” I said.

“She does,” Katie said. “Don’t she?”

“Yes,” I said. “Fact is, she got kind of hot with me when we were looking at the new house Virgil’s building for her.”

Katie smiled, as if she was wise. Which she wasn’t really. But she had Allie’s number.

“What did you do?” Katie said.

“I run off,” I said.

“You say anything to Mr. Cole.”

“No.”

“You going to say anything?”

“No. Virgil couldn’t hear something like that.”

She sipped a little of her whiskey, watching me over the rim of the glass.

“And I don’t want him knowing anything about it from you. I ain’t told anybody else, so if he finds out, I’ll know who couldn’t keep her mouth closed.”

“I won’t tell,” Katie said. “But ain’t it so, Everett, sometimes I been with you, you didn’t want me keeping my mouth closed.”

She looked straight at me and we both laughed.

“There’ll be those times again,” I said.

“Surely,” Katie said, and sipped whiskey. “But you’re his friend, Everett. Don’t you think you ought to tell him?”

“Can’t,” I said. “He couldn’t hear it.”

“What if she tells him?”

“Why would she tell him?” I said.

“I tole you, she’s evil,” Katie said. “What if she tells him and says it was your doing.”

“He’ll kill me,” I said.

Katie frowned and looked down at her whiskey glass, studying the brown surface of the whiskey.

“Sooner or later,” Katie said, “she’s gonna tell him.”

24

The next morning Whitfield came into the marshal’s office looking bad.

“I slept in the feed loft,” he said, “at the livery stable.”

“Well,” Cole said, “you come back.”

“I can’t face up to guns no more,” Whitfield said.

“But you’ll testify,” Cole said.

“I will.”

“That’s fine,” Cole said. “Everett and me will face up to the guns.”

Bragg, leaning against the bars of his cell, said, “You gonna get your chance, too, Whitfield.”

It was like I could see the skin tighten on Whitfield’s face, and the fear come in. Cole took his feet off the tabletop and stood and walked over to the cell. He stood close to the bars, an inch or so away from Bragg.

“We been treating you kindly,” Cole said to Bragg. “In return for that, we expect you to speak when spoken to and otherwise stay quiet.”

“I can talk if I want to,” Bragg said.

“And me and Everett can come into that cell and lock the door behind us and beat the sweet Jesus hell right out of you every morning instead of breakfast.”

“You wouldn’t talk that way if I had a gun,” Bragg said.

“Don’t matter if I would or wouldn’t,” Cole said, “fact is you don’t, and I do, so the point appears mute.”

Bragg met Cole’s look for a bit and then couldn’t hold it, and turned away and sat on his bunk. Cole walked back and sat at his desk and put his feet up.

“Don’t pay him too much mind,” he said to Whitfield.

“He’s right, though,” Whitfield said. “What about after the trial?”

“After the trial, Bragg goes to prison, and Everett and me escort you to a faraway place of your choosing,” Cole said.

“And before the trial.”

“You stay right here with us,” Cole said.

“And him,” Whitfield said, and nodded at Bragg.

“He ain’t pleasant,” Cole said. “But he can’t do you no harm.”

“What if his men come back?”

“They won’t come back,” Cole said.

People believed Cole when he talked. He was always clear on what he knew. He never claimed anything he didn’t know, and he always meant what he said.

“Could I maybe stay in the hotel?”

Cole shook his head.

“That splits us up,” he said. “Means one of us got to go with you and the other one got to stay here with Bragg.”

“But if they won’t come back?”

“Maybe somebody else,” Cole said.

“You think they’ll send somebody?”

“Don’t matter what I think. You ever hear of this fella Clausewitz?”

“Who?”

“Clausewitz, German fella, wrote a book about war. This Clausewitz says you got to prepare for what your enemy can do, not what you think he might do.”

“Clausewitz?”

“What I’m saying is splitting our forces ain’t to our advantage.”

“You been reading Clausewitz on war?” I said.

“Certainly. You ever read it?”

“I read it at West Point,” I said.

“Good book,” Cole said.

I nodded. Whitfield looked lost.

“Virgil,” I said, “you are a surprising man.”

25

Judge Elias Callison came to town on an early-evening train with his law clerk and four sheriff’s deputies. And after they got settled into the Boston House, the law clerk, whose name was Eaton, and the lead deputy, fella named Stringer, came down to the marshal’s office to talk with Cole. Stringer had a deputy’s star on his shirt and wore a long-barreled Colt butt-forward on the left.

“That him?” Stringer said.

“That’s Bragg,” Cole said.

Stringer went to the cell and looked in.

“Tall,” Stringer said.

“Fella in the other cell is Whitfield, the witness.”

“How come he’s in jail?”

“Fears for his life,” Cole said. “So me ’n Everett here are lookin’ after him until we finish with Bragg.”

Stringer nodded slowly. He was a tall, thin man with a big moustache and the sort of leatherish look of a man who had spent a lot of time in the saddle. Whitfield’s cell door was ajar, and Whitfield was sitting on his bunk, reading his Bible, his lips moving slowly as he puzzled it out. Stringer left Bragg and looked in at him.

“You gonna testify?” Stringer asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“If he don’t die a’ fright first,” Bragg said from his cell.

“I’ll testify,” Whitfield said.

Stringer nodded.

“I know you will,” he said.

“Bragg got a lawyer?” Eaton asked.

“Nope.”

“He needs a lawyer,” Eaton said.

He was short and plump with a round face. He didn’t look like he rode horses much.

“Surely does,” Cole said.

“No, I mean we ain’t going to just ride over here and convict him,” Eaton said. “Judge Callison’s a real bear on the law. Got to be a fair trial. He’s got to have a lawyer, and there’s got to be evidence.”

Cole stared at him as if he’d never heard such a thing in his life, which wasn’t true. He probably knew more about trials than Eaton did.

“Hear that, Bragg,” Cole said. “You gotta get you a lawyer.”

“I don’t know no lawyers,” Bragg said.

“There’s a justice of the peace,” I said. “Name of Mueller. Over in Little Springs. I can ride over there, see if he’ll do it.”

“I ain’t paying no damn lawyer to help you hang me,” Bragg said.

“What do we do about that?” I said to Eaton.

“County’ll pay for it,” Eaton said.

“I ain’t talking to no fucking lawyer,” Bragg said.

“Doesn’t matter, Mr. Bragg,” Eaton said. “County’ll give you one. Up to you if you talk or listen.”

“Whyn’t you ride on over there,” Cole said to me.

“We’ll help with Bragg and Whitfield,” Stringer said. “Sooner that JP gets here, the sooner we have the trial. And the sooner I take him down to Yaqui Prison and watch him hanged.”

“You know what he done,” Cole said.

Stringer nodded.

“I know what he done.”

26

I brought Mueller back from Little Springs, and Judge Callison set a trial date in one week, so counsel could prepare a defense. The judge also ordered the deputies to take charge of the prisoner until then. Since there wasn’t no place to take charge of him except where he was, the deputies sort of moved into the marshal’s office, so Cole and me spent more of our time sitting around in the Boston House in the saloon, or watching them doing the finish work on Cole’s house.

We were drinking coffee in the saloon one morning when I saw Cole sit up a little straighter and drop one hand lightly into his lap near his gun’s butt. I looked where he was looking and saw two men who looked like each other leaning on the bar. One of them nodded at Cole. He nodded back. The other one grinned.

“You know them?” I said.

“Shelton brothers,” Cole said.

“Can’t say I know them.”

“ ’Fore you was doing this work,” Cole said.

“They troublesome?” I said.

“Yes.”

“They ain’t packing,” I said. “That I can see.”

“You’ll know when they’re packing,” Cole said.

“Good?”

“Excellent,” Cole said.

“Good as you and me?”

“Might be,” Cole said. “Don’t know that they ain’t.”

“One of ’em shoot better than the other?”

“Can’t say. Ring’s the older brother, on the right. Other one’s name is Mackie.”

“Do look alike,” I said.

“They are alike. And they’re close. Never seen nobody closer. See one, you see ’em both.”

“Fight one?” I said.

Cole nodded.

“Fight ’em both,” he said.

“They do law work?” I said.

“They do gun work,” Cole said.

“So what would they be doing here?”

“Might have something to do with Bragg.”

I looked at the Shelton brothers for a while. Ring had taken his hat off when he had come in, and set it on the bar. He didn’t have much hair, except for a kind of long fringe that looked like it was turning gray. He had a thick neck and longish arms and sloping shoulders that looked strong but not all that wide. His legs were bowed some, and it made him shorter than he might have been otherwise. Mackie had his hat still on. He was taller than Ring, and his legs were straighter. The hair that showed under his hat was sort of reddish. But he had the same thick neck and long arms. There was a bottle of whiskey on the bar between them, and each of them had a glass. Ring picked up the bottle, and he and Mackie came to the table.

“Virgil,” Ring said.

“Ring.”

“You remember my brother,” Ring said.

Virgil nodded.

“Mackie.”

Mackie said, “Virgil.”

“This here is Everett Hitch,” Virgil said.

We all nodded.

“Can we set?” Ring said.

Virgil gestured toward the empty chairs. Ring put the whiskey bottle on the table, and the Shelton brothers sat down.

“Want a taste?” Ring said.

Virgil shook his head and tapped the marshal star on his shirt.

“Still doin’ that,” Ring said.

Virgil nodded.

“Well, we ain’t,” Ring said.

He poured some whiskey into Mackie’s glass and some into his own. He sipped some of his and smiled.

“Good,” he said. “Think it’s corn.”

He looked at me.

“You as good as Virgil with a gun?” he said.

“Never been tested,” I said.

“I hear you been with him for a while.”

“I have.”

“So you seen him work; what would you guess, you and him was to go at it?”

“Never seen no one better than Virgil,” I said.

“But you ain’t saying you’re not as good.”

“I ain’t discussing it, the truth be told,” I said. “How ’bout you?”

“Like you,” Ring said. “Never seen no one better.”

“You ever meet anybody better’n you, Virgil?”

“Guess I haven’t,” Cole said. “I’m still here.”

“Guess that’s true,” Ring said. “How ’bout him?”

He nodded at me.

“He’ll do,” Cole said.

“He as good as us?” Ring said. “Me and Mackie?”

“He’ll do,” Cole said.

I was looking at Ring’s hands. With his thick shoulders and his bowed legs, Ring looked like a cowboy. But his hands on the tabletop were clean and flexible, and the nails were trimmed. I thought they looked like the kind of hands you might see on a painter.

“What are you and Mackie doing in town?” Cole said.

“Everybody got to be somewhere, don’t they, Mackie?”

Mackie nodded. Where his brother had sort of wide eyes that bulged a little, Mackie’s looked heavy-lidded and half open all the time.

“Gonna be here long?” Cole said.

“Can’t say. Heard there was a big trial comin’ up, might want to take that in. I like a good trial,” Ring said. “Mackie, too.”

“Well,” Cole said. “You been in some of my towns before. You know the rules.”

“I surely do,” Ring said. “You know the rules, don’t you, Mackie?”

Mackie had a mouthful of whiskey. He swallowed.

“I know them rules,” he said.

His voice was a kind of hoarse whisper. It sounded as if it was an effort to speak. Across the room, Allie French came in wearing a pink dress and came straight up behind Cole and kissed him on the top of his head, and stood with her arms draped over his shoulders.

“This here is Mrs. French,” Cole said.

They all said hello. Ring and Mackie both looked at her steadily. She looked back at them without flinching. The king’s lady. Let them stare. Cole didn’t like it much. But he hadn’t made any laws about looking at Allie French. He stood.

“Mrs. French and me are going perambuling in a buggy,” he said.

He put his hand on Allie’s arm and turned her, and they walked out of the saloon through the lobby door. As they left, she glanced back over her shoulder at our table.

“Virgil’s woman,” Ring said to me.

“Yep.”

“I’ll be damned,” Ring said.

“Is sort of surprising,” I said.

“I always figured Virgil for whores and squaws.”

“She’s neither one of them,” I said.

“I’ll be damned.”

“You known Virgil for a time?” I said.

“Oh, hell, yes, me, and then when Mackie got old enough, me and Mackie both. Knew him in Wichita. Was with him in Lincoln County. Did some business with him in Bisbee. Up along the Platte.”

“Deputy work?”

“Some.”

“Not deputy work?”

Ring grinned. I noticed he had a couple of teeth gone in front.

“Some,” he said.

He and Mackie both drank some more whiskey. It didn’t seem to affect them.

“After the trial, you gonna hang this fella here?” Ring said.

“Ain’t mine to say.”

“No, course not,” Ring said. “I hope it’s here. Me and Mackie like hangings. Still there ain’t no gallows, and nobody building one. It’s messy if you hang ’em from a rafter or something.”

I nodded. I knew that if he was convicted, they’d take Bragg to Yaqui and hang him in the prison courtyard. But I didn’t see any reason to tell the Sheltons. Keeping quiet never caused me no trouble. I stood.

“Nice meetin’ you boys,” I said.

“Likewise,” Ring said.

Mackie nodded. None of us offered to shake hands. There was no advantage to letting somebody get hold of you.

27

It was the night before the trial. Stringer and his deputies were in the jail with Bragg and Whitfield. Cole and I were walking, one on each side of Allie, to look at the latest developments on the house. Allie had her arm though Cole’s. She showed no sign that anything had gone on there, or anywhere else, between me and her.

“Tell me about those men, Virgil,” she said.

“Shelton brothers?”

“Yes. The ones in the Boston House Saloon.”

“They’re just gunmen,” Cole said.

“But they seem different than other gunmen.”

“They ain’t,” Cole said. “They’re just real good gunmen.”

“No,” she said, “they are different. Even from Mr. Bragg. You treat them different.”

“Known ’em a long time,” Cole said.

“Longer than you’ve known Everett.”

“Yep.”

“Have you and they been friends?”

“Ain’t been enemies.”

“But you don’t act like they’re friends now.”

“Never were friends,” Cole said. “Done some work with them.”

“Shooting work?”

“Yep.”

“Can they shoot as good as you?”

“Ain’t never been put to the test,” Cole said.

“I never seen anyone, Allie,” I said, “good as Virgil with a gun.”

“Maybe so, maybe not,” Cole said. “Ain’t but one way to know. And knowing ain’t the point.”

“I know, Virgil, I was just trying to answer Allie’s question.”

“Ain’t no answer. Ain’t a question to ask,” Cole said. “Ain’t like we’re racing horses.”

Allie was watching us both, her eyes shifting back and forth between us. She seemed sort of excited. Her eyes were shiny.

“Don’t be careless with them boys, Everett,” Cole said. “They are quick and they hit what they shoot at.”

“One of them more than the other?” I said.

“No.”

“What happened to the younger one’s voice?” Allie said.

“Took a bullet in the throat,” Cole said. “Up in Cheyenne, I believe.”

“Are they going to cause trouble?” Allie said.

Her eyes were even shinier. Her face looked sort of hot. There was a reddish smudge over her cheekbones.

“Might,” Cole said. “Often do.”

“Are you afraid of them?” Allie said.

Her voice sounded a bit scratchy, like she might need to clear her throat. Cole listened to the question and was quiet like he always was when he was thinking about a question. He turned it around in his head, looked at it from all its various sides, and decided.

“No,” he said. “I ain’t.”

28

Cole and I were sitting outside the office with the door open so we could hear if Bragg tried to gnaw through the bars. It was a warm day with no clouds and a bright sun.

“You and Allie going to get married?” I said.

“If she’ll have me,” Cole said.

“I figure you and her building that house together,” I said, “means something.”

Cole nodded.

“Anything happens to me, Everett,” he said, “I’d appreciate you lookin’ out for her.”

“You expecting anything special?” I said.

“This is uncertain kind of work we do,” Cole said.

“Yes, it is.”

“Allie’s better if she’s with someone,” Cole said.

“She needs help,” I said, “I’ll help her.”

“She’s not good bein’ alone,” Cole said.

I nodded. A hawk was circling low over the town, looking for rats maybe, or mice, or ground squirrels, or whatever it could find out back of Café Paris.

“She seems like a pretty strong woman to me, Virgil.”

“She’s stronger with a man,” Cole said.

No matter how much time I’d spent with Cole, he still surprised me. He appeared to understand Allie a lot better than I would have said he could. We both watched the hawk for a time as it wheeled on the low wind currents.

“Shelton brothers bothering you?” I said.

“I’m thinking about ’em,” Cole said.

“You figure they are here because of Bragg?”

“Seems sort of coinciding,” Cole said, “them boys should drift in here just before Bragg’s trial.”

“You think they got hired to bust him out?”

“Might’ve.”

“Or kill Whitfield? They kill Whitfield, there’s no need to bust Bragg out, because we can’t convict him.”

“Deputies took Whitfield over to Fort Beale,” Cole said. “They’ll keep him there till the trial.”

“Whose idea was that?”

“Mine.”

“So you did think maybe they was here to kill Whitfield,” I said.

“Couldn’t say they wasn’t.”

“Who’s going to bring him in to testify?”

“Stringer and the other deputies.”

“Sheltons know where Whitfield is?”

“Nobody does, except me, and now you.”

“He testifies, and they’ll convict Bragg,” I said.

“I’d say so.”

“So if the Sheltons are here about Bragg,” I said, “they got to bust him out afterwards.”

“Yep.”

“ ’Course, they may not be here for that,” I said.

“Nope.”

“On the other hand, there’s Mr. Clausewitz.”

“Yep.”

“So we got to prepare for it.”

Cole nodded.

“We got you and me and four deputies, Virgil,” I said. “Sounds like enough to me.”

Cole tilted his head back against the top of the chair as if he was looking at the sky, except his eyes were closed. He sat like that for a pretty long time.

Then he said, “Four deputies won’t count for much if it happens.”

“They look like pretty good gun hands,” I said. “ ’Specially Stringer.”

“They are pretty good gun hands,” Cole said.

“But not good enough?”

“Everett,” Cole said. “Neither you or me ain’t never been up against nobody like Ring and Mackie Shelton.”

We were both quiet as the hawk swooped and soared on the wind.

“We been up against pretty good,” I said.

Cole shook his head without remark.

“You ain’t sure we can beat them,” I said after a while.

“When it comes right down to her,” Cole said. “No, I ain’t.”

I thought about it.

“Well,” I said after a time. “It’s not like you ever know for sure, before the shooting starts.”

“So this time won’t be much different,” Cole said.

“Be different if we lose,” I said.

“Won’t matter to us,” Cole said. “ ’Cept for Allie.”

29

Whitfield testified, with the bar closed in the Boston House Saloon, and Cole beside him, and me in a lookout chair with a shotgun, and two country deputies with Winchesters at the saloon doors. He stood up, and Eaton swore him in, and the judge asked him what he seen when Jack Bell was shot, and Whitfield looked right at Bragg and said Bragg done it. The tables had been pushed to the walls for the trial, and the chairs had been set up in rows. Most of the town was there. The Sheltons sat near the lobby door, in the back.

There was no prosecutor. The judge asked Whitfield questions, and then Mueller, Bragg’s lawyer, cross-examined. You could see his heart wasn’t in it. He knew Bragg was guilty, and he knew that Judge Callison knew it. Whitfield was the only witness against Bragg. Mueller called Bragg’s foreman. Vince said he didn’t see who shot Bell and the deputy, but it wasn’t Bragg. Mueller brought three more of Bragg’s hands to the stand. They all said the same thing. When Mueller brought the fourth, the judge stopped him.

“You gonna say anything different?” the judge said to the hand.

“Nope.”

The judge addressed the room.

“Anybody in the court got anything different to say other than Bragg didn’t shoot anyone and you don’t know who did?”

No one stirred. Judge Callison nodded to himself.

“That’ll do then; no reason to waste time saying the same thing over and over.”

“My client has a right to testify in his own defense,” Mueller said.

“ ’Course he does,” the judge said. “Swear him in, Eaton.”

Eaton took the Bible to Bragg. Bragg looked at it without comment.

“Put your hand on the Bible,” Eaton said.

Bragg didn’t move. Cole reached over and picked up one of Bragg’s hands and slapped it onto the Bible, and held it in place. Bragg didn’t resist. Eaton said the words. Bragg didn’t answer.

“He so swears,” Judge Callison said. “What have you got to say for yourself, Mr. Bragg.”

Bragg stood slowly.

“Fred Whitfield is a goddamned liar. I didn’t shoot Jack Bell or them other fellas. I don’t know what happened to them.”

He sat down. Judge Callison looked at him for a moment and half smiled.

“Eloquent, Mr. Bragg. But unconvincing,” he said. “I find you guilty of these charges and sentence you to hang at Yaqui Prison at a time to be decided by the prison warden.”

He banged his gavel and said, “Court’s adjourned.”

And that was Bragg’s trial. Stringer and Cole and I and the other deputies took him back to his cell.

30

There was no one at the train siding in Appaloosa. The westbound train to Yaqui was twenty minutes late, and by the time we got Bragg, in handcuffs and leg shackles, onto the train and into the last passenger car, it was 6:20 in the morning. Cole sat beside him, and I sat across the aisle with Stringer and his three deputies in front of us. All of us were yawning. I had a shotgun; everyone else had Winchesters. All of us carried sidearms. There was no one else in the car except a couple of drummers up front, both of whom were asleep.

The conductor came through. Stringer gave him a county voucher for all of us.

“Be about seven hours to Yaqui,” the conductor said. “Be stopping for water at Chester.”

Cole nodded.

Stringer said, “I know. I’ve done this before.”

The conductor looked at Bragg.

“He ain’t going to be no trouble, is he?” the conductor said.

“If he is, it won’t be for long,” Cole said.

Bragg stared out the window as the train slowly began to move, and he kept looking as we picked up speed. I had not heard him say anything since the trial. Cole ignored him.

“Anything gonna happen,” Cole said to me, “it’ll be at Chester. Takes ’em a while to fill that boiler, and we’re pretty much sitting ducks while they do.”

“That why we’re along?” I said. “Because you think something might happen.”

“Yep. Usually, I’d just let them boys take him over to Yaqui.”

“You think it’ll be the Sheltons?”

“Yep.”

I looked at the four deputies.

“These are four pretty good boys, Virgil.”

“They are,” Virgil said.

The train moved heavily along the tracks that ran beside the river, across Bragg’s ranch. We could see the ranch house and some of the outbuildings off to the right side of the train. I thought for a minute what it might be like to sit in shackles on your way to hang and look out at your home and not be able to go there. I decided there was nothing to be gained thinking about that, so I stopped. A few of Bragg’s steers stood near the tracks, staring at us as we went by.

We stayed in the flatlands pretty much, following the course of the river, the tracks snaking along around the hills. Out the left side, at a distance, I could see the Appaloosa stallion herding his mares toward a draw. The sun was higher now, and the train was getting warm. One of the deputies opened the windows that would open and let the air move in as we chugged along. A couple of antelope stood on one of the hills above us as we went west, and on another hill, among the rock outcroppings, six or eight coyotes sat staring down at us, and we bumped and rattled past them. One of the train hands came through after a while and gave us coffee. Bragg, too. All of us took it.

“Be some sandwiches at Chester,” the train hand said.

“How soon?” one of the deputies said.

“Chester? Hell,” he said. “I dunno, ask the conductor.”

The deputy nodded as if he’d expected the answer. A half hour later, the conductor strolled through and took out a big watch and studied it for a minute and told us we’d be in Chester in one hour and thirty-six minutes.

“When we start the upgrade,” the conductor said, “you’ll feel us slow down. It ain’t a hell of a grade, but it’s a long one, and the locomotive labors a little.”

“How long after we hit the grade?” Cole said.

“Ten minutes or so, ain’t far, but the engine’s strugglin’.”

“Anybody there.”

“Nope.”

“Thanks,” Cole said.

I looked at Bragg. He was still staring out the window without expression. If he expected action at Chester, he wasn’t letting on.

“When we get there,” Cole said to me, “I’ll go to the front of the car. You take the rear. Outside. I don’t want us sitting in here like a tom at a turkey shoot.”

“Sure,” I said.

COLE WAS the first to sense the start of the upgrade. Of course. He always knew things first. I hadn’t felt the train slow at all, when Cole was on his feet.

“You boys stay here with the prisoner,” he said to Stringer. “Me ’n Everett will do some recognicence.”

He picked up his Winchester, pointed me toward the back of the train, and walked toward the front. As I walked toward the rear coupling space between my car and the caboose, I could feel the train beginning to lurch up the grade. Virgil disappeared out onto the front. The strong-smelling smoke from the engine streamed back over the train. I held the handrail and swung out and looked ahead. At the top of the rise, I could see the water tower and beside it, higher, the windmill that kept it full. I could also see Virgil’s head as he looked out past the cars in front of us. I scanned the dry scrubland around us. There was nothing moving. The train wasn’t moving fast enough to generate any breeze, and the thick air was oppressive. I turned and looked on the other side of the train. Nothing moved over there, either. There was nothing behind us.

As we went over a small bridge over a shallow dry wash, three riders trailing a saddled, riderless horse on a lead appeared beside the train tracks up ahead. Two of them were the Sheltons; the other, riding between them, was Allie. Ring held the lead from the riderless horse. They rode slowly beside the train letting our car draw even with them. There was a rope around Allie’s neck. The other end was looped around Ring’s saddle horn. On the other side of her, Mackie held a double-barreled shotgun resting on her shoulder, pressed against her neck. Everything slowed down. I could see the locomotive top the rise and level out as it approached the water tower. The train slowed, then halted, with the water spout over the boiler cap. I saw Cole step down from the train and stand stock-still, holding the Winchester, barrel down, in his left hand, looking at the three riders. I realized that I had stepped down, too, still holding the shotgun. There was no movement in the well shack next to the water tower, only the slow revolution of the windmill above it.

The three riders halted in front of Cole. He was motionless. So was I. The fireman had climbed onto the top of the cab to set the spout. He pulled the rope to drop it and stepped back as the water poured in, sending a slash of steam up. When he saw us all, he stopped and stared and stayed put. There was no sound but that of steam hissing from the idle engine.

“You see how this is going to go, Virgil,” Ring Shelton said.

Cole looked at the three riders without any sign. Between the two Shelton brothers Allie looked red-eyed and pale. Her face seemed crumpled.

“Any sign of trouble from anybody,” Ring said, “and Mackie gives her both barrels. The horses will then head off in different directions, and what’s left of her will be yanked off of hers, and her neck will break and she’ll drag for miles through the mesquite. Less Mackie blows her head clean off, then the rope’ll probably slip loose.”

He talked slowly and carefully, as if to be sure everyone understood what was being said. I didn’t move. Cole looked at the three riders, unblinking. Stringer had moved out of the car and stood above the coupling behind Cole. He had his Winchester leveled at Ring. Mackie’s horse swished his tail at a fly that buzzed his flank. He shifted slightly when he did, but Mackie adjusted and the shotgun stayed easy and straight against Allie’s neck.

“So you folks are going to have to unshackle Bragg and parade him on out here, or she gets killed.”

Stringer had brought the Winchester to his shoulder.

“I got you in my sights,” he said. “Whatever happens to her, you’re dead.”

Ring smiled gently.

“What do you think, Virgil?” Ring said. “Think I’ll get scared and change my mind?”

“Put the rifle down,” Cole said to Stringer.

“This ain’t your jurisdiction, Cole,” Stringer said.

“Put it down,” Cole said.

Stringer held still. Two of his deputies were on the platform behind me with Winchesters.

“I’ll kill anybody don’t lower their rifles,” Cole said.

It was like a painting, everyone frozen in color and time with the rolling, hardscrabble land stretching out to the horizon.

Then Stringer lowered his Winchester.

“Lower ’em, boys,” he said.

And the two deputies dropped the rifle barrels toward the ground.

“We give you Bragg, you give us the woman,” Cole said.

Ring laughed.

“Virgil, you know I ain’t that dumb. You give us Bragg. We keep the woman. You ride off on the train, and when it’s out of sight, we cut her loose.”

The few passengers in the other cars had gathered on our side of the train and were looking out the windows. Cole ignored them. His whole focus was on Allie and the Sheltons. He stood as he had since he’d stepped down from the train. He had not moved. He didn’t move now.

Then he said, “Everett, get Bragg.”

I looked at Stringer.

“It’ll go easier with the other deputy,” I said, “if you do it.”

Stringer held my look for a minute. Then he nodded and turned and walked back into the train. In the silence I thought I could hear Allie sniveling. Neither of the Shelton brothers paid any attention to her except for the steady pressure of the shotgun against her neck. Then Stringer came out with Bragg. He had taken off the handcuffs and the leg shackles. Bragg stepped past him when he reached the door, and jumped down from the train and walked to the riderless horse, and swung into the saddle.

“Gimme a gun,” he said to Ring.

“Why?”

“Cole,” Bragg said. “I’m going to shoot the sonova bitch.”

If Cole heard him, he made no sign. His gaze remained steady on the riders.

“Ain’t part of the deal,” Ring said, and began to turn his horse slowly.

“Turn with us, darlin’,” he said to Allie.

“Goddamn it, you work for me, gimme a fucking gun,” Bragg said.

“I hired on to get you loose,” Ring said. “You’re loose. You keep yappin’ and I’ll leave you and the girl right here.”

Bragg opened his mouth and closed it. He glanced down at Cole.

“Another time,” he said.

Cole didn’t move.

“We’ll ride off now,” Ring said. “No hurry. We can see a long way, so best you get the train rolling, because we ain’t cutting her loose until the train is out of sight, and that’s a ways down the track.”

With the rope around Allie’s neck tied to Ring’s saddle, and Mackie on the other side with the shotgun against her neck, the three of them had to wheel in formation. Which they did slowly.

“Bragg, you lead on out,” Ring said.

Bragg glanced back at us as he rode away. Allie didn’t, nor did the Sheltons.

31

It took the train more than a half hour to get around the far bend and stop and back up. Cole stood on the back platform of it and said nothing as he watched the riders move away south down the dry wash. He stayed where he was and said nothing for the full half hour after the riders were no longer in sight and the train had gone around the bend and stopped and backed slowly up. When we got back to the water tower, Allie wasn’t there. Virgil stepped off the train and walked toward the wash. Stringer started to walk after him.

“Stay away from him,” I said.

“The bastards said they’d leave her here.”

“They’re safer if they got her,” I said.

“You knew they were lying.”

“We both knew,” I said. “But there wasn’t nothing to be done about it. “

“We got to discuss this,” Stringer said.

“Discuss it with me,” I said. “Don’t try to talk to Virgil.”

Stringer stared after Virgil.

“We got no horses,” Stringer said. “We can’t go after them on foot.”

I nodded.

“We’ll go back to town and get some,” I said.

“Quicker Cole gets back here,” Stringer said, “quicker we’re on our way.”

“He won’t come back,” I said.

“Won’t come back?”

I shook my head.

“Wait for me,” I said and walked after Cole.

Cole was standing on the little bridge over the wash, looking south down the wash.

I said, “We got no horses, Virgil.”

A half mile or so away, the wash curved slightly west and you couldn’t see down it anymore.

“I’ll ride the train on to Yaqui and get some.”

Cole still held the Winchester exactly as he had held it when he was talking to the Sheltons. He was squinting into the sun as he looked southwest along the wash. His face, half shielded by his hat’s brim, was without expression.

“I’ll bring the horses back here,” I said, “and if you ain’t here, I’ll follow you down the wash.”

Cole turned suddenly and walked off the bridge and began to edge down the side of the dry wash.

“You leave the wash,” I said. “Leave me a sign.”

Cole didn’t answer or look at me. He started walking southwest along the flat bottom of the wash, looking at the tracks in the dirt. I went back and got aboard the train.

We didn’t get to Yaqui until after six that night. Stringer, being a deputy, could roust people around a little and, even though some of the stores were closed in Yaqui, I was on the way back to Chester by 8:15 with three horses and a pack mule carrying supplies. There was a good moon, and the stars were bright, and all I had to do was follow the tracks.

32

When I got to the water tower, the moon was nearly down, but the sky to the east was still dark. I let the horses and the mule drink from a trough near the windmill. There was nothing moving in the wash. If I started down there now, in the dark, I couldn’t read the tracks, and if Cole had left me a sign, I might not see it. This wasn’t going to be a quarter-mile horse race. This would be a long ride. Long rides went better when you didn’t hurry. I tethered the animals, gave them some feed, and ate a can of peaches. I sat down with my back against the railroad shed and slept for a while, facing east, so the sunrise would wake me up. Which it did. It was slow going down the wash, trailing three animals. I thought about driving them ahead of me, but that would have wiped out any tracks that the Sheltons, and Cole, left. Next spring the wash would be roiling with water until summer. But right now it was dry as dust, with the little rivulet patterns of the spring torrent showing on the bottom. The hoofprints from the Sheltons’ horses were clear enough, and among them I could see Cole’s boot prints. They had a twelve-hour start on me, but sooner or later I’d catch up with Cole, and then, sooner or later, we’d catch up with Allie.

I had matches wrapped up in oilcloth in my shirt pocket. I had a Winchester in a saddle scabbard under my left leg, and the eight-gauge under my right. I had two canteens slung over the saddle horn. I had a .45- caliber Colt on my belt and a bowie knife. Wrapped in a slicker and tied behind my saddle was a change of clothes. Cole would have to make do with what he was wearing. I had ammunition and food and water and whiskey and a few sundries on the mule.

The tracks were clear enough. There was nothing out here and no reason for anybody to be here. Nobody else had ridden the wash for a long time. There were some coyote tracks mixed in, and some antelope spoor. As the wash turned west, I could feel the sun hard on my back. It was getting hot. The horses weren’t tugging on the lead anymore. The mule had been on a lead all his life and the extra saddle mounts had fallen into his rhythm. I drank a little water. The sun was halfway up toward midday when the wash petered out onto a flat plain. The tracks stayed west and then got hard to follow in the scrub that covered the ground. I had to get off my horse to follow them, leading all four of the damned animals. Pretty soon they’d be riding me.

It was past midday when I came to a pile of stones about a foot high. I stopped and squatted and looked at it. Beside it, on the ground, was a smaller pattern of stones in the form of an arrow. It pointed south. I scattered the stones, remounted, and turned my animals south, and we moved on. I didn’t need to track much anymore. I knew Cole would leave me directions. And he did. Some mesquite freshly cut. Some dry sticks pointing south, bigger growth with a prominent slash. In the late afternoon, I found him, near a shale outcropping, sitting on a rock, beside a marshy-looking water hole, with the Winchester in his lap, his boots off, and his feet in the water. He watched me ride up, trailing the animals.

“Everett,” he said.

“Virgil.”

“Might as well get down,” Cole said. “We can camp here. Water’s good, and”—he nodded at the outcropping—“we can shelter a fire if we stay by the stone.”

I unloaded the mule and unsaddled the horses and put them on a loose tether so they could drink and forage for food among the scrub. Then I built a fire against the outcropping and put out food for supper, and squatted on my heels and started to cook. Cole never moved from where he sat with his feet in the water, until the thick slices of salt pork began to hiss in the frying pan. Then he put his boots on and came to the fire with a limp that barely showed. He poured himself some coffee.

“Whiskey in that saddlebag,” I said.

He got the bottle and poured some in his coffee.

“You?” he said.

I held out my coffee cup, and he poured some whiskey into it. Each of us took a sip, first blowing on the surface of the coffee so we wouldn’t burn our lips.

“Stringer getting a posse up?” Cole said.

“Talking about it when I left Yaqui,” I said.

“You found my stones.”

“Yep.”

“Scatter the arrow?” Cole said.

“Yep.”

Cole sipped more of his coffee.

“Good,” he said after he swallowed. “Don’t want no goddamn herd of cowboys and hardware clerks stampedin’ around out here. Getting in our way.”

When the salt pork had cooked nearly through, I dropped some biscuit dough into the grease and let it fry, and turned it once, and took the fried biscuits and the salt pork and put them into tin plates.

“They ahead of us?” I said.

“Yep. Probably widened the gap today. Me walking and all.”

“Twelve,” I said, “fifteen hours.”

Cole nodded.

“They know we’re behind them?” I said.

“Sheltons know me,” Cole said. “They know I’ll be coming.”

“We plannin’ on stayin’ the night here?” I said.

“Got to sleep,” Cole said. “We ain’t going to catch them today.”

I leaned back a little and stretched out my legs and drank some more coffee. Cole looked at the mule and the horses.

“Must have been tiresome,” Cole said, “draggin’ them three animals on a lead.”

“Some,” I said. “Mule caught on pretty quick, and the horses got the idea in time.”

“Be easier now. I’ll lead her horse, you lead the mule.”

I nodded. We ate our meal and drank coffee with whiskey and didn’t say much. When it was dark, we let the fire die and settled to sleep between it and the rock, wrapped in strong-smelling saddle blankets.

“Got any thoughts where they might be headed?” I said to Cole.

“South,” Cole said.

33

It was just after dawn on our third day, and the trail had turned straight west. Now and then, Cole would see a hoofprint in among the ground cover. But mostly, we were able to follow them through horse droppings and the signs of campfires.

“I been thinking,” I said to Cole.

“Un-huh.”

He rode with his eyes on the ground, leading the saddle horse, with me trailing the mule.

“We’re all the law there was in Appaloosa,” I said.

“Yep.”

“And now we ain’t there.”

“Yep.”

“So,” I said. “Now there ain’t no law there.”

“Yep.”

“And that don’ bother you?” I said.

Cole looked up from the tracking for a moment.

“No,” he said. “It don’t.”

We rode on: Cole, head down, looking at the ground; me riding beside him, looking at the landscape. The saddle horse trailing placidly behind him, the mule behind me. Neither of us said anything. When we kicked up a jackrabbit, my hand went to my handgun, before I caught it. Cole never flinched. I’m not even sure he saw the rabbit. We kept on. We didn’t hurry, but we didn’t stop. Ahead, past the horizon above where our present direction would take us, there was a circular movement in the sky.

“Buzzards,” I said.

Cole looked up. His face showed nothing. We kept on. In maybe an hour, we came to where the buzzards were feeding. It was the carcass of a young buffalo, mostly bones now, and hooves. Most of what could be eaten had been. The buzzards flew up as we rode up, and landed again a few feet away. Cole ignored them. He got off his horse and went and squatted on his heels and looked at the remnants. The buzzards hopped restlessly just out of his reach. He paid no attention.

“Hide’s gone,” he said.

I sat my horse and waited, looking at the landscape. Cole didn’t need my help with the buffalo.

“Scapula’s broke,” he said.

I looked down and could see that it was. Cole rummaged a little among the bones and the blood-soaked grass where the buffalo had fallen.

“Shot,” he said.

Cole opened his hand and showed me two big lead slugs, misshapen from shattering the scapula.

“Bigger’n a forty-five,” Cole said.

“Fifty, maybe.”

“Maybe one of them old Sharps buffalo guns,” Cole said.

The vultures edged closer. There were still a few scraps on the bones.

“I didn’t see no sign of one,” I said, “with the Sheltons.”

“Nope. Wouldn’t take the hide, either.”

He was looking at the ground.

“See the horse tracks?” he said.

I rode nearer and wheeled around the dead animal, scattering the buzzards as I went.

“Not shod,” I said.

“And they bothered to skin it and take the hide,” Cole said.

“Indians.”

“Yep.”

I rode out a little way from the carcass, and in a slow wider circle, which infuriated the buzzards who had just lit there, after I’d scattered them in closer. On foot, Cole walked out toward where I was. I leaned forward in my saddle.

“Here’s the shod hoofprints,” I said. “And the unshod, mingled.”

Cole squatted, looking at the smudges in the dirt. Then he got down on his belly and put his face barely an inch away from the prints and looked, and slithered along like that, looking.

“Shod prints are older,” he said. “Sides have begun to crumble a little. Unshod prints are over them. Fresher.”

I looked at the landscape again. Nothing moved but the unhappy buzzards.

“Kiowa?” I said.

“No way to say. There’s some out here.”

“Could be hunters,” I said.

“Could be, but if they was just huntin’ they’d take bones, ligaments, horns, teeth, everything. Here they just took the hide and meat.”

“No squaws,” I said.

Cole nodded.

“When you was with the Army,” he said, “was the Kiowas hostile.”

“They were,” I said. “But you know Indians. Yesterday they were, today maybe they ain’t.

“Can you tell how far behind the Sheltons they are?”

“Ain’t that good,” Cole said.

“Can you tell how far ahead of us they are?”

“Carcass don’t smell yet,” Cole said.

“Ain’t much left that would smell,” I said.

“Blood would,” Cole said. “Soaked in the ground.”

He stood and swung back up onto his horse.

“Best keep moving,” he said.

He kept looking at the ground as we rode on. I kept looking around us.

34

We camped without a fire that night, in the bend of a small river, so that the water was on three sides. And we tethered the animals close.

“No coffee,” I said. “But I still got whiskey.”

“It’ll do,” Cole said.

We ate some beef jerky and cold fry biscuits and drank some whiskey.

“Indian sign turned off about five miles back,” Cole said. “Sheltons are still going straight.”

“So they give up on the Sheltons.”

“Or they had to stop and jerk that buffalo before it started to rot,” Cole said. “Or they had something to do wherever they went and they’ll come back. Them Kiowas know there’s something ahead of ’em, and how many. It’s just if they want to chase them down.”

“Sheltons got three good gun hands, plus Allie. You know how many Indians?”

“Can’t say. They’re riding too close, and we don’t have time for me to get down and look close enough for long enough. There’s more than two.”

Cole passed me the whiskey bottle and I drank some.

“You know if Allie can shoot?”

“Anybody can shoot,” Cole said. “And hit something if it’s close enough.”

“Think they’d give her a gun?”

“I don’t think nothing,” Cole said. “Can you stay awake until midnight?”

“Yes.”

“And I can stay awake from then to dawn,” Cole said. “Wake me up.”

He rolled up in his saddle blanket and, as far as I could tell, went to sleep right away. I put the whiskey away and wrapped my saddle blanket around me, sat in the dark under the high stars with the shotgun across my lap, and listened to the sound of the river, and the smell of the water and the grass mixed with the smell of horse blanket, and the night went its way. Halfway to dawn, I woke Cole. He came awake as instantly as he’d fallen asleep.

In the morning, the mule woke me up, nudging at me for its morning feed. We fed the stock and washed in the river and had a cold breakfast and moved on.

“Sheltons got to be heading someplace,” I said. “They probably got some money before they started, but nobody’s fool enough to pay them all. They got to deliver Bragg to collect the rest.”

“Be my suppose,” Cole said.

“So they’re headin’ someplace, and we’re behind them,” I said. “Good to know we ain’t just wandering.”

Cole nodded, his eyes on the ground.

“ ’Course it’d be even better to know where the someplace was.”

“Would,” Cole said.

It was late morning when Cole halted and bent out of his saddle, looking at the ground.

“Indians are back,” he said.

I moved up beside him and saw them, too. They had trailed in from the west and cut the Sheltons’ tracks.

We moved on that way for a little, slowly, with Cole hanging out of the saddle, studying the tracks.

“They’re following,” Cole said.

“Any better sense of how many?”

Cole studied the tracks as we rode.

After maybe a mile of silence, he said, “Can’t really tell much. Might be quite a few.”

By midafternoon the trail turned west, and by late afternoon we were climbing. We had to move the animals slower and rest them some. By dark, we were in the foothills of some mountains and the temperature was cooler. We camped under an overhang against the hillside, near a spring. There was grass. We let the animals graze on a long tether. We sat in the dark again that night and ate jerky and hardtack and drank some whiskey.

“We ain’t going to be able to follow these tracks much more if they keep heading up,” I said.

“We can look for broken branches,” Cole said. “Campfire ashes, the leavin’s from a meal, horse droppings, maybe some human waste.”

“If they keep going straight,” I said. “You got any idea where we are?”

“Two days southwest of Chester,” Cole said.

“You know what mountains these are?”

“Nope.”

“You think we’re closing on them at all?” I said.

“Can’t say, but I know Allie ain’t much of a rider. She may slow them down.”

“What are we going to do about her?” I said.

“We’ll figure that out when we get there,” Cole said.

“They’ll use her as a shield, Virgil, why they brought her.”

“ ’Course they will. Wouldn’t you?”

There was no moon. The sky was clouded. With our blankets around us, we sat in near absolute darkness. We couldn’t see each other. We didn’t know where we were. There was only the sound of the animals eating grass, and trickling water, and our voices. It felt like being the only living human thing in the universe.

“Hard business,” I said. “Hard business.”

“It’s all hard business,” Cole said, “what we do.”

“You all right?” I said.

Cole was silent for a time and then he said, “All right?”

“How you feel,” I said. “ ’Bout Allie and all.”

Cole was silent again, and the silence seemed so long that I thought maybe he’d gone to sleep.

Then he said, “Everett, we been together now awhile. Can’t exactly say how long, but long. And there ain’t anyone I’d rather do this work with. You’re as good as anybody I seen, ’cept maybe the Shelton boys . . . and me.”

“That’s pretty good,” I said.

“And the reason you ain’t as good as the Sheltons or me ain’t got nothing to do with steady, or fast, or fortuitous.”

I knew he meant fortitude.

“The reason the above-named folks are better’n you,” Cole said, “is ’cause you got feelin’s.”

“Hell, Virgil, everybody got feelin’s.”

“Feelin’s get you killed,” Virgil said.

“You tellin’ me you don’t care about Allie right now?”

Again, there was silence. I could hear one of the horses snort, as if maybe he’d gotten an insect up his nose. It was a comforting sound in the vast, black silence. It sounded familiar and calm.

After a while Cole said, “I cared about Allie in town. And I’ll care about her when I get her back.”

“But right now?” I said.

I could feel Cole thinking it over.

“Gimme that bottle,” he said, and put his hand out and touched my leg so I knew where to hand him the bottle. I put the bottle in his hand and heard him drink. Then the bottle touched my leg again and I took it back and drank some.

“Right now,” Cole said, “there’s something runnin’, and I’m trying to catch it.”

I heard him stir around as if to get more comfortable, and then he was silent. I had the first half of the night. I shifted my back a little against the boulder where we were, and sipped some whiskey and sat in the thick darkness and listened.

35

The next morning, we went mostly on foot, leading the animals. We looked for any sign that would tell us they’d been there, and the sign was sparse. About midmorning, we worked our way around a side of ledge to the top of a valley. In the bottom of the valley was a river that led out into the foothills and, beyond that, to the flatlands. In the flatland, on the south side of the river, was movement. We stopped at the top of the valley and looked at it.

I got a spyglass out of my saddlebag and handed it to Cole. He telescoped it open and looked down at the movement. His eyes weren’t no better than mine. But it was his woman they took.

“Four riders,” Cole said after a while. “And a pack animal. One of the riders is a woman.”

He handed me the glass and I looked. They were too far to make out that it was Allie, but who the hell else would it be.

“Picked up a third man,” I said. “Musta been waiting someplace with the packhorse.”

Cole didn’t answer. He sat motionless on his horse, staring down at the plain.

“We can work our way down to the river easy enough,” he said, “without them seeing us.”

I lowered the glass.

“Then we can sit tight and rest the animals, and us, until the sun goes down and they make camp. Then we can ride out and get close.”

Below us, in the foothills to the north of the river, there was movement.

“That way, we can lay flat and get the lay of how things are,” Cole said. “ ’Fore we go in.”

I put the glass back up to my eye and looked at the movement in the foothills. It was Indians, riding close together among the pine trees, staying behind the hills. It was too hard to count through the glass with much accuracy. But I guessed twelve. I handed the glass to Cole and pointed. He studied the Indians without expression.

“Southern Cheyenne?” he said.

“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe Kiowa. I think they’re carrying them little medicine shields like Kiowas have.”

Cole looked some more.

“Might be,” he said. “Make any difference?”

“Nope. Neither one of ’em likes us.”

“Got no reason to,” he said. “How many you count?”

“Twelve.”

“About what I count,” Cole said. “Maybe a few more.”

“They’re doggin’ those folks,” I said.

“Yep,” Cole said.

“They’ll be a problem.”

“Speculate that they will,” Cole said. “Nothin’ we can do about it.”

“No,” I said.

“So we’ll just keep doing what we’re doing,” Cole said, and moved his horse forward and let it begin to pick its way down the side of the valley, with the extra saddle horse behind him.

I followed with the mule. As we got down into the valley, the Indians were out of sight behind the hills. We wouldn’t see them again until we got out of the valley. Then we might see more of them than we wanted to. If the thought was bothering Cole, he didn’t mention it. Nor did he show any sign of being in a hurry. He was going where he was going to go at the pace he needed to go at, and he was taking me with him.

36

We camped at the bottom of the foothills, just before we reached the plain, next to the river, in a grove of trees. It was still daylight, and we had an early, cold supper. No whiskey this day.

“I need some coffee,” I said.

“Yes,” Cole said.

“We get through with this and I’m going to drink ten cups,” I said. “For breakfast.”

“Won’t be dozin’ much that day,” Cole said.

The animals grazed in the shade. We took turns washing ourselves and our clothes in the river, and spread the wet clothes on the grass at the edge of the trees, away from the river, to dry in the sun. I had a change of clothes. But Cole didn’t. While his clothes dried, Cole walked around in a pair of clean drawers I gave him, with his gun belt on.

“Them Indians show up now, Virgil, you ain’t gonna have to shoot ’em,” I said. “They gonna die from laughin’.”

At sundown, with clean clothes, Cole’s nearly dry, we set out along the river as quiet as we could. The sun was down, but the moon wasn’t up yet, and all the light there was lingered from the set sun. Cole went first. He had the lead from the riderless horse tied to his saddle, and his Winchester out of the sheath and cocked. I rode the same way, with the mule. I was listening so hard that I was getting tired, like it was a muscular effort. To our right, the river was still running turbulent out of the mountains. Ahead of us, I knew, it would broaden and meander on the flat plain. Aside from the river, the only sounds we heard were our own as we moved west on the south side of the river. The land flattened, and the pines gave way to cottonwoods along the river. After another hour or so of soft riding, Cole stopped and sat still. I sat beside him.

“Smell it,” he said quietly.

“Campfire,” I said.

We moved on, slower, staying close to the edge of the river, among the cottonwoods. In the moonlight, we could see up ahead where the river bent in an almost U-shaped meander, and on the tip of the point of land it created, we could see the fire. We stood still. Occasionally, we could see movement as someone passed between us and the fire. We tied the animals and went forward as quiet as we could move. The tree cover gave out maybe fifty yards from the camp. But it was close enough. We could both see that it was the Sheltons. I took the glass out and handed it to Cole. He lengthened it and put it to his eye. He slowly swept the glass over the campsite. Without the glass, I could see that there were three people sitting by the fire with a bottle. None was Allie. I looked around. Near the river, there was a cluster of brush, and behind it, in the river, near the bank, there was movement. Cole settled the glass on it. I waited. As Cole watched, I heard the sound of a woman laughing. It was so unexpected that I almost didn’t know what the sound was. Cole watched for a time. Then, without a sound, he handed me the glass. I adjusted it a little and brought Allie and Ring Shelton into focus. They were standing thigh-deep in the river. They were naked. I put the glass down and collapsed it. I didn’t look at Cole. We heard Allie laugh again, and we saw their indistinct shapes come out of the river and sink to the ground behind the brush cluster, and we couldn’t see them. But in the still, night air, we could hear them. I turned and walked several feet back toward the horses and stopped, and walked back, and stood next to Cole.

“Along the river,” Cole said. “Beyond the camp.”

The Indians had found the Sheltons.

“Must have been a ford downstream,” I said. “They went on down the north side of the river, and forded and came back.”

“Bring the animals up,” Cole said.

“Mule, too?”

“Yep.”

I turned and went. It took a little to maneuver three horses and a mule through the trees quietly, but the sound of the river helped cover our sounds. When I got back, the Indians were in the camp, all of them armed. Most of them with Winchesters. All of them sitting their horses, looking silently down at the three men around the campfire. Cole had retreated a few yards back, in among the trees. Three of them detached from the main body and walked their horses over to the brush where Ring and Allie were. They looked down solemnly for a while and then one of them said something to the other two and all three laughed. The first rider was carrying an old Sharps rifle, that must have killed the buffalo we found. He gestured Ring and Allie should join the others. Ring bent over and picked up his pants. He looked silently back at the Indian with the Sharps rifle as he slowly slid one leg on, then the other, and buttoned them up. Allie bent down to pick up her dress, and the Indian leaned from his saddle, with the rifle in one hand, steady on Ring, and took the dress away and flung it into the river. When Ring had finished buttoning, he gestured again with the rifle, toward the campfire. One of the other Indians jumped down from his horse and picked up one of Allie’s undergarments. He tied it carefully onto his lance and jumped back up astride the horse and waved the lance triumphantly over his head. All of the Indians laughed. I was pretty sure they were Kiowas. Ring and Allie walked to the fire. Allie stood naked in the middle of four white men and maybe a dozen bucks.

“We’ll watch a bit, see if they got bad intentions.”

“And if they do?”

“We’ll shoot a couple,” Cole said, “many as we can ’fore they scatter.”

“What about the whites?” I said.

“They’ll run for the tree cover,” Cole said. “Ring and Mackie will both know.”

“And then what?”

“And then we’ll see,” Cole said. “Make sure them horses is tied secure ’fore we shoot.”

I did, and then went back to him. Bragg was holding the whiskey. One of the Indians leaned out of his saddle and took the bottle from Bragg’s hands and raised it to his mouth and drank some and passed the bottle to the buck next to him.

“Any of you bucks speak English,” Bragg said.

The Indian with the Sharps rifle turned his horse toward where Bragg was standing and put the muzzle of the rifle against Bragg’s forehead, then put his hand to his own mouth and made a silencing gesture. Bragg stood frozen. Four of the Indians dismounted and began going through the Shelton party’s belongings.

I whispered to Cole, “We start shooting, they’ll scatter.”

“They won’t charge us.”

“Indians ain’t stupid. They can’t see us. They don’t know how many we are. They’ll scatter and regroup on the other side of that rise.”

“And they won’t just run off,” Cole said.

“No,” I said. “There’s a lot of stuff here they want. Probably includin’ Allie. They’ll settle in behind the rise, see what’s what.”

Cole and I looked for a moment at the low hill half a mile from the river.

“Don’t think they ain’t good fighters,” I said. “They can ride like hell, and they can shoot, and they ain’t afraid to die. Buck with the Sharps rifle probably runs things.”

“We let ’em take what they want,” Cole said. “ ’Cept Allie.”

I nodded, which was a waste of time. Cole wasn’t looking at me. He was studying the Indians, who were collecting the weapons and the whiskey. They loaded these and some foodstuffs into two big bags on a pack animal, then they gathered the horses. Sharps Rifle said something to one of the horse gatherers, and he nodded and saddled one of the horses. The rest were herded to the back of the group, ready to be driven ahead of them when they left. The saddle horse was handed to Sharps Rifle. He took the lead in one hand and, holding the rifle in the other, moved his horse with the pressure of his knees away from Bragg and stopped him in front of Allie. He jerked his head at the horse.

“No,” she said.

Standing naked among all the men, her body looked small and white. The Indian gestured with his rifle. Allie seemed to get smaller; she stepped back as if to shield herself behind Ring Shelton. He didn’t move. He simply watched the Indian. Sharps Rifle said something again, and two Indians jumped down. One of them tossed a blanket around Allie’s shoulders. She clutched it around her as if it were armor. Then the two Indians picked her up and put her on the horse.

“Shoot the packhorse,” Cole said. “We’ll need the weapons.”

Then he raised the Winchester and shot Allie’s horse out from under her. Before the animal had floundered down, he had shot the Indian with the Sharps rifle in the middle of the chest. I killed the pack animal and put a bullet into the Indian who’d been holding it. The rest flattened themselves over their horses’ necks, and hanging down on the side away from the gunfire drove them in a flat-out run toward the low hill. Cole and I each managed to knock down another horse, but in both cases the rider was up and behind another Indian before the horse had died.

The Shelton horses, waiting to be driven, had spooked and were strung out at a gallop along the river, straight west. The Shelton brothers dove flat behind the dead packhorse. Mackie pulled a knife from his boot and cut the pack bags loose. Bragg and the other man came at a dead run toward us in the woods. Allie struggled away from her dead horse and followed them, hanging on to her blanket. Mackie took one pack bag and Ring took the other, and they sprinted for the woods as well. The Indians didn’t shoot; they were heading for the hill. There’d be plenty of time to kill us, if the Indians decided they could.

The Indians went behind the rise, out of sight. Mackie cut open the pack bags, and he and Ring got their guns out, rifles and sidearms. Bragg and the fourth man got theirs out as well. When this was done, Ring straightened and looked at us.

“Knew you’d be after us,” Ring said.

Cole nodded.

“Kiowa?” Cole said to Ring.

“Think so. They got them funny little shields,” Ring said. “How many horses you got?”

“Three and a pack mule,” Cole said.

Ring looked at me.

“Everett,” he said.

Mackie nodded at me.

Allie was crouched near us with her blanket around her. Bragg had flattened out on the ground with a Winchester, facing toward the hill where the Indians had gone.

“This here’s my cousin Russell,” Ring said. “Russell can shoot a little.”

Russell nodded, looking off toward where the Indians had vanished behind the rise. He was a small, wiry man with a big Adam’s apple and not much hair.

“First thing,” Cole said. “While we got them hostiles to deal with, it ain’t a good idea for us to be shootin’ each other.”

“There’s a town we was heading for, ’bout two days’ ride,” Ring said. “Without pushing the horses, I say we put our troubles aside until the day after we get there.”

“Your word?” Cole said.

“My word.”

Cole nodded.

“Everett?” he said.

“Twenty-four hours?”

Ring nodded.

“Fine,” I said.

“Okay,” Cole said. “Mackie, you got any clothes in there to cover Allie up?”

“None a hers,” Mackie said. “You remember she come along sort of sudden.”

“Got some spare pants in there,” Russell said. “I seen them Indians pack ’em.”

He felt around in the bag and came out with the pants and gave them to Allie. I gave Allie my clean shirt. Clutching the blanket around her she stood and looked for a place to change.

Cole said, “We seen pretty much everything you got, Allie. No reason to go hiding it now.”

Without looking at him, she went behind some bushes and came out a minute later, looking silly but dressed. The pants were too big. She rolled the bottoms and I cut her some rope to make a belt. I was at least twice her size. My shirt billowed around her. The sleeves were too long to roll. I cut them off for her at about the elbows.

“Fire’s dying down,” Russell said. “Ain’t much moon. I can snake out there and get them moccasins off one of them bucks you shot.”

“I can’t wear those.”

I said, “You don’t want to be walking around barefoot, Allie.”

“We can’t spare no shooters,” Ring said.

“I can get ’em,” Russell said. “I don’t make much of a target.”

He eased out from the trees on his stomach and scooted on his belly toward the nearest corpse. He could go like hell on his stomach. He came back with the moccasins.

“Fit anybody,” Russell said. “Just wrap the laces around your legs.”

The moccasins had been greased to keep them flexible and to repel water. Allie looked like she wouldn’t take them, then she did and put them on and wrapped the lacings. She looked preposterous. But she was dressed. Being dressed seemed to pick her up a little.

“What are we going to do?” she said.

Her voice wasn’t very big, and it had no reason to be. I noticed she put the question to a spot about halfway between Ring and Virgil.

“We’re workin’ on that,” Ring said. “Sit over there.”

Allie looked at Cole. He was looking elsewhere. Allie went and sat against the foot of a tree near the horses and the mule. Mackie picked up his Winchester and moved to the edge of the woods away from Bragg. Russell settled in near the middle of our little perimeter. Cole and Ring and I sat on our heels between Russell and Mackie, and looked out of the shelter of the trees at the low rise across from us, and not very far.

“Think they’ll come at us?” Ring said.

“Nope,” Cole said. “Everett?”

“No,” I said. “They won’t. Not until they know what we are and how many. They’ll put someone upriver and downriver within shouting distance, and they’ll watch us from behind the hill.”

“They know we ain’t got enough horses,” Ring said.

“They don’t know that; we could have brought extra. In the morning, they’ll send someone upriver a ways to track us, see how many we are, then they’ll know we’re short some horses.”

“Yours’ll probably come drifting back,” Cole said.

“Indians will kill them if they do,” I said.

“ ’Less they don’t see ’em,” Ring said.

“They’ll see ’em,” Cole said.

Ring nodded.

“They will,” he said. “Won’t they.”

“And noon tomorrow, when the trackers come back, they’ll know how many we are and how many horses we got.”

“Nobody can read sign like an Indian,” Cole said.

“ ’Less they drink up all the whiskey tonight,” Ring said.

I shook my head.

“Everett’s right,” Cole said. “These are fighters. They ain’t going to get drunk in the middle of a fight.”

“So I guess we got to dig in here and await developments,” Ring said.

“Anybody see if they got food?” I said.

“Didn’t see none,” Ring said.

Cole shook his head no.

“Butchered that buffalo a ways back,” he said. “Musta cooked it, probably still got some left.”

“There’s about ten of ’em got to eat,” I said.

“Thirteen,” Ring said. “There was fifteen when they arrived. You killed two.”

“Food might work for us or against us,” Cole said. “They get hungry and they got someplace else to get it, they might go there. They ain’t, it’ll make ’em more vigilant, trying to get ours.”

I think he meant vigorous. But Ring and I both knew what he meant.

“We got the river behind us,” Ring said. “And we back up a little to the end of this point, we’ll have it on three sides.”

“Can’t watch ’em too good from there,” I said.

“Got a shovel on the mule,” Cole said. “We can dig us in a little back there, and pull down some trees and branches around, shield the horses. Couple of us stay up here, if they come at us and we need to, we can pull everybody back into the redoubt.”

“Now?” I said.

“I’d say so,” Cole said.

37

We can build a fire,” Bragg said. “Ain’t like they don’t know we’re here.”

We had dug us a small hollow by the river, and dragged some brush and tree limbs around.

“Sure can,” Ring said. “And then maybe cook a little something over it.”

“I could use some coffee,” Bragg said.

“So build the fire and make some coffee,” Ring said. “And if they decide to sneak in closer, maybe swim the river and shoot at the fire from behind us, they might miss you.”

“You think they’d do that?” Bragg said.

Ring glanced at Cole.

“What’s that thing you always used to say, Virgil? Read it in some book?”

“Clausewitz,” Cole said. “Clausewitz says you gotta plan for what your enemy can do, not what you think he’ll do.”

“Fuck Clausewitz,” Bragg said.

But he didn’t start a fire.

“Everett and I will go up front now.”

“Be sure and let Mackie know it’s you,” Ring said. “You know how quick he is.”

Bent nearly double, Cole and I went through the cottonwoods toward the fallen tree behind which Mackie and Russell were watching.

When we were maybe a hundred feet away, Cole said, “Virgil Cole, Mackie.”

“Come on,” Mackie said.

We dropped to our knees and crept to the watch spot.

“You boys can head back now, get some sleep,” Cole said.

They left us without a word. Both of them moved very quietly in the woods. Ahead of us, the land was treeless. The Sheltons’ fire had died away entirely. The moon was already declining but still bright enough to fill the land between the woods and the low hill with pallid emptiness. Nothing moved. There was no sound except the water behind us. The sky was vast and dark. There were stars, but they seemed pitiless.

“They’ll come in the morning,” Cole said.

“Not right at us,” I said.

“No. I figure they’ll send some riders around out of rifle range and cross the river and come back up behind us. They’ll wait for the trackers to go upstream and find our trail. See who we are, how many we are.”

“Woods aren’t that thick,” I said. “In the day, they’ll get a fair idea even ’fore the trackers come back.”

“We can try to keep down,” Cole said. “Not move around.”

“When the trackers come back, they’ll know anyway,” I said.

“Still ain’t good battlefield for ’em,” Cole said. “They got to cross that open land between us and the hill.”

“Or swim the river.”

“Either way, they got to come at us with no cover and six of us shooting.”

“They know that,” I said.

“Expect they do.”

“If they do, then we’re back to seeing how long they’ll sit there,” I said. “We got all the water we need, and we got some food.”

“Might be smart to parcel it out small,” Cole said.

“Might be.”

“We don’t know what they got,” Cole said.

“Or how far they’d have to go to get it.”

“Water’s not a problem for them, either.”

“Nope,” I said. “They just go down the river out of range and get it.”

Behind us, a small voice said, “Virgil.”

“Yes, Allie,” Virgil said.

“Can I come up and sit with you and Everett?”

“Yep.”

She came up crouching, in her ridiculous clothes, looking very small, and sat cross-legged on the ground between us.

“You ever fire a pistol,” Cole said.

“No.”

“Best you learned. Everett, you got that little hideout dingus you usually carry?”

“I do,” I said, and took an over/under derringer out of the side pocket of my pants.

I broke it open, took out the two .45 cartridges, and closed the weapon.

“It’s unloaded now,” I said. “But pretend it isn’t.”

I handed it to her. She handled it as if it were some vile reptile.

“Just a piece of equipment, Allie,” I said. “Like a cherry pitter. Won’t do anything ’less you operate it.”

“It’s not very heavy,” she said.

“It’ll be a little heavier with the bullets in it.”

I had her dry fire it a few times, then I took it and reloaded it and gave it back to her.

“I . . . what am I supposed to do with it?”

“Keep it with you,” I said.

“Indians win this,” Cole said, “cock that thing, put it in your mouth, pull the trigger.”

“Kill myself?”

“ ’Less you want to be the bottom squaw in some buck’s string,” Cole said.

“Oh, God,” she said.

Neither Cole or I said anything. I don’t imagine Cole could think of anything to say, either. Awkwardly, Allie put the derringer in the pocket of her too-big pants. The three of us sat, looking out over the short stretch of empty prairie.

Finally Allie said, “I’m sorry, Virgil.”

Cole didn’t speak.

“I don’t know what to say, Virgil. I . . . how are we going to make this right?”

Cole stayed silent, looking toward where the Kiowas were.

“I was so alone,” Allie said, “and Bragg was . . . Ring protected me, and he told his brother to protect me. And they both did.”

Cole didn’t turn his head.

“So you fuck Mackie, too?” he said.

“I . . . no . . . It was Ring. Ring was in charge. What was I supposed to do?” Allie said.

Cole didn’t say anything else. I didn’t want any part of this and had nothing to say.

“I was alone . . . I want to fix this between us, between you and Ring.”

Cole turned his head slowly and looked at her in the faint light.

“I’ll think about that another time,” Cole said. “Right now, I’m thinking about Indians.”

38

At first light, we spotted the tracker. He swung out in a big arc from behind the hill, staying out of rifle range, and headed upstream. Another rider came out on the other side, described the same wide arc out of range, and headed downstream.

“He ain’t a tracker,” Cole said. “They come from down there they know we didn’t.”

“He’ll cross downstream, come up for a look on the other side of the river,” I said.

“And we just sit here?” Bragg said.

“Not if you got a better plan,” Cole said.

“Maybe we send somebody out after them two bucks,” Bragg said. “Got ’em isolated from the rest, kill ’em off, improve our odds.”

“Ain’t a bad idea,” Ring said. “Course them other Kiowas up there will see us send somebody, so they’ll send somebody, too. So our man is outnumbered two to one.”

“Maybe our man can kill them both. We got some gun hands here.”

“Maybe,” Ring said. “Which one you want to follow? Upstream or down?”

Bragg was silent. Then he shook his head.

“Might make a fire this morning,” I said. “It won’t stand out so much in the day.”

“Indians can’t get close enough to shoot,” Cole said, “in the daylight.”

We made our fire, and we all had coffee and fried salt pork. Coffee made me feel better. In about an hour, we saw one of the Indians on the other side of the river, squatting beside a big rock, looking at our campsite. About midmorning we saw the upstream Indian come back, swinging wide away from our guns and disappearing behind the hill. When we looked again, the one across the river was gone. After that, nothing. We sat with our weapons, watching the hill. Nobody appeared. No sound drifted down across the grassland. Nothing happened. We drank some more coffee and ate some jerky and hardtack. We dipped the hardtack in the coffee to soften it. We took turns sleeping. For supper, Allie made fry biscuits. We ate them with salt pork and coffee and hardtack. We dipped our hardtack. We took turns sleeping.

On the second day of this, Bragg said to us, “How do we know they’re still there?”

“We don’t,” Cole said.

“How we going to find out?” Bragg said.

No one said anything for a time, then I said, “I’m going to ride up and see.”

All of them looked at me. I thought Cole was going to say something. But he didn’t. Instead, he nodded. I got up and went to the brush-and-branches pen we’d made and saddled my horse. I put the Winchester in its saddle sleeve, checked my Colt and holstered it, picked up the shotgun, and got on my horse.

“Don’t go no further than you have to,” Cole said. “I can cover you about halfway there. All we need to know is that they didn’t keep the hill between us and skedaddle.”

I nodded. Cole picked up his rifle and settled in on his stomach with his Winchester. Ring did the same thing.

“We’ll do what we can,” Ring said.

“Minute you see an Indian,” Cole said, “you turn and run for the woods.”

I nodded again. Then I turned my horse’s head and clucked and nudged him with my knee and we rode out of the woods and onto the short-grass open land. The sun was high and steady. I could smell the river and the grass. The horse was frisky from standing around in the woods. He capered a couple of times as we moved into the sun. I held him to a walk. There was no reason to hurry. Nothing was moving but me. The only sound was the horse walking. I had the shotgun resting across my saddle in front of me. It was cocked. As we walked toward the hill, the horse kicked up some grasshoppers and they jumped frantically in front of us. The horse tossed his head and blew a couple of times. I knew he wanted to run. I smiled a little to myself. Hell, so did I. We were almost out of range of the woods. At this distance, even for Cole, hitting what you were aiming at would be mostly luck. I kept riding slowly toward the hill. Nothing moved. Some more grasshoppers jumped around in front of us as we walked. The grass smell was strong. I didn’t smell the river anymore. I could feel the hard sun on my back. We were almost to the foot of the hill. Out of rifle range. I was on my own. I stopped the horse for a moment and looked up the easy slope. Nothing moved. Then it did.

A young Indian was sitting his horse on the top of the hill. He was bare-chested, wearing leggings and moccasins. There were eagle feathers in his long hair. Not much of a war bonnet. He was not yet a significant chief, but he’d earned some feathers. His horse was a big buckskin with a light mane. It wasn’t an Indian pony. He’d probably stolen it from the Army. There were white and colored beads in a tight collar around his neck, and in several looped necklaces on his chest. In the center, there was a kidney-shaped silver medallion. The lower half of his face was painted vermillion, with black paint on his cheeks and around his eyes. His eyelids were vermillion. He looked straight down at me. I looked up at him. There was contact, like looking at a wolf or a cougar and seeing not just the animal but its actual living self looking out at you. I should have turned the horse and headed back. But I didn’t. I couldn’t turn on him and run. I sat my horse with the shotgun across my saddle and waited.

In a moment, the other Indians came up behind him on the top of the hill and stopped and sat silently in a row maybe a horse’s length behind him. My horse swished his tail at a fly. I waited. The young Indian began to ride slowly down the hill toward me. He sat his horse bareback. There was no bridle, merely a length of rope tied to the buckskin’s jaw. I sat. The Indian came slowly. He was looking at me, and I at him. In his right hand he carried a Winchester. There were bullets in a looped belt around his waist. He carried a knife on the same belt. His eyes were dark brown and full of energy. I could see that the Winchester was cocked. He could see that the shotgun was cocked. My shotgun, resting on my saddle horn, was pointing to my left. He moved his horse to my right. I turned the shotgun. He seemed almost to smile. He shifted the Winchester to his left hand, holding it with the butt on his thigh and the barrel pointing up. I nodded and did the same with the shotgun. Again, he might have smiled. We were almost side by side now, headed in opposite directions. Then we were side by side, our horses standing head to tail. The Indian reached out carefully and put his right hand on my right shoulder. We sat for a fraction, as if all of time had come to a point on that contact.

Then he took his hand away and whirled his horse and whooped something in Kiowa and set the horse at a hard gallop up the hill. As he came toward them, the other Indians yelled and whooped and waved their weapons. When the young Indian reached the top of the hill, he spun his horse, making him rear and paw the air with his front feet as he did so. Then he set the horse back down on solid ground and looked down at me once more. A second Indian rode out beside him and planted a lance in the ground. It was the one with Allie’s undergarment tied to it. Several of the Indians shouted in Kiowa, and then there was laughter. The young Indian with the vermillion jaw turned his horse and disappeared over the crest of the hill, and the other Indians followed him. I could hear their hooves going down the other side.

I nudged my horse forward and we went up the hill, my shotgun still pointing up, the butt still resting on my thigh. At the top of the hill, I looked down at a flat prairie that stretched to the horizon. Below me, the Kiowas were riding away at a comfortable pace.

39

Beauville wasn’t much. It wasn’t even Appaloosa. But it was a railhead, where cattle driven up from Texas could load onto trains that would bring them to Omaha or Chicago. And being a railhead, it was livelier than it had any right to be otherwise.

We dragged into Beauville two days after my coup had been counted by the buck with the vermillion chin; we were tired, out of coffee, and short of most everything else. The horses were tired. The mule was tired. And we were tired. Allie, straggle-haired and badly dressed, dusty and sweat-streaked like the rest of us, looked especially tired. There was a hotel on the one street, and a bank, and a restaurant in a tent, and six saloons. At the far end of the street, there were a few small, unpainted houses. The train station, surrounded by cattle pens, was the grandest building in town. There was even a little steeple on it, with a big clock. According to the clock, it was 2:41. Behind the station was the city marshal’s office and jail. “This time tomorrow,” Ring said.

“This time,” Cole said.

“We’ll ride on down to the station,” Ring said. “You, too, Bragg. If the money’s there, our deal is up. If the money’s not there, we gonna be asking you where it is.”

“It’ll be there,” Bragg said. He nodded at us. “What about them?”

“Our deal covers them,” Ring said. He looked at Cole.

“That gonna be a problem?” Ring said.

“Might be,” Cole said.

Ring nodded.

“How about the woman?” he said. “She a problem?”

“Might be,” Cole said.

“Well,” Ring said. “Won’t be a problem till tomorrow afternoon.”

He nudged his horse forward. His brother followed. Bragg trailed along, and Russell behind him. Allie sat uncertainly on her horse, near me.

“Let’s head down to the hotel, Allie,” I said. “Get you a room.”

“How about you two?” she said.

“I’ll bunk in with Everett,” Cole said.

It was between cattle drives, and the hotel was nearly empty. We washed and slept and sent our clothes to the Chinaman. It was after dark when Cole and I went down to the saloon and Allie joined us. The hotelkeeper’s wife had found her some clothes, probably from one of the whores who worked in the hotel, and Allie looked pretty good again.

It wasn’t much of a saloon, two long planks set on whiskey barrels. The whiskey sat in bottles on a table behind. We had a drink, including Allie, who drank hers in very small sips.

“Will the Sheltons stick to the truce?” I said.

“Ring’s word is good,” Cole said.

“And so is ours,” I said.

“Yes.”

We were quiet. The hotelkeeper’s wife came to the table.

“You folks hungry, we got some stew and some fresh bread,” she said. “I baked it today.”

“How ’bout the stew?” Cole said.

“Been simmerin’ ’bout six years,” the woman said. “Just keep dishing it out and addin’ in stuff.”

We ordered some.

“What are we going to do?” Allie said.

“We’ll wait until tomorrow afternoon,” Cole said. “Then we’ll take Bragg back.”

“I meant us, Virgil,” she said.

I started to get up.

“I’ll have a drink at the bar,” I said.

Cole put his hand on my arm.

“Sit,” he said.

“Does Everett have to be here, Virgil?” Allie said.

“Yep.”

I wasn’t comfortable with it. But staying might not be a bad idea. If Allie started talking about us at her half-constructed house that rainy day, I would want to be around to see that the story got told adequately.

“Ring forced me to do that with him,” Allie said.

“Nope,” Cole said.

“He did, Virgil, I swear he did.”

Cole shook his head.

“I seen what I seen,” he said.

“I was afraid,” Allie said. “I was doing what I had to do to stay alive.”

“He wouldn’ta killed you,” Cole said. “He’d just trail you along with him till he didn’t need you no more.”

“Maybe you know that,” Allie said. “But I didn’t know it, Virgil. And the other men. I was a woman alone with four terrible men.”

Cole drank some whiskey and stared into the glass and didn’t say anything for a while.

Then he said to me, “Tomorrow this time we’ll have settled things with the Sheltons. If Ring kills me, you think she’ll go off with him, Everett?”

“I think Allie needs to be with a man,” I said.

“You bastard,” Allie said. “Don’t listen to him, Virgil. The sonova bitch tried to put his hands on me one day when I was showing him our house.”

Cole looked at me.

“No, Virgil,” I said. “I didn’t.”

Cole looked at me for a moment longer. I looked back. Then he looked back into his whiskey glass.

“No, Allie,” he said. “Everett didn’t do that.”

“He’s lying, Virgil. You believe him and not me?”

Cole studied the surface of his drink. He nodded his head slowly.

“That is correct,” he said.

“You men. You always stick together, don’t you. What chance has a woman got, alone?”

Cole finished his drink and poured himself another. The hotelkeeper’s wife brought us food. We all ate some and were quiet while we did. It was better than fried salt pork and hardtack.

“Well, if it’ll help you feel easy,” Cole said after a time, “nobody’s killed me yet, and I don’t think Ring can do it, either.”

“Why do you have to face him?”

“He’s got my prisoner.”

“Can’t you get the local marshal or whoever to help you?”

“Maybe,” Cole said. “Either way, he’s got my lawful prisoner.”

“And you just have to get him back,” Allie said.

“He’s my lawful prisoner,” Cole said.

“And that’s all there is to it?”

“I’m a lawman,” Cole said.

“And that’s all you are?” Allie said.

“Mostly,” Cole said.

40

After we ate, Cole and I went out and sat in a couple of chairs in front of the hotel. It was dark now, and the street traffic was mostly rail hands and cowboys heading for the saloons, and now and then a whore hurrying to work. Allie had gone back up to her room without speaking to us again. The night insects were making noise. I could hear the sound of a bad piano somewhere up the street.

“What happened at the house?” Cole said to me.

“I didn’t make no advance at Allie,” I said.

“I believe it. I tole you that already. But I’d like to know what transacted.”

I told him. He nodded slowly as he listened. If he felt anything, he didn’t show it. He sat with his chair tilted back, looking up through the clear night at the stars. After a while, he shook his head as if answering a question no one had asked.

“I never met no woman like her,” he said.

I was quiet.

“Mostly, I been with whores, and some squaws.”

Cole took out a cigar and lit it, turning it in the match flame, and got it going good and even.

“She talks good and dresses nice, and she’s good-looking,” Cole said.

He took in some cigar smoke and blew it out and watched it thin out and disappear in the night air.

“She can play the piano, and she cooks nice, and she’s very clean.”

Cole’s voice was quiet in the near darkness. He was listing assets, I thought, deciding whether to buy.

“But,” Cole said, “it appears she’ll fuck anything ain’t gelded.”

I shook my head.

“I ain’t sure that’s quite right,” I said.

“What do you think’s right?”

“I think she wants to be with the boss stallion,” I said.

“Ain’t but one stallion in a herd,” Cole said.

“At a time,” I said.

Cole smoked his cigar quietly for a time.

“So when I’m around she loves me,” Cole said.

“I think so,” I said.

“But I ain’t around and you are, she loves you.”

“Probably ain’t love,” I said.

“And when neither one of us is around, she loves Ring.”

“Again, I ain’t sure I’d say love.”

“She love me?” Cole said.

“I can’t say that she don’t,” I said. “You?”

Cole’s voice sounded a little hoarse to me. Maybe he was embarrassed. I wasn’t sure. I’d never seen him embarrassed.

“I think she does,” he said.

“You’re the one should know,” I said.

He smoked some more of his cigar, holding the tip up and exhaling past it so he could see the smoke.

“That thing with Ring,” Cole said. “It sticks in my throat, Everett. I can’t seem to swallow it.”

“Sticks in mine, too,” I said.

He puffed his cigar.

“You know she takes a bath every evenin’?” he said. “ ’Fore she goes to bed.”

It was very dark, and I could only see Cole’s face a little in the coal-oil light that came out of the hotel.

“I like bein’ with her,” he said.

“Nothin’ against it,” I said.

“No. I just got to get past the Ring business.”

“Might not be the last time,” I said.

“Be the last time with Ring,” Cole said.

A single horse and rider walked down the street in front of us, the horse’s hooves making a kind of slurred sound in the dirt, the saddle creaking gently, a quiet sound of harness metal.

“Gonna talk with the town marshal tomorrow?” I said.

“Yep. Got no objection to help.”

“And if he’s no help?”

“We done it by ourselves before,” Cole said.

“We’re going up against Ring because of Bragg,” I said.

“Can’t be a lawman and let somebody come take your prisoner,” Cole said.

“Nothin’ personal.”

“Nope. Business.”

“We done pretty good over time, Virgil, ’cause it’s never been personal. Always just a job.”

“It’s always been the law, Everett. It’s got to be the law. People like us got to have the law and got to do it by the law. You understand that, Everett. Otherwise you’re just a damn shooter. Nothin’ to prevent you from killin’ anybody.”

“And that’s how it is this time, too,” I said.

“That’s how it is every time,” Cole said.

41

In the morning, Cole and I walked down to the marshal’s office and found Russell Shelton sitting at a desk in front of the single jail cell, wearing a marshal’s badge.

“Russ,” Cole said.

“Virgil,” Russell said, “Everett.”

“Didn’t know you worked here,” I said.

“It’s family,” Russell said. “Ring ’n me ’n Mackie sorta take turns at it.”

“We’re here looking for our prisoner,” Cole said.

“Got no prisoners here, Virgil.”

Cole nodded.

“I’m guessing you ain’t gonna aid us in apprehending him,” he said, “neither.”

“You really ain’t a marshal here,” Russell said. “You’re only a marshal in Appaloosa.”

“You know where I can find Bragg?”

“He’s with Ring,” Russell said, “and Mackie.”

“And where would they be?” Cole said.

“I got to tell you boys,” Russell said. “I got nothin’ against either one of you. And I got a good feelin’ about how you helped us out with them Kiowas.”

“Where’s Bragg?” Cole said.

“I’m gonna be with Ring and Mackie,” Russell said. “We’re family. We grew up like brothers.”

“Yep. Where are they?”

“Ring says he don’t want this thing to drag on. Him and Mackie and Bragg’ll be at the stockyards at two forty-one today by the depot clock. I’ll be there, too.”

“See you there,” Cole said, and turned and walked out of the office.

I stayed a minute.

“You got them boots for Allie,” I said.

Russell nodded. I reached over the desk and we shook hands.

“Be better you boys went on back to Appaloosa,” Russell said.

“I know,” I said, and followed Cole out of the office.

He was leaning his backside against a hitching rail, looking at the street. The sky was dark with clouds.

“Might as well walk down there, get the lay of the land,” he said.

“Might as well.”

We walked the dirt street toward the stockyards. It was a shabby town, shacks mostly, some tents. Only real buildings were the hotel and the railroad station. Even the bank looked kind of flimsy.

“They could put some people behind some of these shacks,” I said. “Try to pick us off while we’re walking to the yards.”

Cole shook his head.

“Sheltons’ll come straight at us,” he said.

“Bragg?” I said.

“We’ll need to keep an eye out for Bragg,” Cole said.

The stock pens were mostly empty. A couple dozen white-faced steers jostled each other in the pen nearest the station. There were two stockmen leaning on a rail, chewing tobacco and watching them. A windmill turned at the far end of the yards, pumping water into the drinking troughs. Beside it was a weathered, gap-sided feed shed, raw boards nailed up and bleached by sun.

“We’ll be coming from here,” Cole said. “Sheltons’ll be there, by the shed.”

“How do you know,” I said.

“Where I’d be. If they don’t knock us down with the first volley, they can get behind it,” Cole said.

He looked at the sky.

“Sun ain’t gonna be an issue,” he said.

“Probably gonna rain,” I said.

Cole paid no attention.

“They’ll all have Colts,” he said, “and long guns. There’ll be a shotgun, probably Mackie.”

We walked past the stock pens. There was some wind to go with the dark sky. It spun the windmill hard and stirred little dust whirls in front of us as we walked. We stopped at the stock pens. The two stockmen paid us no attention. They kept on talking, staring at the cattle, spitting tobacco juice carefully downwind.

“We come at ’em this way,” Cole said, “we can keep the cattle between us and them until we’re close.”

The wind had picked up. It was whirling the dust now up past eye level, and pushing the tumbleweed along pretty briskly.

“Today be a good day to die?” I said.

“We ain’t gonna die,” Cole said.

“Good to know,” I said.

Cole didn’t say anything. He was looking at everything, walking through the fight as if he had already seen the rehearsal. He stopped.

“We’ll be here when it starts,” he said. “They’ll be there. They’ll be spread out. When it happens, I’ll look for Ring. You look for Mackie. I don’t know how good Russell is, but I do know how good the other two are.”

“Bragg?” I said.

“We shoot him last,” Cole said. “Bragg’s probably a good shooter. Probably killed some people. But I don’t know if he can stand his ground.”

“You ’n me are gonna kill four men,” I said.

“If Bragg stands. Otherwise, three.”

“Well, I guess if we don’t,” I said, “we’ll never know it.”

“Probably not,” Cole said.

“So I guess it don’t matter too much,” I said.

“Probably doesn’t,” Cole said.

The wind pushed a tumbleweed past us toward the shed. It bounced a little as it moved across the wagon ruts. I could taste rain on the wind, though none had fallen.

“We’ll get to here,” Cole said, “without nobody’s fired, ’cause the cows are in the way. So from here, just past this corner post, we go right at ’em and we go fast. I’ll take Ring first, you look for Mackie. And we’ll see what develops.”

I looked at the clock on the train station steeple. It read 12:23.

“I could use some coffee,” Cole said.

And we walked back toward the hotel, with the wind whipping around us, trying to take our hats.

42

Cole and I were drinking coffee at the hotel. Allie came and sat with us. She didn’t have much to say. She seemed somehow smaller than she usually was.

“We go up against Russell,” I said to Cole, “we’re going up against the law in this town.”

“We’re the law in our town,” Cole said.

Cole held his coffee cup in both hands, his elbows on the table.

“Probably deputize Ring and Mackie.”

“Probably,” Cole said.

We were quiet. Cole sipped his coffee, still with his elbows on the table, still with the cup in both hands. He didn’t look at Allie.

“Makes the law thing a little confusin’,” I said.

Cole nodded and didn’t answer.

“Guess it’s best not to worry about that right now,” I said.

“He took my prisoner. He broke the law in my town,” Cole said.

Allie sat very still, like a child allowed to sit with the adults. Her hands were folded in her lap. She sat straight in her chair, her feet close together. The hotelkeeper’s wife came and poured us some more. Cole had laid his big pocket watch on the table. It showed one o’clock.

“Aren’t either of you afraid?” Allie said.

Cole looked startled.

“Afraid?”

“Yes.” Allie’s voice seemed as small as she did. “Aren’t you afraid that you’ll be killed?”

Cole frowned a little and stared out past Allie through the hotel door at the street for a little while.

“I don’t know, Allie,” he said after a while. “I been doing this a long time. Maybe I am. But I guess I don’t think about it much.”

He looked at me.

“You ever think about it, Everett?”

“Sure.”

“You scared?”

“Sure.”

“Probably a good thing,” Cole said. “Makes you a little quicker.”

I nodded.

“I’m scared all the time,” Allie said.

“Of what?” Cole said.

“Everything.”

“Like what?”

“Like being alone, or being with the wrong man, having no money, no place to live. If I don’t have a man, what am I supposed to do?”

“You got an answer for that, Everett?”

“You could play the piano at the Boston House,” I said.

“For the rest of my life?”

“I’ll look out for you,” Cole said.

“For how long?”

“Long as you need.”

“Virgil, you could be dead in an hour.”

Cole shook his head.

“Let’s go back to Appaloosa right now,” Allie said.

“Got to finish this thing up with Ring Shelton,” Cole said.

“There’s four of them.”

Cole shrugged and drank coffee.

“The man who runs the hotel told me that the Shelton brothers were famous gunmen.”

“Got to get things back in balance,” Cole said.

“If you’ll take me back to Appaloosa with you, I’ll love you all my life. I’ll never make you mad. I’ll never do anything you don’t like.”

“That’ll be fine, Allie,” Cole said. “Soon’s Everett and me get things straightened out with Ring.”

“And Mackie,” I said, “and Russell and Bragg.”

“Sure,” Cole said.

“If they kill you, what’ll happen to me?” Allie said.

“Ring’ll look out for you,” Cole said.

Allie put her face in her hands and hunched over the table.

“Oh, God,” she said, and began to cry into her hands. “Oh, my dear God.”

43

At ten minutes past two o’clock, we went up to our rooms and got ready. I put on a jacket so I could use the pockets. I slipped a five-shot, .32, hammerless pocket pistol in the left-hand pocket. I put twenty eight-gauge shells in the right. I wore a Colt .45 on my gun belt. I checked the load in the shotgun. Cole wore two Colts on belts with cartridge loops. The Colt on his left side was butt-forward. He carried a .45 Winchester. He checked both Colts and made sure there was a round in the chamber of the Winchester. He left the Winchester cocked. It was 2:25. We both put on our hats. “Remember,” Cole said. “We walked through this already.”

“It’ll be just the same,” I said. “ ’Cept for them trying to shoot us.”

“I’m hopin’ to shoot them first,” Cole said.

“Me, too.”

“But remember,” Cole said. “Steady’s more important than fast.”

“Virgil,” I said, “you’ve told me that before every fight we ever had.”

“Anything you want to go over?” Cole said.

“Nope.”

Cole nodded and looked at his watch.

“Don’t want to get there too soon,” he said. “Want to have sort of a flow, you understand, some kind of rhythm, like dancing or something. Just walk down there and arrive on time and start shooting without never breaking stride.”

I nodded like I hadn’t heard it before. I could feel the feeling beginning to build. The little hard clutch in my stomach getting tighter, my throat closing so it was hard to swallow. My mouth was dry. I wanted to breathe in more air than I had capacity for. I could feel my heart.

“Okay,” Virgil said. “Here we go.”

The rain that I had tasted earlier had arrived. It was hard and slanted by the wind. The street was muddy with it. I yanked my hat down tighter.

“Distance we’re shooting at,” Cole said, “wind won’t be an issue.”

It was behind us as we walked, which meant at the end of the walk, if it didn’t shift, the rain would be blowing at them.

“Won’t do no harm to keep an eye out for Bragg,” Cole said. “I think he’ll stick with Ring. I don’t think he’s got the stuff to go it alone, but if he does, he’s a certain sure back shooter.”

We passed the bank. There was no one on the street. Everything was buttoned up against the rain. I thought about Allie’s questions.

“You feel it?” I said to Cole.

“Dry mouth? Thing in the stomach? Not enough air?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure, I feel it. You don’t feel nothing, there’s not much point in doing a thing.”

“You like the feeling?” I said.

Cole didn’t speak for so long that I thought he wasn’t going to. He, too, had his hat yanked down low over his forehead to keep it on. We slogged through the thickening mud toward the stock pens.

“After,” Cole said.

“And if you didn’t have the feeling before, the feeling after wouldn’t be so good,” I said.

“I guess,” Cole said.

44

They were where Cole said they’d be. Four of them, Bragg closest to the shed. The wind was at our backs, blowing the rain hard at them. The steers huddled together in the pens.

“We pass that corner,” Cole said. “We start shooting and go fast, straight at them.”

I didn’t say anything. My mouth was dry. Most of the shootouts we’d been in had sort of erupted, and you didn’t have much time to think about it. This one had moved forward for days with the formality of a procession. And now here it was, in the blowing rain.

We turned the corner, and Cole shot Ring Shelton in the chest, and everyone else started shooting at the same time. Something slammed into my left side and tried to knock me down as I cut loose with the eight-gauge. Both barrels. It knocked Mackie Shelton over backward. To my left, Cole was down. Another bullet hit me in my right leg, and I felt it give under me. Cole squirmed sideways in the mud, working the lever on the Winchester. He fired three times, pumping the lever as fast as he fired. Russell staggered and took two steps forward to right himself and raised his Colt and fell face-forward into the mud. I dropped the eight-gauge as I went down and jerked the Colt. Sitting in the mud, I looked for Bragg. He was gone. With Cole on his stomach and me on my backside, we kept our aim on the shed. After a minute or so, we heard the sound of a horse running in the mud, and then, too far to shoot, we saw Bragg ride off.

It was over.

I tried to stand. I couldn’t. One shot had broken some ribs on my left side. The other had got me in the top of the right thigh. The thigh was bleeding steadily. The ribs made it painful to move, but I knew I had to cut down on the bleeding. I took my jacket off, and my shirt, and folded the shirt and got the belt off my pants and made a big, clumsy pressure bandage on the thigh.

“Virgil?” I said.

Cole still lay on his stomach in the mud, his rifle cocked, looking at the men strewn in front of us in the mud.

“Both legs,” he said. “The right one’s broke.”

“Took about a minute,” I said.

“Everybody could shoot,” Cole said.

His voice sounded strained. So did mine. The clerk from the train station came out and looked at us from the edge of the station. The two stockyard hands stood with him. I yelled to them.

“There a doctor in town?”

“Railroad doc,” the clerk shouted. “Lives at the hotel.”

“Get him,” I said.

Hollering made my ribs hurt. So did breathing. The clerk spoke to one of the stock hands, and he set off at a run toward the hotel. I clenched my teeth and let myself fall backward onto the cold mud. The rain came down cold and steady on my face. I felt hot. I breathed as shallowly as I could.

“Virgil?” I said.

“I’m still here,” Virgil said.

“Well,” I said. “Doctor’ll either save us or he won’t.”

And I closed my eyes and let the rain fall on me, and the feel of it began to dwindle and then it was gone and I didn’t know anything else.

45

We gave the horses and the mule to the doctor for his fee. He got us wrapped and bandaged and splinted, and supplied us enough laudanum so we could stand to ride the train to Yaqui and take another one to Appaloosa. We used up most of the laudanum by the time we got there. And when we got off the train in Appaloosa, cooked well done on tincture of opium, Cole on crutches and me with a cane, and Allie fluttering around us, I don’t think anyone in Appaloosa felt safer. We was laid up for longer than either of us could stand. Through it, Allie nursed Cole like he was made of hammered gold. And, now and then, she would stop in on me.

While we were gone, Stringer had come down from the sheriff’s office to fill in, and he stayed while we recuperated.

Cole was out of pain and could move around on crutches in a few days. There were two ribs broken on my left side, and they took a while. But eventually we were both able to taper off the laudanum and sit outside on the porch at the Boston House and look at whatever was happening in front of us.

It was a hell of a lot more than the Sheltons could do.

Stringer came down from the marshal’s office one morning and sat with us for a while.

“Got a posse up and went back to Chester, but we lost your trail once you left that arroyo.”

“Figured you would,” Cole said.

“Get a posse or lose your trail?” Stringer said.

“Both.”

Stringer nodded. He got out a cigar, didn’t offer one to either of us, bit off the end, and lit it. When he had it burning right, he leaned back with one foot up on the railing of the porch and his hat tilted forward over his eyes.

“You know you killed a peace officer, duly appointed and sworn,” Stringer said, “up there in Beauville.”

“Had to,” Cole said.

Stringer watched a woman in a big hat walk along on the shady side of the street. He smiled.

“Sure,” he said.

We all watched the woman as she paused and looked in the window of the dry goods store past the Silver Spur Saloon. After a moment, she went inside.

“You killed all three of ’em,” Stringer said.

“Yep.”

“I knew you were good, Virgil,” Stringer said. “Everett, too.”

I was an afterthought.

“But I’d a said that nobody could beat the Sheltons, two against three.”

“Four,” I said.

“Oh, yeah,” Stringer said. “Bragg. What about Bragg?”

“Can’t chase him all over the country,” Cole said.

“ ’Course not,” Stringer said. “Kinda funny, ain’t it. You kill three men and get shot half to pieces yourselves to get Bragg back, and you don’t get him back.”

“That is funny,” I said. “If my ribs didn’t hurt, I’d be laughing every morning.”

“Ribs take a while,” Stringer said.

It was a bright, warm day with a few small, high, white clouds and a mild breeze that smelled faintly of grass and sage. The lady in the big hat came out of the dry goods store and headed farther up the street. When she reached the corner, she turned and was out of sight.

“Sheriff ain’t planning to press matters on you boys about the killings in Beauville, even Russell.”

“You have anything to do with that?” Cole said.

“I tole the sheriff how things were.”

“Kind of you,” Cole said.

Stringer grinned again.

“I didn’t want to be the one had to bring you in,” he said.

“Wouldn’t be too hard right now,” Cole said.

“Well, it ain’t going to be necessary. You boys going to stick around here when you’re on your feet?”

I looked at Cole.

“Sure,” he said. “Got a house here.”

“Gonna move in with Allie?” Stringer said.

“I surely am,” Cole said.

46

After we healed up, and Cole’s house was finished, I went there to eat supper with him and Allie. It was Allie’s first time having somebody in to eat, and she had a tablecloth out and a full set of good china with only a couple of pieces that didn’t match. We had some soup and some sort of meat pie, and some wine. I didn’t like the wine much, but I drank some to be polite. For dessert, there was dried apple pie, which I liked.

“Everett,” Allie said. “I don’t think I’ve ever said enough to you about how you rescued me from everyone.”

“Virgil did most of that,” I said. “I just trailed along.”

“You did a lot. I’ll never forget you riding out all alone and that Indian coming and touching you and riding off.”

“It didn’t do me no harm,” I said. “And he got to count coup on me and be a hero.”

“I never did understand that,” Allie said. “What was all that about? Why didn’t he try to kill you? Why did they all ride off?”

“He gets close enough to his enemy to touch him, and then ride away, he’s a bigger hero than if he killed me,” I said. “And he didn’t just do it with a coup stick. He done it with his hand. And held it on me. And with the other braves watching. Man’s a great hero now.”

“And it let ’em off the hook,” Cole said. “They knew there was six men, with a lot of guns, dug in at a good place to defend, plenty of food and water.”

“So him counting coup on me let them ride off without dishonor,” I said.

“Oh, God,” Allie said. “Dishonor. Don’t seem to make much difference, Indian or white. Men are so silly.”

She shook her head.

“Dishonor!” she said again.

Cole was quiet, sipping his wine. I could tell he didn’t like it, either. I didn’t know enough about wine to say. But I was pretty sure it wasn’t very good wine.

“Well, I just wanted to be sure I said thank you proper.”

“No need,” I said.

“And,” she said. “I want you to know how embarrassed I am that you saw me . . . you know . . . with Ring Shelton.”

“You did what you had to do,” I said.

Cole seemed mildly interested.

“And I’m mortified,” she said, “that you saw me with no clothes on.”

Christ!

I looked at Cole. He showed no change of expression.

“Allie,” I said. “It was a pleasure.”

“Oh, Everett,” she said, and blushed brightly.

Cole smiled a little.

“Well, you started talkin’ about it,” he said.

“I know,” Allie said. “It’s just that I’m so grateful. I know that you did it for me. Rode all that way. Went through all that danger. For me.”

“Well, you sure are worth it,” I said.

“Point of fact,” Cole said, “wasn’t just you. We was after Bragg, too.”

“Virgil, I know you killed those men because of me.”

Cole leaned back and looked at me, and then at Allie.

“We did what we needed to do,” he said finally.

“And Everett, too. I will always be grateful to you. You didn’t abandon me.”

“No, I didn’t,” I said. “But, you know, I am the deputy city marshal here, and it was sort of what I was hired to do, to find escaped prisoners, to save kidnapped women. That sort of thing.”

“Oh, go ahead,” Allie said, “the both of you. Be modest. Pretend you were just doing what any lawman would have done. In my heart I know it, and I treasure it. That you did what you did for me.”

Cole looked at me again. But he didn’t say anything more. I knew what was bothering him. It was bothering me, too. If Allie was right, and we tracked down the Sheltons and killed them because they had mistreated Cole’s girlfriend, then we might be good men. And we might have done the right thing. But we didn’t do it as lawmen. And we hadn’t done the legal thing.

And where did that leave us?

47

Two nights later, I lay in bed in my room at the Boston House with Katie Goode, after we’d done our business, and talked about Allie.

“Don’t you see what she’s doing?” Katie said.

“Being nice to her husband’s friend,” I said.

“Husband? They got married?”

“I don’t think so. But that’s what they call each other.”

Katie shrugged.

“What is it they call it in a war,” she said, “when a general doesn’t use all his troops but holds some out.”

“The troops are in reserve?”

“Yes. That’s what I was trying to say. Allie has you in reserve.”

“Reserve? Reserve for what?”

“In case Virgil gets killed.”

“She has me standing by to replace Virgil?”

“Virgil dies, you replace him. Then you’re the stud horse. That’s why she’s so nice to you. That’s why there’s no more talk of how you molested her that day, at the house before it was finished.”

“Praise be,” I said.

“And she reminded you how you saw her naked.”

“Yeah,” I said, “she did.”

“That was a kind of flirting, you dumb man.”

“Right in front of Virgil?”

Katie smiled. “He’s a dumb man, too.”

“So why is she so set that everything we did was for her?”

“Oh, Everett,” Katie said. “You ain’t that stupid.”

“I ain’t?”

“ ’Course you ain’t. Just think a minute.”

I was quiet while I thought about it.

“Makes her feel important,” I said, after a time.

“Um-hm,” Katie said.

“You learn all this stuff being a whore?” I said.

Katie smiled.

“I spend my working time with men,” she said. “But my social time is with women.”

“All women know things like this?” I said.

“Most of us understand Allie French,” Katie said.

“What do you all understand?”

“She ain’t no different,” Katie said, “from any of us working girls. She’s willing to fuck who she got to fuck, so she can get what she needs to get.”

“How ’bout love?” I said. “Love got anything to do with it?”

“Out here, love’s pretty hard for a woman,” Katie said. “Mostly it’s the men worry about love. You know how many miners and cowboys told me they loved me just before they, ah, emptied their chamber?”

“Tell you the truth, Katie,” I said, “I guess I don’t want to know that.”

“Men maybe can worry ’bout love,” Katie said. “Most women out here got to think ’bout other things.”

“Ever been in love?” I said.

Katie laughed.

“I don’t love you, Everett,” she said. “But you’re as close as I come.”

“So what do you feel?”

“I like you,” she said. “You’re not mean. And you got some education. I’m always glad when it’s you that hires me, and I’m always glad when you pay for the night.”

“You think that’s how Allie feels about Virgil?”

“I don’t know what she feels,” Katie said. “She probably don’t know how she feels, either. She just knows he’s the top hand, and she’ll stay with him till he ain’t.”

“Well, what I know is I paid for the night, and I don’t want us wasting time.”

“Just passing time while you recovered,” Katie said.

She put her hand under the covers.

“And I do believe you have,” she said.

48

I had a scar across the top of my right thigh that looked like someone had laid a hot poker on there. But it didn’t hurt, and neither did my ribs. Cole was healed up, too, except for a little limp. Stringer went back to Yaqui, and we went back to the marshal’s office.

One morning I went out to look at the town, got back to the marshal’s office just before lunchtime, and found an aldermen’s meeting going on. Cole was at his desk, smoking a cigar. Abner Raines was standing in front of him. Earl May was sitting on the edge of my desk, and Phil Olson was sitting in my chair. I looked at Cole.

“Come in, Everett,” Cole said. “Aldermen got something to say.”

All three of them looked nervous. I looked at Olson, sitting in my chair. He saw me look at him, and got up quickly and moved over to the wall beside the door, and leaned against it. I sat at my desk and put one foot up on the edge, and then the other, to take off my spurs. May stood and went over to stand beside Olson.

“First of all,” Raines said, “town’s grateful to you, the way you stood up to Bragg.”

“What you hired us for,” Cole said.

“Well, we’re not forgetting it,” Raines said. “You arrested him, got him tried and convicted.”

Nobody said anything. Raines shifted a little on his feet.

“And I know, we know, that when he escaped, you had to go after him.”

Cole looked interested but neutral. I wondered what the but would be.

“And certainly you had to rescue Mrs. French.”

Cole nodded.

“And we’re proud of you, both of you, for that as well. And we’re very pleased that you have recovered so well from your wounds.”

“You boys thinking ’bout giving us a medal or something?” Cole said.

They didn’t seem too happy, but they all laughed.

“You used to be a soldier boy, Everett,” Cole said. “You like a nice medal?”

“Had one,” I said. “Traded it for something in Nogales. Be goddamned, though, if I can recall what.”

“Guess Everett don’t endear a medal like me,” Cole said.

No one seemed to know what to say next. It was Olson who finally took the jump.

“Virgil,” he said, “we all agree with what Abner said, but . . .”

There it was.

“. . . things change, and we got to talk about that.”

Cole nodded and looked at me and grinned.

“No medal?” he said.

“Probably not,” I said.

Olson’s fair cheeks had become pink.

“We hired you and Everett to protect us from Bragg and his outfit,” Olson said. “And you done it so good that he’s gone, and so is his outfit.”

Cole puffed quietly on his cigar, rolling it in his mouth now and then with his thumb and three fingers, and taking it out occasionally to admire the glowing end of it.

“And I, we, know you had to go off like you did. But it left the town without any peace officer. We had to get hold of the sheriff’s office and have them send somebody down, and that was pretty costly.”

“Plus all them bullets we fired off,” Cole said. “I’ll bet they cost a pretty damn penny.”

“I don’t mean it that way,” Olson said. “We don’t. But we got to try to run the town businesslike, being as we’re the aldermen.”

Cole didn’t comment. I folded my hands on my stomach and put my right foot back up against the edge of my desk and rocked my chair back, and looked at the ceiling.

“And you killed a lot of people,” May said.

It was the first sound he’d made since I came in.

“Probably had to do it,” he said. “But it makes some of the people in town a little, ah, sort of, ah, uneasy, I guess. One of those men in Beauville was, you know, the town marshal.”

Cole smoked his cigar and made no comment. The aldermen were all silent. Cole and I were silent. The room was full of silence. Once again, it was Olson who spoke.

“We were wondering if maybe we don’t need two men in the marshal’s office,” he said.

“Both or none,” Cole said.

“We was thinking maybe you’d want to make more money, now that you and Allie have moved in. We was thinking of offering the job to Everett.”

“Both or none,” I said.

Olson buckled.

“Sure,” he said. “I understand. No offense. We’ll go back home and think on it a little.”

Cole didn’t say anything. The aldermen looked at each other.

“Well, we appreciate everything you boys done,” Raines said. “Just want to be sure you know that.”

The aldermen turned to go.

“You boys sure Bragg won’t come back?” I said.

None of them answered. And the subject didn’t come up again.

49

Allie and Cole and I rode up into the hills in back of Bragg’s old place, to look for the Appaloosa.

“I want Allie to see him,” Cole said.

“I don’t know why, Everett,” Allie said. “It’s not like I’ve never seen a stallion.”

“That’s for certain,” I said.

Cole grinned. Allie lowered her eyes.

“Everett, don’t you talk to me like I’m one of your nighttime ladies.”

“Hell, Allie, I was just speakin’ well of Virgil.”

Bragg’s ranch was empty. No stock. No hands. No cook smoke. Stock probably got sold off to pay the Sheltons. Hands had drifted. Things that had started here had gotten people killed. It was sort of hard to remember what they were and how it had spun out. Time had passed. Grass had grown in the empty corral. Some weeds pushed up between the boards on the front porch of the house. The Sheltons were in the ground. Bragg hadn’t been heard from. Cole still had a slight limp, but everything else had healed over.

“Been a while,” I said to Cole.

He nodded.

“Do you think we’ll see the horse soon?” Allie said.

“Soon,” Cole said.

We rode up the next hillside above the ranch, slow, so Allie wouldn’t have trouble staying with us. At the top, we sat our horses and looked west. He was there, not very far from where we’d seen him last. He was moving his mares along the crest of the hill, his ears pricked forward, head tossing, sniffing the air. He was keeping his mares in a tight herd, moving around them, nipping at their flanks to keep them close. Occasionally, he would stop and turn and look around him, his head up, trying to find a scent.

“Something’s goin’ on,” Cole said.

“Why does he keep biting the mares?” Allie said.

“He wants them close together,” Cole said.

“Why?”

“Cougar maybe,” I said.

“Another stallion,” Cole said.

“You’re sure?” Allie said.

“Yes.”

“How can you be so sure?” Allie said.

Cole shrugged.

“It’s another stallion,” he said.

And it was. Big. Chestnut-colored. On the side of the hill, moving toward the herd.

“You knew,” Allie said to Cole.

“I did,” Cole said.

“How?”

Cole shrugged again.

“Virgil knows things,” I said.

The chestnut got closer to the running herd. He was running free. The Appaloosa had to herd his mares, and it slowed him. Then the Appaloosa stopped and turned and made a snarling bugle sound at the chestnut. The mares stopped running and gathered. The chestnut reared and bugled back at the Appaloosa. Then they both stood motionless for a moment, looking at each other. The mares stayed close together. The chestnut swished his tail and pulled his lips back from his teeth, and squealed. The Appaloosa exploded. He came at the chestnut with his neck straight out, biting at him. The chestnut bit him back. The Appaloosa reared and slashed at him with his front hooves. The chestnut went up, and they grappled like that, screaming. Then they separated and stood again. There was blood on both of them. The chestnut moved sideways. The Appaloosa moved with him, staying always between him and the mares. The chestnut tried to move around him, and the Appaloosa drove into him again.

“Oh, my God,” Allie said. “Oh, my God.”

Our horses, all three of them geldings, stirred uneasily as the two stallions screamed and bit and kicked.

“Oh, my God,” Allie said again.

She covered her ears with her hands.

The chestnut made one final attempt to circle around the Appaloosa and get past him to the mares. Then he shied away. The Appaloosa pressed him, and the chestnut shied, kicked with his hind hooves at the Appaloosa, and ran. The Appaloosa went after him, biting at his haunches as he ran. The chestnut went up the next hill and over it. The Appaloosa followed him to the top and stopped. He wouldn’t lose sight of the mares. He stood on the hilltop, watching as the chestnut ran off, glancing back every few seconds at the mares.

Allie took her hands from her ears.

“Is it over?” she said.

“Yes,” Cole said.

“That was all about the mares?”

“Yes.”

“Do they always do that?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Stallion wants mares, he’s got to fight another stallion.”

“Why does this stallion care if another stallion mounts one of those mares?”

“Ask him,” Cole said.

“But, I mean, it’s not love.”

“Probably not,” Cole said.

The Appaloosa pranced back to his mares with his neck arched and his tail high. He was still churning with nervous energy. The mares began to graze as he moved restlessly around the perimeter of their grazing.

“Or jealousy,” Allie said. “I mean, he’s just a damned horse.”

“Them mares,” Cole said, “belong to that Appaloosa stud, long as he’s enough horse to keep them. That matters to him, I guess.”

“And what about the mares,” Allie said. “Do they have any choice?”

“Horses do what they need to do,” Cole said. “Everett, you been to the United States Military Academy. You know why the mares stay with the stallions?”

“Nope,” I said. “Mares and stallions probably don’t know, either.”

“Horses ain’t too smart,” Cole said.

50

Bragg showed up in the spring. He walked into the city marshal’s office in the midafternoon of a rainy April day, wearing a rain slicker and, under it, a suit like a banker.

“I’m going to take a piece of paper out of my coat pocket,” he said.

I took my gun out and rested the barrel against the edge of the desk. Bragg took a presidential pardon from an inside pocket and put it on the desk in front of me.

“Absolved of all charges,” Bragg said.

I picked up the document and looked at it for a while. There was a lot of lawyer language, but there was the phrase absolved of all charges outstanding,right in the first paragraph. I handed the document back to Bragg.

“You must have come into money,” I said.

“Where’s Cole?” Bragg said.

“Out walkin’ the town,” I said. “He’ll be back in a while.”

“I’ll wait.”

“Not in here,” I said.

“Why not?”

“I don’t like you.”

“I don’t want Cole to see me and start shooting,” Bragg said, “ ’fore he reads my pardon.”

“Ain’t Virgil’s style,” I said, and went to the door and held it open.

Bragg hesitated. Then he shook his head and walked outside and sat on one of the chairs in front of the office, under the overhang. I left the door open and went back to my desk, and watched the rain puddle in the street outside.

It was maybe an hour and a half later when Cole came back. I knew he’d have seen Bragg from a long way up the street. And I knew he wouldn’t have shown any response. I saw him pass in front of the window. His slicker was unbuttoned so he could get at his gun if he needed to. His collar was turned up against the rain, and his hat was tilted down over his eyes. I stood and went to the door. Cole had stopped in front of Bragg and was looking at him without expression. Bragg had his coat open. “I’m not heeled,” he said.

Cole nodded. Bragg held up the paper he’d already shown me. I knew it wouldn’t mean anything to Cole. He’d have to read it slowly when he had time to make out all the words.

“I been pardoned,” Bragg said. “I already shown it to Hitch.”

I stepped out and sat down in the chair beside Bragg. Cole glanced at me. I nodded. He looked back at Bragg.

“You was the only one to run off,” Cole said, “up in Beauville.”

“The ones that stayed are dead,” Bragg said.

Cole didn’t speak.

“I’m a law-abiding citizen,” Bragg said. “You got no call to bother me further.”

Cole was silent for a time, looking at Bragg with no expression.

Finally he said, “Not ’less you give me cause.”

Bragg smiled widely.

“That’s very fine,” he said. “I’m coming back to Appaloosa. I needed to clear things up with you first.”

Cole didn’t answer.

Bragg took a tan leather cigar case out of his inside coat pocket. He offered a cigar to Cole and to me. We declined. He took one out for himself and got it lit and puffed on it till it was going good.

“I come into some money,” Bragg said, “and I got plans for coming into more.”

Bragg put out his hand.

“Bygones be bygones?” he said.

Cole ignored him and walked past him into the office. Bragg watched him for a moment. Then he looked at me.

“I’m the right side to be on,” Bragg said. “I’m going to do some things in Appaloosa.”

I shook my head.

Now that he’d been reassured that Cole wouldn’t shoot him dead, Bragg seemed pretty full of himself. He wasn’t a dangerous rancher with a fast gun who hired fast gun hands. Now he was a man of means and position. He looked and talked like a politician. He offered cigars and talked of big plans. He wore a suit with a vest. I didn’t like this Bragg any better than the other one.

“I won’t shake your hand, either,” I said.

Bragg stood and buttoned up his raincoat.

“Things are likely to change in Appaloosa,” Bragg said. “You could benefit from the changes, or you could get left behind.”

He turned up his collar and adjusted his hat and stepped off the front porch into the rain. I watched him as he walked on down the street, trailing the smell of a pretty good cigar behind him.

51

It wasn’t until the middle of May that I rode up in the early morning to take a look-see at Bragg’s ranch. I could smell the smoke and bacon smell from the cookshack long before I topped the rise and looked down at the place. There were horses in the corral and, as best I could make out, more in the barn. The weeds were gone from the front porch. The place looked somehow clean and busy, although I only saw two hands loafing by the corral, where they had slung their saddles on the top rail. Between the ones in the barn and those in the corral, there were horses for a considerable number of hands. I saw no sign of cattle. The two boys leaning on the fence weren’t dressed for cattle work. I sat my horse for a time, looking down. Some other hands came and went: to and from the privy, in and out of the bunkhouse, back and forth to the cookshack. None of them seemed dressed for herding cows. I got bored looking at them, so I turned my horse and rode back to town.

Cole was drinking coffee in the Boston House Saloon and studying an illustrated book about King Arthur. I stopped for a minute and watched him. He read slowly, like he always did, sometimes forming words silently with his lips, sometimes running his forefinger along under an especially hard sentence.

Without looking up he said, “Come on and set, Everett.”

I did. Tilda came and gave me coffee.

“Bragg’s back into his ranch,” I said.

Cole put the book aside.

“I know.”

“Got quite a number of hands,” I said.

“And no cows,” Cole said.

“You been up there, too,” I said.

“ ’Course I have.”

“What do you think is happening?”

“I know he bought both of Earl May’s saloons.”

“Really?” I said. “What’s Earl going to do.”

“Says he’s going to retire, go live with his daughter in Denver.”

“Maybe we should do that,” I said.

“You got a daughter someplace?” Cole said.

“No.”

“Me, either.”

“Might as well stay here then,” I said. “Where you suppose Bragg’s getting this money?”

“Heard different things,” Cole said. “Fella told me Bragg had a big silver strike in Nevada. ’Nother fella told me that Bragg and some other boys robbed a train in Mexico that was carrying gold.”

“I heard he was down along the Rio Grande with some fellas, stealing cows and horses from Mexico,” I said. “Bringing them back here and selling them to the Army.”

“Hard to get rich doing that,” Cole said.

“But easy to get killed.”

Cole nodded.

“Doesn’t sound like Bragg,” he said.

“Hard work, too,” I said.

Cole grinned.

“Doesn’t sound like Bragg,” he said.

“I heard he won a pile of nuggets from some drunken miner in a poker game in Abilene,” I said. “And I heard he took a fortune off a Wells Fargo stage in Clovis.”

Tilda came by and filled our coffee cups. Cole drank some. Then he grinned.

“Maybe he worked hard and honest for it,” Cole said.

“That’s probably it,” I said.

“What we do know,” Cole said, “is he’s got a big payroll up at that ranch for a lot of riders that so far’s I can see, don’t do nothing.”

“And he bought two saloons,” I said. “Earl get a good price?”

“Seemed happy with it.”

“Any chance Bragg run him off?”

“Don’t think so,” Cole said. “You might ask him.”

“Sure,” I said. “Why do you think he came back here?”

“Got land here,” Cole said.

“Easy enough to sell.”

“He’s got us here, too,” Cole said.

“Think it’s got something to do with us?”

“Might. Bragg was the big dog ’round here till we showed up.”

“You think it’s got something to do with pride?”

“Pride’s a funny thing,” Cole said.

I drank some more coffee and looked at Cole for a time.

“How would you know that?” I said.

52

Appaloosa had two town meetings every year: one on the first of June, before it got too hot to have a meeting, the other on the first of December, before the real winter hit. The meetings took place in the church at the end of Second Street. They usually lasted all day, and me or Cole always went, to see to it there was no fistfights broke out over ticklish points.

I was there for the June meeting, in the back of the church, by the door, sitting on a saloon lookout chair that was brought in special for the meeting. The aldermen sat in a row up front, beside the pulpit where the pastor stood, moderating the meeting. As always, after the lunch break there was a clean smell of whiskey in the room. While the latecomers were sitting down, Randall Bragg came in and walked alone down the center aisle and sat in the front row. He was dressed in a dark suit. He had a gold watch chain across his vest. He took his hat off as he came into the church and placed it carefully in his lap when he sat down.

Nobody had a gavel in town, so when it was time for the meeting to start for the afternoon, the pastor came out and stood silently at the pulpit until things got quiet. I was always surprised that it worked. But it always did.

“Before we begin this afternoon’s session,” the pastor said, “we have had a special request from a member of the community to address the members of the meeting.”

The pastor was a strapping man who obviously considered himself a sure bet for heaven.

“With the concurrence of our Board of Aldermen,” the pastor said, “I have agreed to the request. Mr. Bragg?”

Bragg stood, laid his hat on his chair, and stepped to the pulpit. He was clean-shaven, freshly barbered, and, probably, if the room smelled less of whiskey, he would have smelled of bay rum. He glanced toward the ceiling for a moment and then turned to the audience.

“I was fearing maybe there’d be a lightning bolt when I stepped to the pulpit,” he said.

The audience laughed politely.

“And if the Lord had chosen to send one,” Bragg said, “who could have blamed him.”

The audience laughed again. Bragg smiled at them.

“Most of you know who I am,” he said. “My name is Randall Bragg, and I have been an evil man for some years.”

Everyone got very quiet.

“A year or so ago, I faced death several times and escaped with my life. It made me wonder why. Why did I not die when so many others had?”

My answer was that in at least one instance, it was because he turned and ran. But I kept my answer to myself.

“It came to me one day like the sun coming through a cloud, that the answer lay in a higher power. God had plans for me. He wanted me to come back to where I’d done so much that was bad, and try to do some good.”

You couldn’t even hear people breathing in the room. The big preacher stood beside Bragg, beaming with pride.

“And,” Bragg said, and bowed his head as he said it, “here I am.”

A sort of long sigh ran through the crowd.

“I’ve been blessed,” Bragg said. “In this last year, I’ve come into money, and I’m back here to use that money, to build this town, where only a short while ago I did so much harm.”

There was a little scattered clapping. Bragg put his hands out to ask for quiet.

“I’ve bought some property in town, from Earl May,” Bragg said. “And I’m fixing to renovate it, and today I’d like to tell you all that I’ve bought the Boston House from Abner Raines.”

A lot of the audience whispered to each other.

“I’m going to turn it into the finest hotel between Saint Louis and Denver,” he said, “and, with God’s help, I’ll make Appaloosa into the finest, richest town between the Rockies and the Mississippi River. It’ll be a town where people will come to spend money. It’ll be a town where a man, any man willing to work, can be not just well off, he can be rich.”

When Bragg started talking about God’s help, I wondered about a thunderbolt myself. But none came. Instead, the audience began to clap and somebody stood up and cheered, and then everyone was on their feet, clapping and cheering. Bragg stood silently, his head bowed reverently, his hands clasped in front of him, and accepted the clapping and cheering modestly and gratefully.

He didn’t make clear exactly how he was going to accomplish all this, but nobody seemed to notice. They all liked the idea of working hard and getting rich. Bragg raised his eyes as the applause began to quiet.

“To any here whom I have ever offended, I beg you to forgive me. To all of you here, I thank you for having me back.”

Then he lowered his eyes again, and with his hands still clasped in front of him like some kind of friar, he walked down the aisle of the church to the door. He looked up a little bit as he passed me and nodded and smiled.

It was a hell of a performance.

53

The bull showed up in a boxcar in the dead heat of July. Two of Bragg’s hands met him at the train and began to haze him slowly though town on his way to the ranch. He was a squat, compact bull with a black coat and no horns.

“Ever see one looked like that?” I said to Cole as they moved the bull up Main Street.

“Nope.”

A few boys followed along, looking at the black bull. Some men came to the doors of shops. People stood in the doorway of Bragg’s two saloons to look.

“Olson told me Bragg bought it in Scotland. It’s a Black Angus.”

“Olson seems pretty snug with Bragg,” Cole said, “don’t he.”

“Olson says Bragg’s fixing to start a herd, got some Angus cows coming, too.”

“Sort of small bull,” Cole said.

“Olson says the steers make real good eating,” I said. “Says that some of the fancy hotels and restaurants back east will pay a lot more for them.”

The hands turned the bull at the foot of the street, and we couldn’t see him anymore. The boys trailed around the corner after them.

“Bragg’s busy,” Cole said.

“Fancy cows,” I said. “Saloons, hotels.”

“I hear Abner Raines left town,” Cole said.

“Going where?”

“I think back to Kansas, said he was going to farm a little.”

“Farm?”

“What he said.”

“Who’s running the hotel?”

“Bragg put a man in here,” Cole said.

“Be interesting to know where Bragg got his money,” I said.

“That ain’t as interesting as what he’s gonna do with it,” Cole said.

“You’re right,” I said. “Fact is, where he got it don’t matter much.”

Cole nodded.

We were quiet. From where we sat, we could see the bull again, small in the distance, kicking up some dust, going up the hill toward Bragg’s ranch.

“So that leaves Olson as the only alderman,” I said.

“Un-huh.”

“And he’s getting friendlier with Bragg every day.”

“Un-huh.

“Next June first,” Cole said, “town meeting’s gonna have to elect some new alderman in October.”

“Gives Bragg ’bout three months,” I said.

“Yep.”

“You think Bragg’s really a changed man?” I said.

“ ’Course not.”

“Me, either,” I said. “What do you think he wants?”

“I think he wants to own this town,” Cole said, “and everybody in it. “

“And then what?”

“I don’t know,” Cole said. “He probably don’t know, either.”

“Well,” I said. “So far, he ain’t buttin’ heads with you and me. Like he done last time.”

“Not yet.”

“So there’s nothing for us to do about him,” I said.

“Ain’t done nothing ain’t legal,” Cole said.

“But we know he’s going to.”

“We got to wait till he does,” Cole said.

“We know he killed Jack Bell and a deputy.”

Cole nodded.

“We know he hired Ring and Mackie to bust him loose.”

Cole nodded.

“We know Allie got kidnapped in the process.”

“He’s been pardoned,” Cole said.

“Not by us,” I said.

“We can’t be starting things like that,” Cole said. “Only way to stay clean is to stay with the rules.”

It was an old discussion. We’d had it before. The outcome never changed.

“Well,” I said after a while, “he seems to be going at it smarter, this time.”

“He’s got some money this time.”

“Money makes it easier to be smart,” I said.

“Never had none,” Cole said. “So I wouldn’t know.”

“I guess I ain’t, either,” I said. “So I guess I don’t know. But it seems like it would be easier.”

“Might be harder,” Cole said.

“Might be, I suppose. When you think of it, there ain’t that much a fella needs.”

“If he lives alone,” Cole said.

“If he lives alone,” I said.

“Allie likes things,” Cole said.

“She plays the piano. She gets paid,” I said. “And tips.”

“She wants more.”

“Got a nice house,” I said.

Cole didn’t say anything for a while.

“Always had enough,” Cole said.

I nodded.

“You got enough,” Cole said.

“I do,” I said. “I got a place to sleep. I can buy whiskey and food and feed the horse and purchase a pump from Katie Goode when I need one. I get cigars from you once in a while. I had more money, I don’t know what I’d do with it.”

“You could give it to Allie,” Cole said. “She’d know.”

I grinned.

“She wants me to get another job.”

“You want to do that?”

“I’m good at this,” Cole said.

Barely visible now, the black bull disappeared over the crest of the far hill. The hint of dust hung for a minute where the bull had gone, and then it dispersed and nothing moved on the hilltop.

“You are,” I said.

54

We had a miner in jail for beating up a whore named Big Ass Sally Lowe, and I had sat and listened to him all day. Now it was Cole’s turn, and I went up to the Boston House Saloon for supper and a drink.

The saloon at the Boston House was looking good. There was a big, new, dark mahogany bar, and a big, new, gilt-trimmed mirror behind it, and a big chandelier with a lot of cut glass in the middle of the room. There were four card tables in the back and a man to deal faro. Bragg had made a deal with Phil Olson, the lone remaining alderman, for a special deputy with powers limited to the hotel, who sat lookout with a shotgun in a high chair near the faro layout.

Allie had a new piano to play, which was a waste of money, and she was playing hard when I sat down near the bar. Bragg was there, dark suit, white shirt, gold chain, good cigar. He came to my table.

“Buy you a drink, Everett?”

“Got one,” I said.

Bragg turned his palms up.

“Fine,” he said. “Perfectly fine. Cigar?”

I shook my head.

“Fine,” he said again. “I understand why you boys are feeling hard about me. But I want you to know I ain’t the man I was, and I’m hopin’ we can work together once you boys come to see the truth of my statement.”

“That statement being that you’re a reformed man.”

“I am.”

“Who now owns two saloons, a hotel, and an expensive black bull,” I said.

“And six heifers,” Bragg said and smiled. “I’m going to raise beef that most folks have never tasted, and, when they do, they won’t be able to get enough of it.”

“With a bull and six cows.”

“My cows are just the start. I’m arranging for some other folks to start ranching Angus heifers, and my bull will do the service.”

“I thought you was already rich,” I said.

“I had some good luck,” Bragg said. “Now I want to give this town good luck, make up for all the bad luck I brought it in the past.”

“You’re going to bring us luck?” I said.

“I’m going to make Appaloosa famous for its beef. I want to develop the copper mines properly. It’s going to be a place where people want to come, where people can have a good time, where people will want to invest money.”

I sipped some whiskey and leaned my chair onto its back legs and put one foot against the edge of the table and teetered a little.

“Bragg,” I said. “Let’s you and me understand each other. I don’t believe a single fucking word you say. You want to turn Appaloosa into your private town, and you’re working your ugly ass off to get on the good side of Virgil and me, so we won’t stop you.”

I took another sip.

“Which we will,” I said.

Something moved just for a second behind Bragg’s face, then it was gone. When he spoke, his voice was the same jolly voice he was using these days.

“Sorry to hear you say that, Everett. I was hoping I could work with you and Virgil.”

I didn’t answer him.

“Well,” he said with his big friendly smile. “Time will tell.”

I didn’t say anything, and Bragg walked over to the piano where Allie was playing “My Old Kentucky Home.” I think.

“You know ‘Old Folks at Home,’ Allie?” Bragg said.

“Of course I do, Mr. Bragg.”

“Please call me Randall,” Bragg said. “Always did love that song.”

Allie began to play the tune, and Bragg stood listening, as if the song had captured him. To me, it didn’t sound too much different than “My Old Kentucky Home.”

“You like Stephen Foster, Randall?”

“I do.”

“I love him, too,” Allie said.

Bragg went to the bar and got a drink and brought it back and put it on top of the piano.

“I haven’t really had much chance to talk with you since the Indians almost got us.”

Allie nodded.

“I just wanted to tell you I admired your courage.”

“Oh, bless my soul, Randall, I was terrified.”

“Well, I thought you were very brave.”

He drank some of his drink.

“Could I buy you a small glass of something? We have sherry now, you know.”

“A glass of sherry would be lovely,” Allie said.

There was a sound in her voice I’d heard before. It wasn’t a good sound. Bragg went and got her a glass of sherry and brought it back. She sipped a little and put it down on the piano and began to play “Camptown Races.” Bragg leaned against the piano, listening, as if it was good.

Without looking up, Allie said, “I’m always embarrassed when anyone talks about that. I mean, Randall, you saw me all undressed.”

“I don’t mean to be forward, Allie,” Bragg said. “But I remember that moment happily.”

Allie giggled.

“Randall, you are making me blush,” she said.

Bragg laughed.

“Nothin’ to be ashamed of, Allie. Fact is, as I recall, there’s a lot to be proud of.”

“Oh, my,” Allie said.

I got up and walked over and leaned my forearms on the piano and didn’t say anything. Allie kept playing.

“We were just talking about that terrible time with the Indians,” Allie said.

“I heard,” I said.

“Randall just bought me a lovely glass of sherry, Everett,” Allie said.

I nodded. Bragg didn’t say anything. Allie begin to play “Oh! Susanna.” Bragg and I stood and listened.

When Allie finished, Bragg said, “Thank you for the nice recital, Allie.”

“Thank you, Randall,” Allie said. “For the sherry.”

Bragg nodded and walked away. I stayed. I was trying to think of what I wanted to say.

“Have to be nice to him, Everett,” Allie said. “Since he bought the hotel, he’s my boss.”

I nodded, took another drink of whiskey, and walked away. I knew what it was I wanted to say, but I knew there wasn’t a way to say it, and even if there was, it wouldn’t do no good.

55

Bragg had a good summer. He and some investors in Denver bought up the two copper mines, which had created Appaloosa in the first place, and began to rework them. The hotel was always full now, and the saloons. The gambling operations were expanding, and each one had a special deputy in the lookout chair. In late August, Bragg bought out Olson and added the livery stable and a general store to his holdings. His heifers were pregnant.

It was late in the day in the middle of September and rainy when a slim man with a young, smooth face came into the marshal’s office where Cole and I were drinking coffee and watching the rain through the open door. He was wearing a slicker unbuttoned and I could see that he had a .44 Colt with a pearl handle under it.

Cole looked at him carefully for a moment.

“Hayes,” he said.

“Hello, Virgil,” the man said.

He took his hat off and slapped it against his leg to shake off some of the rain, and put the hat on the edge of Cole’s desk. His hair was gray. Taking his hat off aged him.

“My deputy,” Cole said, nodding at me, “Everett Hitch. Hayes Hatfield.”

We said hello.

“Heard about you boys and the Sheltons,” Hatfield said.

“ ’Gainst city regulations,” Cole said, “to be carrying a gun in town.”

“Always is in your towns, Virgil. I figured you’d give a little slack on that.”

Cole nodded.

“I will,” Cole said. “How long you in town.”

“Be gone tomorrow,” Hatfield said.

“Appreciate you didn’t stroll around with the gun showing,” Cole said. “Sorta undercuts the law.”

“I’ll keep my coat closed,” Hatfield said.

“But not buttoned,” Cole said.

“Gun don’t do you much good buttoned up under your coat,” Hatfield said.

“No,” Cole said. “It don’t.”

“Mostly I’m just going to get some supper and go to sleep,” Hatfield said.

“You got business in Appaloosa?” Cole said.

Hatfield smiled a wide smile. Except for the gray hair, he looked about twenty.

“Fella came over to Yaqui to see me. I’m dealing cards there, in the Crystal Palace, doing a little work for Wells Fargo. He said he was going to be the first mayor in Appaloosa, and he wondered if I might like to be the city marshal.”

“Didn’t know the job was open,” Cole said.

“Said it was gonna be, soon as he was mayor.”

Cole didn’t say anything.

“Said the town was growing so fast that they’d be organizing a police department, and as soon as they did, I’d be the chief.”

“Hadn’t heard that,” Cole said.

“So I asked around a little,” Hatfield said, “and I found out that you was the marshal here, and I thought I might come over here and talk to you about it.”

“Who was the fella you talked to,” Cole said.

“Fella named Olson,” Hatfield said.

Cole looked at me.

“So he’s in with Bragg,” he said.

“In deep,” I said.

“Bragg the fella you didn’t kill up in Beauville?”

“He run,” Cole said.

“And he come back?” Hatfield said.

“He come back with money,” I said. “Bought out most of the town.”

“You boys stopping him from buying all of it?”

“Yes.”

“He don’t dare go up against you straight on,” Hatfield said.

“Don’t seem to,” Cole said.

“And he thinks I would,” Hatfield said.

“You would,” Cole said, “if there was reason.”

“And if I hired on with this Olson fella . . .”

“There’d be reason,” Cole said.

Hatfield picked his hat up off the corner of the desk and held it against his left thigh while he stood in the doorway for a moment and watched it rain.

“Rainy fall,” he said.

“Startin’ out that way,” Cole said.

Hatfield put his hat on and adjusted it so that it tilted a little forward over his eyes.

“Sounds to me a fella took this job, he might be working for Bragg.”

“That would be correct,” Cole said. “Olson’s just the errand boy.”

Hatfield nodded, his back to us, still looking at the rain through the open door. Then he turned and looked around the little marshal’s office.

“Don’t seem like a place I’d care to work,” he said.

Virgil and I both nodded.

“If I was here,” Hatfield said, “wouldn’t let him run me off.”

“I got a house here,” Cole said. “And a woman.”

“Even if you didn’t. You wouldn’t let him run you off.”

“No,” Cole said, “I guess I wouldn’t.”

“However,” Hatfield said. “Since I ain’t here, I don’t see no reason to come here.”

“Correct,” Cole said.

Hatfield turned back from the door and put his hand out. Cole shook it. Then I did.

“I’ll be on the train back to Yaqui tomorrow,” Hatfield said.

Then he turned and walked out the open door, holding his coat closed, and walked toward the Boston House.

56

It was chilly and still raining when I walked down to the marshal’s office in the morning. Cole was sitting outside under the overhang, out of the rain. It didn’t seem like good sitting-out weather.

I said, “Morning, Virgil.”

Cole nodded, and I went in and got some coffee off the stove and poured it and brought it out, and sat in the other chair. Cole didn’t say anything. He didn’t seem to be looking at anything or thinking about anything. He seemed to be just sitting. I sat with him and drank some coffee. It had been raining three days now. Main Street was a slough of mud. A few saddle horses moved heavily through it, but there was no wagon traffic.

“They ain’t going to run me off,” Cole said.

“We got hired,” I said. “We can get fired.”

“Me and Allie got a house here. I’m staying.”

“What you gonna stay as?” I said.

“Ain’t got to that yet,” Cole said.

“They ain’t gonna pay us,” I said.

“I know,” Cole said.

I drank some coffee.

“Might make some sense to move on,” I said.

Cole shook his head.

“You talk this over with Allie?” I said.

Cole nodded.

“She won’t go,” I said.

“No.”

I closed my eyes for a minute and opened them slowly and looked at the rain some more.

“And you won’t go without her.”

“No.”

The wet smell was strong. Wet wood, wet mud, wet horses. It mixed with the smell of wood smoke as people fired up stoves against the first rainy chill of early fall. I took in some air and let it out slowly.

So here we are.

“I got to say some things, Virgil.”

Cole nodded.

“I stay here,” he said, “and I won’t be able to make a living.”

“Soon as Olson’s mayor, he’ll fire us, and no one else will hire us.”

“I know,” Cole said.

He was still motionless. Looking at nothing. Thinking of nothing. Being nothing.

“I got something else,” I said.

“She might leave me,” Cole said.

A rider went by on a small sorrel horse. I watched the rain puddle in the collapsing imprint of the horse’s hooves. I took in another long breath and tightened my stomach muscles and hunched my shoulders and said it.

“She will,” I said. “You saw how it was with Ring Shelton. Once you ain’t the stud horse anymore . . .”

Cole tipped his chair back further and looked up at the sky with his head resting against the weathered exterior of the office wall.

“I won’t leave her,” he said.

57

It was midafternoon the second Monday in October. Cole had taken a prisoner to Yaqui and would be back Wednesday, which left the town for me to police.

It was brisk as I walked the town. When the sun went down, it would be cold. I went into the saloon at the Boston House to warm up and get some coffee. The room was quite noisy. Allie was playing the piano, adding to the noise. I got some coffee and stood at the bar to drink it. I saw Bragg come into the saloon through the lobby entrance. He bought a bottle of brandy at the far end of the bar, then walked to Allie and whispered to her. She put her head back and laughed. He whispered something else, and she nodded. Then he left and went back out through the lobby door.

Allie played two more songs, then stood, lowered the keyboard lid, and walked out toward the lobby. After a moment, I put my cup down and walked out after her. She wasn’t there.

“Mrs. French pass by here?” I said.

The clerk nodded toward the stairs.

“She went up,” he said.

I nodded.

“Bragg keep a room here?”

“I’m not supposed to tell, Everett.”

“Peter,” I said. “I am the damned law, remember?”

“Two-oh-five,” he said.

“Thank you.”

I went outside and stood on the porch for a time and breathed the clean, cold air. Then I turned back into the lobby and went past the clerk and up the stairs to the second floor. It was quiet. I walked the length of it without hearing anything interesting. So I settled my back against the wall beside the window at the far end of the hall and waited. The late-afternoon sun slanted past me down the hall. I could see the little dust particles floating in it.

I wasn’t happy. I knew what I was going to find out. I was there in part, I guess, because I kept hoping I wouldn’t find it out. That there’d be nothing to find out. I knew better, but knowing and wanting ain’t always the same. And when I found out, then what was I going to do? I didn’t have to decide that until I found it out. I tried to keep my mind blank as I stood and waited.

The sun was a lot lower when the door opened to room 205 and Allie walked out. Bragg stood behind her in the doorway and she turned to kiss him one more time. It was a hard, hot kiss, and it lasted awhile. I stood where I was, feeling sort of sick. When the kiss ended, she pulled away from him, and they both saw me standing down the hall. She flinched. Bragg stepped back into the room and closed the door. In the silent hall, I could hear the bolt slide. Allie stared at me. I looked back. Then she gave me an odd, nasty smile and tossed her head a little and flounced away. I stood for a time where I was in the empty hall. I could kick Bragg’s door in. But then what? I could confront Allie. But then what? Cole would be back from Yaqui in the morning. And, good Jesus Christ, then what?

58

Cole was a half hour off the night train ride back from Yaqui. Allie wasn’t home. He and I were eating a late breakfast at Café Paris. Actually, for Cole it was a late breakfast. For me it was a second. But that was okay. I liked breakfast.

“How’d you get into this work, Virgil?” I said.

“I was always good with a gun,” Cole said. “I guess I practiced some, but most of it sort of came natural.”

“You ever kill a man not legal?” I said.

“Meaning what?” Cole said.

“You ever shoot a man because he done you wrong? Or you didn’t like him? Or he made you mad?”

“Depends what you mean by legal,” Cole said. “First time was self-defense. Fella started up with me in a bar in Las Cruces. He wanted to take it outside, so we did, and I killed him.”

He smiled.

“It’s how I started,” he said. “Marshal offered me a job.”

“Did it bother you?”

“The first time,” Cole said. “No. You?”

“Nope,” I said. “Ever bother you since?”

“I knew right off, when I took to marshaling, that there needed to be rules. I never killed nobody outside the rules.”

“Never?”

“Nope. I would arrest anyone broke the law. If they wouldn’t submit to arrest, I’d kill them, but I never killed them first.”

“Sometimes,” I said, “you probably knew they wouldn’t submit.”

“That would be their choice,” Cole said.

“Even though you might have pushed them into a corner?”

“They always had the chance to be arrested and go to jail,” Cole said. “You know that, Everett. What the hell are we talking about?”

“Just thinking about it,” I said.

“Don’t think about it too much,” Cole said. “Keep it simple. You represent the law.”

“Even if it’s law you wrote up.”

“As long as it’s the law,” Cole said. “And you stand by it.”

I nodded.

“Otherwise, what the hell are you?” I said.

“Otherwise, you’re Ring Shelton,” Cole said.

“His word was good,” I said.

“It was,” Cole said. “And he wasn’t a back shooter. But he weren’t a lawman. He’d kill anybody, long as somebody hired him to do it.”

“Maybe that was his law,” I said.

Cole gestured the Chinaboy for more coffee.

“Ain’t enough,” Cole said.

“I always kind of figured boys like you and me, Virgil, we done gun work because we could. We was better at it than most, and we didn’t mind. It’s better than punching cows, or digging copper, or soldiering. And if you do it as a peace officer, you get paid regular, and you sort of know when to do it and how.”

“Sounds right,” Cole said.

“But I never took the legal stuff too serious. It was just a way to feel easier about being a gun man.”

“I take it serious,” Cole said. “Who the hell am I if I don’t?”

“What if you had to go against the law someday?” I said.

“Goddamn it, Everett,” Cole said. “Is this about something, or are you just trying to bore me to death?”

“Just musing,” I said.

“Well, muse about fucking or something,” Cole said.

“Sure,” I said.

59

Cole had the morning walk-around, and I had the afternoon. It was somewhere in midafternoon when I left my horse out front and went into the Boston House. As was usually the case these days, Allie was playing and Bragg was leaning on the piano. If Cole had ever noticed, he hadn’t said.

I took the deputy marshal star off my shirt and walked over to the bar with it.

“Willis,” I said to the bartender, “give this to Virgil Cole next time he’s in.”

McDonough looked at the star and at me and started to say something. I took a gun out of my side pocket and placed it on the bar.

“And give this to Bragg when he asks for it,” I said.

“Everett . . .”

“Just do it,” I said and turned away.

I walked across the room to the piano and said, “Bragg.” He turned and I hit him in the face and knocked him down. The room got quiet. Allie sucked in some air and stared at me with her eyes wide. But she didn’t say anything, and there was excitement in her face. On the floor, Bragg was trying to collect himself.

“What the hell are you doing?” he said.

“You are a lying, back-shooting, cowardly sonova bitch,” I said loud, so the whole room would hear me.

Bragg was scrambling to his feet.

“What is this, what is this?” he said.

“I’ll be out in the street,” I said. “You heeled?”

“I don’t have a gun,” Bragg said.

“Will has got one for you. I’ll be outside.”

“You can’t. Christ, you’re a deputy marshal. You can’t just call me out.”

I slapped him in the face.

“I’m going outside,” I said. “If you don’t come out with a gun, I’ll come back in and kill you here.”

Most men can’t take a slap in the face. Especially in front of people they want to impress. Especially when they’ve convinced themselves that they are the herd bull in town.

“You sonova bitch,” Bragg said. “You think you can pull on me without Cole to back you up. Get on out in the street, you bastard. I’ll be out.”

I turned and walked on out into the street. I took the gun out of my holster and held it at my side. Then I waited. To my left, I heard Cole’s voice.

“Everett,” he said.

I kept watching the saloon.

“Katie Goode run down and told me,” Cole said.

“Leave it be, Virgil,” I said.

Bragg came out of the saloon and looked uneasily at Cole.

“Cole’s not in this,” I said to Bragg.

“Just hold it,” Cole said. “What’s this about, Everett.”

“I ever ask you for anything, Virgil?”

“No.”

“This one time, leave it alone. It’s just Bragg and me.”

“Everett, I can’t . . .”

“This once, Virgil. This one favor.”

Cole was silent. Bragg stood on the boardwalk of the Boston House. He was all in black with a high, black hat. He carried the gun I’d left for him down by his side. It was so still, I could hear Cole breathing for a moment.

“Okay,” Cole said.

The silence got tighter. I looked at Bragg. It’s a trick that Cole had taught me. Look at the whole person, not his eyes, or his shoulder or his gun hand, all of him, so you can react to any movement. I waited. Nothing stirred. If there had been a breeze, it had died. I waited. I knew Bragg would break. And he did. In the slow, almost lyrical way catastrophe happens, he raised his gun hand, and I shot him in the middle, and he fell slowly, beginning to double over at the impact, trying to get off a shot and falling facedown, dead on the boardwalk in front of the saloon. I opened the cylinder, ejected the empty shell, put in a fresh round, snapped the cylinder shut, and put my gun back in the holster. Then I went and hugged Cole, got on my horse, and rode past the marshal’s office and on out of town.

In the hills beyond Bragg’s ranch, I saw the Appaloosa, nervously herding his mares along toward fresh pasture. He’s got the mares, I thought. But the mares got him, too.

Then I turned my horse straight into the afternoon sun and rode west at an easy pace. It was going to be a long ride, and there was no reason to hurry.

ROBERT B. PARKER is the author of nearly fifty books. He lives in Boston.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Chapter 1.

Chapter 2.

Chapter 3.

Chapter 4.

Chapter 5.

Chapter 6.

Chapter 7.

Chapter 8.

Chapter 9.

Chapter 10.

Chapter 11.

Chapter 12.

Chapter 13.

Chapter 14.

Chapter 15.

Chapter 16.

Chapter 17.

Chapter 18.

Chapter 19.

Chapter 20.

Chapter 21.

Chapter 22.

Chapter 23.

Chapter 24.

Chapter 25.

Chapter 26.

Chapter 27.

Chapter 28.

Chapter 29.

Chapter 30.

Chapter 31.

Chapter 32.

Chapter 33.

Chapter 34.

Chapter 35.

Chapter 36.

Chapter 37.

Chapter 38.

Chapter 39.

Chapter 40.

Chapter 41.

Chapter 42.

Chapter 43.

Chapter 44.

Chapter 45.

Chapter 46.

Chapter 47.

Chapter 48.

Chapter 49.

Chapter 50.

Chapter 51.

Chapter 52.

Chapter 53.

Chapter 54.

Chapter 55.

Chapter 56.

Chapter 57.

Chapter 58.

Chapter 59.

Chapter 60.

Chapter 61.

Chapter 62.

Chapter 63.

Chapter 64.

Chapter 65.

Chapter 66.

Chapter 67.

Chapter 68.

Chapter 69.

Chapter 70.

Chapter 71.

Chapter 72.

Chapter 73.

Chapter 74.

Chapter 75.

THE SPENSER NOVELS

Now & Then

Hundred-Dollar Baby

School Days

Cold Service

Bad Business

Widow’s Walk

Potshot

Hugger Mugger

Hush Money

Sudden Mischief

Small Vices

Chance

Thin Air

Walking Shadow

Paper Doll

Double Deuce

Pastime

Stardust

Playmates

Crimson Joy

Pale Kings and Princes

Taming a Sea-Horse

A Catskill Eagle

Valediction

The Widening Gyre

Ceremony

A Savage Place

Early Autumn

Looking for Rachel Wallace

The Judas Goat

Promised Land

Mortal Stakes

God Save the Child

The Godwulf Manuscript

Back Story

THE JESSE STONE NOVELS

Stranger in Paradise

High Profile

Sea Change

Stone Cold

Death in Paradise

Trouble in Paradise

Night Passage

THE SUNNY RANDALL NOVELS

Spare Change

Blue Screen

Melancholy Baby

Shrink Rap

Perish Twice

Family Honor

ALSO BY ROBERT B. PARKER

Appaloosa

Double Play

Gunman’s Rhapsody

All Our Yesterdays

A Year at the Races

(with Joan H. Parker)

Perchance to Dream

Poodle Springs

(with Raymond Chandler)

Love and Glory

Wilderness

Three Weeks in Spring

(with Joan H. Parker)

Training with Weights

(with John R. Marsh)

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

Publishers Since 1838

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA •

Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario

M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd, 80

Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green,

Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) • Penguin Group (Australia),

250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson

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Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:

80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

Copyright © 2008 by Robert B. Parker

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed

in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate

in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

Purchase only authorized editions.

Published simultaneously in Canada

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Parker, Robert B., date.

Resolution / Robert B. Parker.

p. cm.

eISBN : 978-0-399-15504-8

1. Title.

PS3566.A686R

813’.54—dc22

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

http://us.penguingroup.com

As always, for Joan, the girl of the golden west . . .

and east . . . and north . . . and south

1.

I was in the Blackfoot Saloon in a town called Resolution, talking with the man who owned the saloon about a job. The owner was wearing a brocade vest. His name was Wolfson. He was tall and thin and sort of spooky-looking, with a walleye.

“What’s your name?” Wolfson said.

“Hitch,” I said. “Everett Hitch.”

“How long you been in Resolution?” Wolfson said.

We were at the far end of the big mahogany bar, sipping whiskey that I had bought us.

“’Bout two hours,” I said.

“And you come straight here?” Wolfson said.

“Ain’t that many choices in Resolution,” I said.

“There’s some others,” Wolfson said. “But they ain’t as nice. Tell me about yourself. What can you do?”

“Went to West Point,” I said. “Soldiered awhile, scouted awhile, shotgun for Wells Fargo, did some marshaling with Virgil Cole.”

“Cole?”

“Yep.”

“You worked with Virgil Cole?” Wolfson said. “Where?”

“Lotta towns, last one was Appaloosa.”

“And you were doing gun work,” Wolfson said.

“Some.”

“Virgil Cole,” Wolfson said.

I nodded and sipped some of the whiskey.

“We got no marshal in this town,” Wolfson said. “Sheriff’s deputy rides over once in a while from Liberty. But mostly we’re on our own.”

I nodded.

“Got a mayor?” I said. “Town council? Anything like that?”

“Nope.”

“Who’s in charge?”

“In town? Nobody. In here? Me,” Wolfson said.

I glanced around the saloon. It was half full in the middle of the afternoon. Nobody looked dangerous. The lookout chair at the other end of the bar was empty. I nodded at it.

“Could use a lookout,” Wolfson said. “Last one got hoorahed out of town.”

“What are you paying?” I said.

He told me.

“Plus a room upstairs,” Wolfson said.

“Meals?”

“If you eat them here,” Wolfson said.

“Anyplace else in town to eat?” I said.

Wolfson shrugged.

“I’ll take it,” I said.

“It’s kind of a tradition,” Wolfson said. “Some of the boys like to test the new lookout.”

I nodded.

“Fact is I’ve had trouble keeping a lookout.”

I nodded again, and drank a little more. The whiskey was pretty good.

“I got a big capital investment here,” Wolfson said. “I don’t want it wrecked.”

“Don’t blame you,” I said.

“Think you can stick?” Wolfson said.

“Sure,” I said.

“Some tough people here,” Wolfson said.

“Tough people everywhere,” I said.

“Any chance you could get Virgil Cole to come up here, too?” Wolfson said.

“No,” I said.

“You fellas on the outs?” Wolfson said.

“No,” I said.

“There’s a shotgun behind the bar,” Wolfson said.

“Got my own,” I said.

“When you want to start?”

“Tonight,” I said. “Gimme time to stow my gear, clean up, take a nap.”

“It can get rough,” Wolfson said.

“Any backup?” I said. “Bartenders?”

Wolfson shook his head.

“They serve drinks,” Wolfson said. “Ain’t got no interest in getting killed.”

“You?” I said.

“I’m a businessman,” Wolfson said.

“You’re heeled,” I said.

Wolfson opened his coat and showed me a Colt in a shoulder holster.

“Self-defense,” he said. “Only.”

“So I’m on my own,” I said.

Wolfson nodded.

“Still interested?” he said.

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Sure. Just getting the way it lays out.”

“And you ain’t scared,” Wolfson said.

“Not yet,” I said.

2.

I had an eight-gauge shotgun that I’d taken with me when I left Wells Fargo. It didn’t take too long for things to develop. I sat in the tall lookout chair in the back of the saloon with the shotgun in my lap for two peaceful nights. On my third night it was different.

I could almost smell trouble beginning to cook as people came into the saloon after work. There were more than usual of them and they seemed sort of excited and expectant. In addition to trouble, the saloon smelled of coal oil, and sweat, and booze, and tobacco, and food cooking, and the loud perfume of the whores. There were six men who had arrived early, sitting at a table near me, drinking whiskey. The trouble would come from them. And it would start with a sort of weaselly-looking fella in a bowler hat, wearing a gun. Everyone at the table was looking at me, and around the room, trying to look nonchalant, the rest of the customers had situated themselves where they could watch.

“Hey Lookout,” the Weasel said. “What’s your name?”

“Hitch,” I said. “Everett Hitch.”

He was wearing a dark shirt with vertical stripes, buttoned up tight at the collar. The buttons were big.

“Any good with that shotgun?” the Weasel said.

The room was quiet now, and everyone was watching. The Weasel liked that. He lounged back a little in his chair, his bowler hat tipped forward over his forehead. The gun he carried was a Colt, probably a .44, probably single-action. He had cut the holster down for a fast draw. And wore it tied to his thigh. Probably the local gunny.

“Don’t need to be all that good with a double-barreled eight-gauge,” I said.

“And I bet you ain’t,” the Weasel said.

“Wouldn’t make much difference to you,” I said.

“Why’s that?” the Weasel said.

“I was to give you both barrels, from here,” I said, “blow your head off and part of your upper body.”

“You think,” the Weasel said.

He was enjoying this less.

“Yep, probably kill some folks near you, too,” I said. “With the scatter.”

I cocked both barrels. The sound of them cocking was very loud in the room. Virgil Cole always used to say, You gotta kill someone, do it quick. Don’t look like you got pushed into it. Look like you couldn’t wait to do it. It was as if I could hear his voice as I looked at the men in front of me: Sometimes you got to kill one person early, to save killing four or five later.

I leveled the shotgun straight at the Weasel.

“Hey,” he said, his voice much softer than it had been. “What the hell are you doing. I ain’t looking for trouble. None of us looking for trouble, are we, boys?”

Nobody at the table was looking for trouble.

“I’ll be damned,” I said. “I thought you were.”

“No, no,” the Weasel said. “Just getting to know you.”

He finished his drink and stood.

“Gonna drift,” he said. “See how loose things are down the street.”

I nodded.

“See you again, Hitch,” the Weasel said.

“I imagine you will,” I said.

The Weasel sauntered out, followed, maybe less jauntily, by the rest of his party. The silence hung for a minute in the room, the sounds of the saloon reemerged. Wolfson came down the bar and stopped by my chair.

“That went well,” he said.

I nodded.

“Who’s he?” I said.

“Name’s Wickman, works for O’Malley out at the mine.”

“He’s not a miner,” I said.

“No, gun hand. Got kind of a reputation around here,” Wolfson said. “He won’t like that you backed him down.”

“Don’t blame him,” I said.

“He’ll likely come at you again,” Wolfson said.

“Likely,” I said.

“What’ll you do then?” Wolfson said.

“Kill him,” I said.

3.

In the saloon kitchen, the Chinaman made me biscuits and fried sowbelly for breakfast. I had two cups of coffee with it, and drank the second one on the front porch of the saloon. The sun was coming up behind me, and the weather was clear. I could see most of Resolution from where I stood. It was a raw town. Newer than Appaloosa, raw lumber, mostly unpainted, boards warping as they dried. Flat-front, mostly one-story buildings, with long, low front porches, covered by a roof. The saloons generally had second floors. And sometimes a second-floor porch.

I finished the coffee and put the cup down and strolled Main Street. There were three saloons besides the Blackfoot. There was an unpainted one-story shack with a sign in the front window that read Genuine Chicago Cooking. There were no customers yet. A Chinaman with a long pigtail was outside, sweeping down the porch. He kept his head down as I passed. I stopped in to the livery stable to visit my horse. There was a bucket of water in his stall, and some oats in another bucket. He seemed sort of glad to see me. He nudged at my shoulder and I gave him a piece of sugar that I’d taken from the saloon.

Past the livery stable were a couple of independent whorehouses where the girls lived and worked. No gambling, no food, just short sessions for a dollar. No one appeared to be awake in the whorehouses yet. Beyond, a little away from the wooden buildings, were a few tents where the Chinamen lived, maybe ten to a tent. They cooked in the saloons, and washed floors, and washed dishes, and emptied spittoons and chamber pots and slop buckets. They laundered clothes, and ironed and sewed. They mucked out the livery stables. And I knew they stepped aside when any white man encountered them in the street. I had heard someplace that they sent all their money back to China and lived on a few pennies a month.

Where I was standing, the main street petered out into a trail that led slowly downhill toward the south. Out a ways on the trail was a small ranch. Homesteader, probably. Beyond that further out, another one, and on the horizon, a couple more. I looked at the plains for a while, stretching out wide and, to my eye, empty, to the horizon. Behind me, Main Street stretched the length of the ugly little town. At the north end it became a two-wagon rut road that went up into the hills and wound out of sight among the bull pines.

I walked back along the main street. The sun was above the low buildings now and shone hard on me from the right. I passed the Blackfoot Saloon. It was the largest building in town. Besides the saloon, there was the hotel, the hotel dining room, a small bank, and the big general store. Past the Blackfoot was a blacksmith shop. The smith was there in his undershirt, loading charcoal into his forge. We nodded as I passed him.

I reached the north end of the main street. I looked at the pines. There were bird sounds, and the rustle of a light and occasional wind in the trees. Nothing else moved. The walk the length of the town had taken maybe ten minutes. Town was pretty small. Lotta space around it.

A whore I knew back in Appaloosa had asked me once if I got lonely, moving around in all this empty space, stopping in little towns with nothing much there. I told her I didn’t. I’m not hard to get along with, but I’m not convivial. I like my own company, and I like space.

A bullet clipped one of the pine trees’ branches five feet to my right. The sound of the shot was behind me. I drew, spun, and went flat on the ground. Nothing moved in the town. I waited. No second shot. After a time I stood and holstered my Colt. I walked back to the blacksmith shop.

“Hear a gunshot?” I said.

“Yep,” he said. “I did.”

“Know where it came from?” I said.

“Nope. You?”

“Nope,” I said.

We both stood and looked musingly back along the street toward where I had been standing.

“There’s a fella, name of Wickman,” I said. “Kind of sharp face, little eyes. Wears one of them round bowler hats. Carries a gun in a fast-draw rig.”

“Koy Wickman,” the smith said. “You think he shot at you?”

“Just speculatin’,” I said. “Seen him around this morning?”

“Nope. It was Koy shot at you, though, he wouldn’ta missed.”

“’Less he was bein’ playful,” I said.

“You need to walk sorta careful around Koy Wickman,” the blacksmith said. “He’s pretty quick.”

“I’ll be sorta careful,” I said.

And I was. I walked sort of careful the rest of the way back to the Blackfoot.

4.

I was sitting lookout, with the shotgun in my lap. Wolfson was sipping whiskey and leaning on the wall next to my chair.

“Northwest of town,” he said, “there’s a big lumbering operation. Fella named Fritz Stark. Other side of the hill, on the east slope, is the O’Malley mine. Eamon O’Malley. Open-pit copper mining. There’s a rail spur shuttles through the valley, back of the hill. Picks up lumber from Fritzie Stark, copper from Eamon, and heads on east to the main line at Mandan junction.”

“Wickman works for the copper mine,” I said.

“Yep.”

"Why does a copper mine need a gunny?” I said. “Or is it just a hobby?”

Wolfson sampled his whiskey, rolled it over his tongue a little, nodded approval to himself.

“Pretty good,” he said. “Got it from a new drummer.”

He sampled it again.

“Koy Wickman’s a real gun hand,” he said. “Good at it, likes it. Most folks in Resolution walk around him pretty light.”

“What’s he do for the mine?” I said.

“I think mostly he walks around with Eamon, intimidates folks.”

“Eamon need that?”

“I don’t know, exactly,” Wolfson said.

All the time we talked, Wolfson surveyed the saloon. It was kind of hard to see what he was looking at, because of the walleye.

“This is a new town,” Wolfson said. “We’re sort of just starting to figure out what we want to do here, you know?”

“And who’ll be in charge of doing it?” I said.

“Well, it ain’t come to that yet,” Wolfson said. “But you got the mine, you got the lumber company, you got us here in town, and you got a few sodbusters out in the flats below town.”

I nodded.

“They much trouble?” I said.

“Nope, ain’t that many of them,” Wolfson said. “Yet.”

“Other lookouts,” I said. “Wickman involved in running them off?”

“Yes,” Wolfson said. “Killed one of them.”

“Which you didn’t mention when you hired me,” I said.

Wolfson shrugged.

“Figured you might not take the job,” he said.

“Guys like Wickman weren’t around, there wouldn’t be work for guys like me,” I said.

“So you gonna stick?” Wolfson said.

“Sure,” I said. “But I may have to kill him in your saloon.”

“You think he’ll keep pushing?” Wolfson said.

“I think he needs to be the only rooster in the barnyard,” I said. “Or his boss does.”

Wolfson continued to look around the room for a time.

Then he said, “It’s a nice business I’m growing here. The store, the hotel, the restaurant, the saloon. Nice business.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Can’t keep hiring lookouts,” he said.

I nodded. He looked around some more.

“You do what you gotta do,” he said.

5.

Wickman came in late in the evening, wearing his fast-draw rig and his bowler hat. The hat was tipped down over his forehead.

“Hey,” he said, “Hitch. I heard you was up the north end of town this morning, looking at the pine trees.”

I looked straight at him and didn’t say anything.

“Heard somebody took a shot at your ass,” he said.

I kept looking.

“I was you I might not go walking around,” he said. “You know? I might stay right here in the saloon and hide behind my shotgun.”

Go right at ’em, Virgil used to say. There’s trouble, go right at ’em. Right now.

“You shoot at me?” I said.

“Me,” Wickman said.

He was playing to the audience that had begun to gather.

“Me?” he said. “Why would you think it was me?”

“’Cause you’re a back shooter,” I said.

The banter went out of Wickman’s voice.

“I ain’t no back shooter,” he said. “You don’t know nothing about me. Every man I killed was facing me straight up.”

“I know a back shooter when I see one,” I said. “I bet you never shot a man wasn’t drunk. This morning you missed me by five feet.”

“I missed shit,” Wickman said. “I wanted to I coulda put that bullet right between your ears.”

“So you was just thinking to scare me,” I said.

Wickman opened his mouth and closed it and backed away a step.

“Didn’t work,” I said.

“I’m just saying it was me shot at you I wouldn’ta missed.”

“Naw,” I said. “’Course you wouldn’t. You’da drilled me from behind, back shooter.”

“Don’t call me that,” Wickman said.

The audience began to spread out a little. I thumbed back both hammers on the shotgun and rested the butt on my thigh with the barrels pointing at the ceiling.

“You ain’t behind me now,” I said.

“You think I’m going up against that eight-gauge,” Wickman said.

“I ain’t pointing it at you,” I said.

The audience spread out farther.

“I’m pointing the shotgun at the ceiling,” I said. “Good gun hand should be able to clear leather and drill me ’fore I can drop the barrels.”

I was right, there were people who could win that matchup, and I wouldn’t have made them the offer. But I was betting that Koy Wickman wasn’t one of them. I was probably the first person he went up against that he couldn’t bully, maybe the first one that was sober, and almost certainly the first one that was sober and had an eight-gauge shotgun. He backed up another step. The audience gave him plenty of room.

“Want go drink a little courage,” I said. “Come back later?”

He went for it. He was pressured, probably scared, and I was right. He wasn’t that good. He fumbled the draw slightly and I hit him in the face with both barrels. It turned him completely around and propelled him about three steps before he went down. It didn’t blow his head off like I’d said it would. But it was an awful mess. I reloaded.

The room echoed with silence, the way it usually did after a shooting. The smell of my gunshots was strong. Wickman’s Colt was ten feet from his outstretched hand. He’d never even aimed it. People looked briefly at what was left of Wickman and looked quickly away. The people who had been standing closest to him were spattered with blood and tissue. One man took his stained shirt off and threw it away from him. I thought about Virgil Cole again.

You gotta kill someone, do it quick. Don’t look like you got pushed into it. Look like you couldn’t wait to do it. . . . Sometimes you got to kill one person early, to save killing four or five later.

Wolfson came into the saloon from wherever he’d been, with two Chinamen. One Chinaman had a big piece of canvas, the other one had a bucket and mop. He nodded at the mess I’d made on his floor.

“You fix,” he said to the two Chinamen. “You clean one time. Chop, chop.”

The men went about it without expression. The one with the tarp wrapped it around Wickman and dragged him out through the door they’d come in. The other one mopped the floor.

“Anyone comes down from Liberty to ask about this,” Wolfson said, “I’ll talk to them. Everybody saw him draw on you . . . and the sheriff’s a friend of mine.”

I nodded, thinking still about Virgil’s advice. Virgil was always clear, and he was always certain. But he wasn’t always right.

I was hoping he would be, this time.

6.

Koy Wickman had been the toughest man in town, and I had killed him. It appeared that now I was the toughest man in town. And it made for a highly increased level of civility in the Blackfoot Saloon. I waited to hear from the O’Malley Mining Company. But nothing was forthcoming. Meanwhile, I sat in my high chair each evening amid the pleasant hubbub of a successful saloon. Days I read some, and rode my horse around, looking at the country. It was pretty unstressful, and I didn’t mind it for a while. Sooner or later, I knew it would get boring, and I would have to move on. But for now it was good to sort of rest up from my days with Virgil in Appaloosa.

It was a Tuesday night when things began to change a bit. I was in my chair when a little whore named Billie came into the saloon, walking fast, and headed for me. Billie always claimed to be twenty, but she looked to me about fifteen. And this night she also looked scared.

“There’s a man gonna get me, Everett,” she said.

“Customer?” I said.

“Yes,” Billie said. “But he don’t want to just fuck me. He wants to do things to me, you know?”

“Hurtful things?” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “I don’t have to let him do hurtful things, do I, Everett?”

“No,” I said.

A squat, bowlegged fella with long arms came through the same door Billie had entered and looked around the room. He spotted Billie and came toward her hard, pushing people out of the way. He didn’t appear to be heeled, but I could see the handle of a knife sticking out of the top of his right boot. Billie saw him and hunched up behind my chair.

“Everett,” she said.

I nodded.

“Be all right, Billie, just stay quiet.”

Again she said, “Everett.”

Again I nodded. The man with the knife in his boot shoved a drinker aside to get next to Billie, who had wedged herself behind my chair. He grabbed her arm.

“Everett,” Billie said.

“Let her go,” I said to the knife man.

“I want that whore,” he said.

“Make the usual arrangements,” I said. “But no grabbing.”

He took his hand off her arm. I was pretty sure he knew I was the guy who killed Koy Wickman. On the other hand, he was drunk, and drunks can be stupid.

“I already paid for the little bitch,” he said.

“And you already done business?” I said.

“I fucked him,” Billie said.

“So?” I said to the guy with the knife.

“So she run off ’fore I was through.”

“He wanted to do stuff that hurt,” Billie said.

“I paid for her,” he said to me.

“That’s for fucking,” I said. “It don’t cover hurting.”

“I wasn’t gonna hurt her,” he said. “We was just playing a little.”

“She don’t want to play,” I said.

“She don’t want to?” he said. “She don’t want to? She’s a fucking whore. Who cares what she don’t want to? I paid good money for the little bitch.”

“You do what you supposed to?” I said to Billie.

“I done stuff with his pecker and then I fucked him,” she said. “He got a ugly little pecker.”

“Probably don’t see a lot of pretty ones,” I said.

The man bent down and took the knife from his boot. It was a big bowie knife with a wide blade. I rapped him on the wrist with both barrels of the shotgun, and the knife clattered to the floor and slid away. The man doubled over, holding his arm against his stomach.

“You cocksucker,” he said. “You broke my fucking arm.”

I didn’t say anything.

“It feels broke,” he said.

I didn’t say anything.

“You got no right to be banging me with that fucking eight-gauge.”

I looked at him and didn’t say anything.

“I want my damned money back,” he said.

I didn’t say anything.

“Ain’t you gonna talk?” he said.

“Sure,” I said. “First, your arm ain’t broke. I can tell. Second, she fucked you, so you don’t get your money back. Third, you annoy one whore in this establishment, ever, and I’ll kill you.”

He stared at me. I stared back. He wanted to say something. But I had, after all, killed Koy Wickman. Still nursing his arm against his stomach, he turned and went to pick up his knife.

“Leave the knife where it is,” I said.

He stopped without looking back and stood still.

“I paid eight dollars for that knife,” he said finally.

I didn’t say anything. He took another step toward the knife on the floor. I cocked the eight-gauge. The sound was bright and clear in the room. He stopped again. I could see his shoulders heave as he took in some air. Then, without looking at me, he turned away from the knife on the floor and walked out of the saloon.

I let the hammers down easy on the shotgun. The pleasant hubbub picked up again. Billie stayed where she was behind my chair.

“What if he comes back,” she said.

“He won’t,” I said.

“What if he gets another knife and comes back. He’ll cut me, I know he will.”

I looked at her little girl’s face with too much make-up on it.

“Got a couch in my room,” I said. “You can sleep on it, if you want, till you get to feeling more comfortable.”

“I could sleep in the bed,” she said. “Be no charge.”

I shook my head.

“You’re too young for me, Billie,” I said.

“I’m twenty years old,” she said.

“The hell you are,” I said. “You want to stay with me on the couch?”

“Yes.”

I fished my room key out of my pants pocket.

“You want to go up now?”

“No,” she said. “I want to stay with you.”

I nodded.

“Wolfson won’t like that so much,” I said. “I’m pretty sure he wants his whores working.”

“I can’t work any more tonight, Everett,” Billie said. “I just can’t.”

I nodded.

“Mr. Wolfson says something, you tell him it’s okay,” Billie said. “He won’t go against you.”

“Sure,” I said. “Get a chair. If there’s any trouble, stay out of my way.”

“Yes, Everett,” she said. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” I said.

7.

Wolfson joined me for breakfast.

“One of my whores is sleeping in your room,” he said.

“Yep.”

“Meals here are part of the deal,” Wolfson said, “but not the girls.”

“She’s just sleeping there,” I said. “I ain’t employed her for anything.”

“If you ain’t fucking her,” Wolfson said, “why’s she sleeping there?”

“One of her gentleman friends threatened to cut her,” I said.

“Didn’t you throw him out the other night?”

“Yep.”

“You think he’ll come back?” Wolfson said.

“Nope, but she does.”

“She’s scared,” Wolfson said.

“Uh-huh.”

“And she ain’t working,” he said.

I shrugged.

“I hired you to help me make money,” Wolfson said, “not lose it.”

“He cut her up, what would she be worth?”

“Nothing to me,” Wolfson said.

“If she run off, what would she be worth?”

Wolfson nodded.

“So you’re letting her hide in your room.”

“Few days,” I said. “Until she ain’t scared.”

Wolfson nodded.

“Because you’re concerned for my best interests,” he said.

“Sure.”

“And that’s why you’re looking out for her like this,” Wolfson said.

“Nope. I’m looking out for her ’cause I’m softhearted,” I said.

Wolfson looked at me maybe. His off eye made it a little hard to say for sure what he was looking at.

“Still ain’t carrying her weight,” he said.

I nodded.

“Take it outta my pay,” I said.

“Christ,” Wolfson said. “You are softhearted.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Didn’t seem too softhearted when you blew a hole in Koy Wickman,” he said.

“That was business,” I said.

“And this ain’t,” Wolfson said.

“No,” I said. “This is softhearted.”

“Well, it’s business for me,” Wolfson said. “I’ll take it outta your pay until she’s back at work.”

I nodded.

“Fuck her if you want,” Wolfson said. “You’re paying for it anyway.”

“Too young for me,” I said.

“Says she’s twenty,” Wolfson said.

“You believe her,” I said.

“No.”

8.

Three days later I had another whore complaint. A customer had tied Short Sally to the bed and left her. One of the other girls had come in to borrow something and found her and cut her loose, and she come running to me.

“Said he wasn’t through with me yet,” she said. “Told me he was going out with his friends and when they came back, all of them would finish me up.”

“He in the room?” I said.

“Finish me up, Everett,” Short Sally went on. “That’s what he said, finish me up.”

“See him in the room?” I said.

Short Sally looked around. She wasn’t scared like Billie had been. She was ripping.

“That’s him, the fucking pig, there playing faro,” she said. “The fat one dressed kinda fancy.”

I said, “Come with me, Sal,” gave the eight-gauge to one of the bartenders, got down from the chair, and walked over to the faro game.

“This one?” I said.

“Him,” she said.

He was wearing a wide-brimmed, low-crowned hat. I took it off his head with my left hand as he started to turn, tossed it on the floor, grabbed a handful of hair with my right hand, and pulled him and the chair over backward.

“Hey,” he said.

I let go of his hair and straightened and kicked him in the stomach. He gasped. I stomped on his crotch. He yowled. I reached down and got hold of his collar and started to drag him toward the door. Short Sally ran along beside us, bending over, calling him a “fat cocksucker.”

When we got to the door, I dragged him to his feet and pushed him against the doorjamb.

“I see you in here again, I’ll kill you,” I said.

He shook his head.

Standing beside me, Short Sally spit in his face. I’m not sure he even knew it. I turned him and pushed him through the doorway, put my foot against his butt, and shoved him face-first out into the street. Then I turned and went back to the lookout chair. Short Sally hurried along behind me.

“You shoulda killed him, Everett, the fat bastard, why didn’t you kill him like you done Koy Wickman?”

“Can’t kill ’em all, Sally.”

“Why not? Why can’t you?”

The bartender handed me the shotgun and I put it across my lap.

“Never actually quite thought about it, Sally. Killing ’em all just don’t seem like a good idea.”

“I think it is,” she said.

“I can see that, Sal,” I said. “But you ain’t the one got to do the killing.”

9.

What the fuck are you?” Wolfson said. “Fucking

Saint Everett of the Whores?”

"Just keepin’ order,” I said.

“You know who that was you kicked in the balls last night?”

“Can’t say that I got his name,” I said.

“Name’s Greavy,” Wolfson said. “Matthew Greavy. He’s a county commissioner.”

I had a bite of biscuit so I chewed and swallowed before I answered. Wolfson drank some coffee.

“So it’s okay if he abuses your whores?” I said when the biscuit was down.

“It’s important for me to stay on the right side of the county,” Wolfson said. “I ain’t out here looking to sit here in a saloon kitchen for breakfast all my life.”

“Pretty good breakfast,” I said.

“You know what I mean,” Wolfson said. “A business is like a lot of things: It grows or it dies. I plan to grow.”

“So maybe you should issue an abuse-my-whores pass to guys like Greavy. Then when I start to kick him in the balls, he can flash the pass, and I stop.”

“You being funny?” Wolfson said.

I put some sorghum on another biscuit and ate it.

“I guess not,” I said.

Wolfson stood up and walked around the kitchen. The Chinaman was busy chopping onions and paid us no attention. We never talked when he made my breakfast. I didn’t understand Chinese. I didn’t know if he understood English.

“You’re good at your work, Everett,” Wolfson said. “Don’t know if I ever seen better. You’re good with a gun. You’re good with your fists. You ain’t afraid of much. And people like you. But whores are fucking whores, you understand. They get abused, they get abused. They’re used to it.”

I nodded.

“You buy what I’m saying?” Wolfson said.

“You’re the boss,” I said.

“I know that, I want to make sure you know it, too,” Wolfson said. “Anytime you think the whores are having problems, you bring them to me.”

I nodded and ate some biscuit. I didn’t know about his language skills, but the Chinaman made a nice biscuit.

“You buy that?” Wolfson said.

“When I can,” I said.

“What do you mean, ‘When I can’?”

“Sometimes this kinda work,” I said, “you don’t have time to consult your employer.”

“So you use your own judgment.”

“I do,” I said.

Wolfson fixed me with his one-and-a-half-eyed stare.

“You do, and it’s the wrong judgment, and you’ll be out of a job,” he said.

“I’d surely miss these biscuits,” I said.

10.

Maybe Wolfson was right.

It was a Thursday night, raining hard outside, when two wet whores from Polly Patterson’s house came into the Blackfoot and sat down at a table near my end of the bar. Wolfson didn’t allow any whores but his own in the saloon, so after a minute I took my shotgun, barrels toward the floor, and went and sat down with them.

“Sorry, ladies,” I said. “Unaffiliated whores ain’t allowed in this establishment.”

“You’re Everett,” one of them said.

I nodded. It was hard to guess age in a whore, but this one looked to be in her forties, and kind of fat. The other girl was younger but no slimmer.

“We heard about you,” the older whore said.

I nodded again.

“All good things, I’m sure,” I said. “But unaffiliated whores are still not allowed in the Blackfoot.”

“We got trouble, Everett,” she said. “We need to stay here.”

“What kind of trouble?” I said.

Four men in hats and slickers came into the saloon. They stood inside the door, looking around. A couple of them took off their hats and shook the rain off them. Then all four looked at us. I nodded my head at them.

“That kind?” I said.

“Oh, Jesus,” the younger whore said.

“The one in front,” the older whore said. “With the beard, he paid for one hour with me and Roxanne. We gave him everything he paid for, and when he was through, his friends came in and used us and nobody paid nothing.”

“Unaffiliated whores are also not allowed to bring their troubles into this establishment. You steal something to get even?”

Roxanne nodded.

“I got his watch,” the older one answered. “And I ain’t givin’ it back. He owes us more then that.”

I nodded. The four men walked over to us.

The guy with the beard said, “These whores with you?”

He didn’t look like he washed the beard much.

“They are,” I said.

“They don’t work here,” he said.

“No.”

“I thought whores had to work here to be in the saloon.”

“I was just discussing that with them,” I said. “They been put on notice.”

“You throwing them out?” the man said.

He was a thick fella, miner probably, had the sort of overmuscled bow in his back that pick and shovel work can give you.

“I told them I would,” I said. “If they ain’t out of here by Monday.”

“Monday?”

I smiled and nodded.

“Don’t tolerate rule-breaking,” I said.

The bearded man looked at the shotgun across my lap.

“You Hitch?” he said.

“Yes, sir, I am.”

He looked at the shotgun again.

“That an eight-gauge?” he said.

“Yes, sir, it is,” I said.

One of the other men said, “Christ. Pellets must look like billiard balls.”

“These whores got something belongs to me,” the bearded one said.

“You owe us,” the older whore said. “You owe us a lot more than we took, don’t he, Roxanne?”

Roxanne nodded silently.

“See,” the bearded one said. “See, she even admits she took something.”

“I don’t care,” I said.

“She give it back and there won’t be no trouble,” the bearded one said.

I stood up.

“Or if she don’t,” I said.

The bearded man didn’t seem to know what to say. His three companions shifted uneasily. The whores sat perfectly still.

“You ladies sit right there, where I can see you, make sure you’re not stealing any business from our girls,” I said. “You gentlemen step to the bar and I’ll buy you all a drink ’fore you leave.”

The men sort of looked at one another, then at me. Then the bearded man nodded.

“I could use a drink,” he said. “Night like this.”

11.

Place has turned into a fucking sanctuary,” Wolfson said.

I shrugged.

“It’s not just whores now,” he said. “Anybody got trouble comes running into my saloon and waits for you to protect them.”

Wolfson was leaning on the bar near my chair, sipping whiskey. He usually drank whiskey through the evening, but it didn’t appear to make him drunk. Maybe it was how slow he sipped it.

“For crissake, some guy made a pass at Harley Porter’s wife on the street the other day and she hustles right in here to tell you.”

“I know,” I said. “Maybe if there was a sheriff or something. ”

“You’re turning into the fucking sheriff,” Wolfson said.

“Except I ain’t,” I said.

“No, you ain’t,” Wolfson said. “You work for me.”

“I do,” I said.

“Keep that clear in your mind,” Wolfson said.

I nodded, watching the room. It was full and lively, the card tables were busy, the bar was crowded. Everything was in good working order. Wolfson sipped his whiskey and looked at the room, too.

“Nice and busy,” he said.

He snorted or laughed or something like that. It wasn’t a pleasant sound.

“Thing makes me laugh,” he said, “is my saloon, a sanctuary, like a fucking church or something. People come to my saloon because they feel safe.”

“That’s not bad for business,” I said.

“No,” Wolfson said, and made the laugh sound again. “That’s what’s so funny. I’m busier than I ever been.”

At a card table in the middle of the room somebody lost a hand he thought he had won, and got mad and slammed his open hand down on the table. The impact knocked over a bottle of whiskey that rolled off the table and shattered on the floor. The card player whirled toward me and put both hands, palms out, in front of his chest.

“No trouble, Everett. An accident. I’ll buy a new bottle.”

“That’ll be good,” I said.

The card player walked to the bar to buy a new bottle. A Chinese man with a broom came from someplace and cleaned up the broken glass.

“Ain’t it grand how they love you, Everett,” Wolfson said.

“Ever hear of a man named Machiavelli?” I said.

“No.”

“When I was at West Point,” I said, “they made us read some things he wrote.”

“I’m not much for reading,” Wolfson said.

“One thing he said sort of stayed with me,” I said. “It’s better to be feared than loved. Because you can’t make them love you. But you can make them fear you.”

“Pretty smart fella,” Wolfson said. “So what?”

I grinned at him.

“Koy Wickman,” I said, “did not die in vain.”

12.

It was payday at Fort Rucker, and the Blackfoot had a lot more soldiers than usual. They were noisy but peaceful, except for one fight, which I convinced the fighters to take outside. I watched them for a little while as they flailed away drunkenly until one of them threw up and the other walked away in disgust.

I was back in my chair when two men came into the Blackfoot who were not soldiers, or ranch hands, or miners, or lumberjacks, or drummers, or wandering preachers. They had on town clothes and smallish town hats, and they wore guns. In fact, one of them wore two. I always thought two guns were for show. And the fact that his were adorned with bright pearl handles didn’t cause me to reconsider. He was as tall as I was, but not as thick, and he wore a big mustache. His partner was shorter and smaller. Kind of scrawny-looking, he was shaved clean, and carried one walnut-handled Colt.

They took a table near the bar and ordered coffee.

We looked at one another.

After a while I said, “You gents new in town?”

The tall one said, “Yes.”

We looked at one another some more.

“Passing through?” I said. “Or you planning to stay?”

“We came to do some work for Eamon O’Malley,” the tall one said.

“That so,” I said. “What kind of work you fellas do?”

The tall one looked at the small one and smiled.

“Hear that, Cato,” he said. “Gentleman wants to know what kind of work we do.”

The little guy nodded.

“A little of this,” he said, “a little of that.”

I nodded back, friendly.

“Cato,” I said. “Cato Tillson?”

The little guy nodded again. His eyes were sort of narrow, and the upper lids drooped so that the eyes seemed hooded.

“And you’d be Frank Rose?” I said to the tall one.

“You heard of us,” he said.

“Cato and Rose,” I said.

Rose seemed pleased.

“That’s what they call us,” he said. “His first name, my last. Kind of funny, huh? How that worked out? Guess people just like the way it sounds.”

He sipped some coffee.

“Cato and Rose,” he said, enjoying the phrase.

“What’s your name?” Cato said.

“Hitch,” I said. “Everett Hitch.”

“With Virgil Cole awhile, wasn’t you?” Cato said.

“I was.”

“Never had a chance to go against Cole,” Rose said.

“Why you’re still here,” I said.

Rose laughed.

“I heard he was pretty good,” Rose said.

“Best,” I said.

“’Course you ain’t seen me and Cato work,” Rose said.

“Nope.”

“Well,” Rose said, “maybe you’ll get the chance.”

“Maybe,” I said.

“Either way, we’re grateful to you, I guess, for helping us get this job with Eamon.”

“By shooting Koy Wickman?”

“Opened up a nice slot for us,” Rose said.

“Two of you to replace Koy Wickman?” I said.

Rose grinned some more.

“We’re a matched pair,” he said. “Both or neither.”

He stretched his legs out in front of him and leaned back a little in his chair. The boots were pretty fancy. Like him. He took a cigar from his vest pocket and bit off the tip and lit it, turning it in the flame until it was burning even.

“You know,” I said, “I could never figure out why O’Malley needed a gun hand at all, let alone two, let alone two like you.”

Rose took a long pull on the cigar and let out the smoke slowly.

“Maybe he figured since Wolfson had you, maybe he should get us,” Rose said.

“I’m just a saloon bouncer,” I said. “Why’s he worried about me?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Don’t make any sense,” I said.

“Not much does,” Rose said.

I looked at Cato. He appeared to have no view on the matter.

“Ever hear from Cole?” Rose said.

“No.”

“Heard he killed a man a little while ago,” Rose said.

“Virgil does that sometimes,” I said.

“Heard it was over a woman,” Rose said.

“In Appaloosa?” I said.

“Yep,” Rose said. “Heard he left town right after.”

“So he’s not marshaling there no more?” I said.

“Don’t know,” Rose said. “All I heard.”

I nodded. Rose and Cato finished their coffee and stood.

“Nice meeting you boys,” I said.

“Same here,” Rose said.

Cato didn’t speak, but he nodded. And the two of them left the saloon. Allie, I thought. Goddamned Allie.

13.

Wolfson and I sat in wicker rockers on the front porch of the hotel next to the saloon and soaked up some early-afternoon sun. At the general store a tired-looking guy with a tired-looking wife and three small kids was loading things onto the back of a buckboard.

“Money in the till,” I said, watching the ranch family.

“Sodbusters,” Wolfson said. “Probably running a tab, won’t be able to pay it, tab gets big enough and I’ll own his ranch.”

“Why do you want his ranch?” I said.

“Why not,” Wolfson said. “Better it should belong to me than him.”

“He probably don’t feel that way,” I said.

“He don’t matter,” Wolfson said.

I nodded. The three kids were looking at us, staring at my gun. I pretended to draw and shoot at them with my forefinger. They didn’t react. Their mother said something and the three of them got up on the back of the buckboard with the groceries. The mother and father got up on the front seat. The father tapped the two mules with the reins, and they moved off south along Main Street.

“You know anything about the two new gun hands Eamon has hired?” Wolfson said.

“Cato and Rose,” I said.

“Sounds like a damn circus act,” Wolfson said.

“It ain’t,” I said.

“They good?”

“Very,” I said.

“Better than Wickman?”

“Much.”

“Better than you?”

“Maybe.”

“And there’s two of them,” Wolfson said.

“Uh-huh.”

“They always work together?”

“Far as I know,” I said.

“How about Cole?” Wolfson said.

“What about him?”

“How they stack up against him?”

“Never seen nobody stacked up against Virgil Cole,” I said.

“Including you?”

“Including me,” I said.

“Have you seen Cato and Rose?”

“Not till yesterday,” I said.

“So you don’t know for sure about them?”

“Never know for sure,” I said.

“Maybe we should get Cole up here,” Wolfson said.

“You expecting trouble?” I said.

“Why are they here?” Wolfson said.

“Somebody’s expecting trouble.”

“Or expecting to cause it,” Wolfson said.

“What would O’Malley want to cause trouble about?” I said.

“I don’t know,” Wolfson said.

I didn’t quite believe that he didn’t know, but I saw no reason to say so.

“Can you get Cole?” Wolfson said.

“Don’t know where he is,” I said.

“He’s not in Appaloosa anymore?”

“That’s what I heard.”

“How can we find him,” Wolfson said.

“Don’t think you’ll have to,” I said. “I expect he might come drifting in here, next few days.”

“Here?” Wolfson said. “Why?”

“See me,” I said. “Sometimes he likes to talk with me about things.”

Wolfson looked like he wanted to ask more, but he didn’t quite know what to ask, and I didn’t help him out. So he didn’t.

Instead, he said, “What are we going to do about Cato and Rose?”

“How about they don’t bother us, we don’t bother them?” I said.

“They’ll bother us,” Wolfson said.

“Why do you think so?”

“Eamon wants to be the studhorse around here,” Wolfson said.

“And you’re in his way?”

“I guess,” Wolfson said.

“He runs a mine,” I said. “You run this place. How does that put you in his way?”

“Don’t know,” Wolfson said.

“How about the lumber operation?” I said. “Who’s way is that in?”

“Got no idea,” Wolfson said.

I didn’t believe that, either, but I could see that Wolfson had said all he was going to say on the subject, so I didn’t pursue it.

14.

I was about to get in my chair in the late afternoon on a Friday, when one of the clerks from the general store came into the saloon.

“Mr. Wolfson wants you in the store,” he said. “Bring the shotgun.”

The saloon was next to the hotel, and the store was on the other side of the hotel. We walked through the lobby of the hotel to get there. In the store were six men, sodbusters probably, gathered in front of the counter, behind which Wolfson stood with a second clerk. Everybody looked at me when I came in.

One of them said, “And we ain’t gonna get scared off by your bully boy, neither.”

The speaker was a small, dark, wiry man, with a kind of sharp angularity about him, like a farming tool. I stopped inside the door and stood against the wall with the shotgun beside my leg, pointing at the floor.

“Make your point, Redmond,” Wolfson said.

“You got no right takin’ our property,” Redmond said.

“I ain’t taken your property, Redmond.”

“We’re all in this together,” Redmond said. “You take Pete Simpson’s land, it’s like takin’ mine.”

“Simpson owed me money, and he couldn’t pay. What am I supposed to do, just give it to him?”

“Give him time. He’ll pay,” Redmond said. “Thing is, and we all know it here, you don’t want him to pay. You want his land. You want all our land.”

“I’ve already made an arrangement for Pete Simpson to stay on his land.”

“Sure,” Redmond said. “Except now it won’t be his land. It’ll be your land. And he’ll pay you rent.”

“Nobody made him run up a bill he couldn’t pay,” Wolfson said.

I looked at the other sodbusters as Wolfson talked. I wondered which one was Pete Simpson.

“So how’s he supposed to feed his cattle, or plant crops, or feed his kids?” Redmond said.

“You know, Bob,” Wolfson said, “when you come right on down to it, that ain’t my concern. Simpson and I made a business deal and he couldn’t hold up his end of it.”

“You knew he couldn’t when you went into it with him,” Redmond said.

He was a fierce little duck, with small, hard eyes on either side of his big plow-blade nose. Wolfson shook his head.

“We’re done here, Bob,” he said. “This is getting us nowhere.”

“We ain’t leaving till we get some justice,” Redmond said.

Without looking at me, Wolfson said, “Everett.”

I nodded and stood away from the wall I’d been leaning on.

“Time to go,” I said.

All the sodbusters looked at me. Redmond the hardest.

“You can’t shoot us all,” Redmond said.

“Actually,” I said. “I probably can. Got a big scatter, probably get at least two of you, first shot. Long as I don’t get too close.”

Nobody said anything. I moved toward Redmond a step.

“I get too close I’ll just mangle you.”

I stopped.

“’Bout here,” I said. “Then I get you and some people near you.”

A couple of the other sodbusters began to back up. A fat guy with pink cheeks behind Redmond spoke to him.

“Come on, Bob,” he said. “This ain’t the way we want it to go. We ain’t even got guns.”

Somebody else said, “He’s right, Bob.”

And somebody else said, “Come on, Bob.”

And somebody else opened the front door of the store and slowly, one after the other, the sodbusters backed out. Bob Redmond was the last one.

“This ain’t over,” he said to Wolfson. “This ain’t over.”

“Nice work, Everett,” Wolfson said.

I nodded.

“If they hadn’t left would you have shot them?” Wolfson said.

“They left,” I said.

“But if they hadn’t.”

“Sometime maybe they won’t leave, then we’ll find out,” I said.

“It may get rougher,” Wolfson said. “I need to know I can count on you.”

“So far so good?” I said.

“Yeah,” Wolfson said. “I guess so.”

I nodded, and grinned at him.

“Bully boy,” I said, and walked back to the saloon.

15.

Virgil Cole arrived just after sunset on a Monday. He walked into the saloon, a tall man in a dark coat and white shirt wearing a big bone-handled Colt.

He walked to the chair where I was sitting and said, “Evenin’, Everett.”

“Virgil.”

“Thought I might drink some whiskey,” he said. “You care to climb down from there and join me?”

“I do,” I said.

Virgil ordered a bottle.

“Patrick,” I said. “The stuff that Wolfson drinks.”

Patrick nodded. Virgil and I sat at a table, and Patrick brought us a bottle and two glasses. Virgil poured.

“Go easy,” I said. “Might have to shoot somebody.”

“Always a happenstance,” Virgil said.

“Heard you left Appaloosa,” I said.

“I did,” Virgil said.

Wolfson came into the saloon and walked straight to our table.

“Virgil Cole?” he said.

Virgil nodded once.

“I’m Amos Wolfson. I own the place.”

Virgil nodded again.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Wolfson said. “I’m very proud to meet you.”

“How do you do?” Virgil said.

Virgil didn’t offer to shake hands. He never shook hands. No reason to let somebody get hold of you, he said to me once.

“What brings you to Resolution?” Wolfson said.

“Come to drink a little whiskey with Everett,” Virgil said.

Wolfson nodded.

“Bottle’s on me,” Wolfson said. “And if you’re interested in a job, I’d be pleased to offer you one.”

Virgil nodded briefly.

“Sure thing,” he said. “Right now I’m just going to drink a little whiskey with Everett.”

“Sure,” Wolfson said, “you bet. Everett, take your time, any trouble one of the bartenders will give a yell.”

I nodded.

“Hope to talk with you soon again, Mr. Cole,” Wolfson said.

“Thanks for the whiskey,” Virgil said.

Wolfson left the table.

“Hard man to look in the eye,” Virgil said.

I smiled.

“True,” I said.

“Why’s he want to hire me?” Virgil said.

“Not exactly sure,” I said. “Seems to feel there’s trouble coming. Maybe with a fella named Eamon O’Malley, runs a copper mine back a ways in the hills.”

“That why he hired you?” Virgil said.

“I don’t know, I was looking for work. Maybe he just needed a lookout. Maybe he was planning ahead.”

Virgil splashed a little more whiskey in his glass. He held the bottle. I shook my head. He nodded.

“Had any trouble?”

“Had to shoot a local gunny named Wickman,” I said. “Worked for O’Malley.”

Virgil nodded.

“Anything come of that?” he said.

“Nope.”

“Any law here?”

“Not really,” I said. “I’m told the sheriff sends a line rider down here every few months. I ain’t seen any.”

“O’Malley replace the fella you shot?”

“Cato and Rose,” I said.

Virgil sat back in his chair a little.

“My, my,” he said.

“My thought exactly,” I said.

“You talk with them?”

“Yep.”

“Anything come of it?”

“Nope.”

Virgil appeared to suck on one of his front teeth for a moment.

“Cato and Rose,” he said.

“My, my,” I said.

We drank a little more whiskey together.

Then Virgil said, “What time’s breakfast.”

“Kitchen opens up at five-thirty,” I said.

“Been a long ride,” he said. “I’ll turn in.”

“See you in the morning,” I said.

Virgil nodded and took the bottle and headed out the side entrance of the saloon and into the hotel. I knew he had things to say. But he wasn’t ready to say them yet.

16.

It was raining in the morning. No wind, and not very cold, with the rain coming straight down and steady. Virgil and I took our coffee outside and sat under the awning on the front porch of the hotel. At the south end of town you could see through the rain how the land sloped down to the plains, where the small ranchers lived. At the north end, where the land rose, the trees were bright green in the wet. The street was muddy and getting worse, and nobody was moving around much. We drank some coffee.

“Small,” Virgil said.

“It is,” I said.

A single rider hunched in a slicker rode a bay horse toward the livery stable. The rider’s collar was up and his hat was pulled down to his ears. The horse’s coat was dark and wet with rain. His hooves made a soft sucking sound as he waded through the mud.

“Allie run off,” Virgil said.

I nodded. Virgil looked after the horse and rider for a time.

“She run off with fella owned a spread in New Mexico,” Virgil said.

I nodded again.

“He didn’t have no ranch,” Virgil said. “He just tole her that so he could fuck her.”

I didn’t say anything.

“So he got her as far as Little Springs and dumped her. I found her working in a saloon there.”

“Playing piano?” I said.

“No.”

I nodded.

“I left her there,” Virgil said. “Followed him.”

“And?” I said.

“Caught up with him in Three Forks,” Virgil said.

“Arrest him?”

“Ain’t against the law to fuck Allie,” Virgil said.

“No,” I said.

The rider turned his horse into the livery stable and out of sight.

“You kill him?” I said.

“Yes,” Virgil said.

“He draw on you?”

“Gave him the chance,” Virgil said. “He said he wouldn’t. Tole him draw or not draw, I was going to shoot him where he stood. He wouldn’t draw.”

“So you shot him.”

“I did,” Virgil said.

“How ’bout Allie?”

“I went back to Little Springs, but they tole me she lit out, soon as I went after the tinhorn.”

“You go looking for her?” I said.

“No.”

“What was the tinhorn’s name?” I said, just to be saying something.

“Never did know,” Virgil said.

I didn’t say anything. I knew what was bothering Virgil. I wondered if he did. Virgil drank the rest of his coffee and went back into the hotel to get some more. I looked at the rain while he was gone. Virgil came out with a full coffee-pot. He poured some in my cup.

“Already got sugar in it,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“There ranches down there on the plain?” Virgil said.

“Yep.”

“Hard to see them through the rain,” Virgil said.

“It is,” I said.

“I know why you killed Randall Bragg in Appaloosa,” Virgil said.

“No reason not to,” I said.

“Allie was fucking him, too,” Virgil said. “And you knew if I found out I’d have to kill him.”

“Something like that.”

“You knew he hadn’t broken no law,” Virgil said.

“Not right then he hadn’t.”

“But you knew I’d kill him anyway,” Virgil said.

“Yes.”

“So you done it for me,” Virgil said. “So I wouldn’t have to.”

“I guess.”

Virgil took the bone-handled six-shooter out of his holster and looked at it.

“I’m good with this,” he said.

“Yes,” I said.

“Always been good with it. Made my living most of my life being good with it,” Virgil said.

“I know,” I said.

“Because most people ain’t as good as I am with it,” he said.

“So far, none,” I said.

He nodded.

“Don’t give me the right to go round shooting people,” he said. “Just ’cause I can.”

“It’s good to have a reason,” I said.

“I been a lawman,” Virgil said. “Never shot nobody ’cept according to the law.”

“You always had rules, Virgil.”

“Why you shot Bragg for me,” Virgil said.

“So you wouldn’t have to break your rules,” I said. “I didn’t mind.”

“I appreciate it,” Virgil said.

We were quiet. I knew we weren’t done with it yet. He was still chewing on it.

“’Cept now I done it,” Virgil said. “I shot that tinhorn for fucking Allie.”

“And leaving her,” I said. “In a whorehouse.”

Virgil nodded. “None of that is against the law.”

“Might be against some sort of law,” I said.

“None I ever seen written down,” Virgil said.

“They ain’t all written down,” I said.

“They are for me,” Virgil said.

I had no answer for that. Virgil turned his hand over and looked at the six-gun some more.

“What are you gonna do?” I said after a while.

“I ain’t a lawman no more,” Virgil said.

“For the moment,” I said.

“Nope. Lawman obeys the rules. I broke ’em.”

“So what are you gonna do?”

“Hang around here, I guess,” he said. “Talk with you.”

He moved the gun back and forth in front of him.

“This is all I really know how to do,” he said. “Guess I’m a gunman now.”

“Wolfson offered you a job,” I said.

“Don’t know ’bout that yet.”

“Either way,” I said. “I’ll enjoy the company.”

“Always helps when I talk with you, Everett,” Virgil said.

I grinned at him.

“Virgil,” I said. “Ain’t you ever noticed that mostly you talk? And mostly I listen?”

He nodded, and looked at me for the first time since we’d sat on the porch.

“Damn,” he said. “No wonder I like it so much.”

17.

Bob Redmond came into the Blackfoot and walked to my end of the bar. He held both hands palms out in front of him as if he were stopping something.

“I don’t want no trouble, Hitch,” he said.

“Okay.”

“I need to talk with you.”

“Okay.”

“Private,” Redmond said.

“You want a drink?” I said.

“I would, in fact,” Redmond said.

I gestured to Patrick and he brought a bottle and two glasses. I picked them up and we went to a table. I poured a drink into one glass and pushed it to Redmond. He picked it up and drank it and put the empty glass back down on the table. I poured him another one.

“How ’bout you?” he said.

“Maybe later,” I said.

Redmond drank a small amount of his second drink and put it down and leaned forward across the table toward me.

“I got a proposition for you,” he said.

I nodded.

“We want to hire you.”

“We?” I said.

“The Ranchers Association.”

“What do you want to hire me to do?” I said.

“Help us against Wolfson.”

“Wouldn’t that be sorta awkward?” I said.

“I mean we’d hire you away from him,” Redmond said. “We’d pay you more.”

“And what would I do to help?” I said.

“Be our gun hand instead of his,” Redmond said.

“Until somebody hired me away from you by paying me more,” I said.

“No, you couldn’t do that.”

“If I could do it to him, why couldn’t I do it to you?”

“I . . . I don’t know what to say.”

“Besides,” I said. “You hire me away from Wolfson, Wolfson’ll hire somebody else.”

“But you can stand up to him, whoever he hires. Some of us seen you with Wickman.”

“So you hire me away. He hires a replacement. I kill the replacement for you,” I said.

“Yes.”

“’Less the replacement kills me,” I said.

“Goddamn it,” Redmond said. “You turn everything I say around.”

“Ain’t hard to do,” I said. “I gather you ain’t got many shooters in your association.”

“Well, not like you,” Redmond said. “I mean, we mostly have a Winchester around, keep the vermin away from the calves, or, I guess, if we had to, to protect ourselves. But we ain’t got no professional shooters. Not like you, or them two fellas Eamon O’Malley hired.”

“Cato and Rose,” I said.

“Yeah. I heard they can take over a town,” Redmond said.

“Heard that, too,” I said. “Tell me about your problem with Wolfson.”

“Well, you heard some of it when you run us out of the store,” Redmond said.

“Fella owes him money and don’t pay,” I said. “What’s Wolfson supposed to do.”

“That ain’t how it is,” Redmond said.

“How is it,” I said.

Redmond finished his second drink and poured himself another one.

“Most of us grow a few crops for the kitchen, but if we make any money it’s from cows. None of us got enough head to matter a hell of a lot, but we sort of pool them, let ’em graze over all our ranges, and then sell them, mostly to Fort Rucker and the reservation. But we don’t deal with the Army, or the Indian agent, there’s too many of us, and none of us got enough cattle by ourselves, and the government won’t deal with us except through a cattle broker.”

“Wolfson?” I said.

Redmond nodded.

“I’m sure he’s bribing the Indian agent, maybe the quartermaster at the Fort, too, I don’t know. But by the time the deal is done we ain’t getting much for our beef. And he’s the only broker around. And we got no choice.”

“And because you don’t have much money, and you got to buy things like flour and coal oil . . .” I said.

“And bridle bits, and horseshoes, and cloth, and nails, and needles, and everything else we can’t grow,” Redmond said.

“You have to charge it at the Blackfoot Emporium,” I finished.

“For way too much, and when we can’t pay he takes the land, and we’re tenants.”

“And there’s no other store around,” I said.

“Nope.”

I smiled.

“The company store,” I said.

Redmond nodded. But he didn’t smile.

“So what are you trying to do?” I said.

“Just like we can pool our cows, we want to pool ourselves. We ain’t big ranchers, but we could be like a big ranch, if we all associated. Then we could broker our own cattle, and maybe establish our own store, and maybe make a living.”

“Wolfson probably don’t want that to happen,” I said.

“’Course he don’t,” Redmond said. “He’s told us that. He says we try organizing like that and we’re headed for big trouble.”

“Where’s O’Malley stand in all this,” I said.

“He might help us, he’d do pretty much anything to fuck Wolfson up.”

“Why?”

“He wants to replace Wolfson.”

“Ah,” I said. “That explains Cato and Rose.”

“It explains Wickman, too, and it explains you.”

“I guess it does,” I said. “O’Malley hired Wickman to intimidate Wolfson. So Wolfson hired me to intimidate Wickman. So Eamon doubled down and hired Cato and Rose to intimidate me. Now it’s Wolfson’s turn.”

“If you won’t help us,” Redmond said, “I guess we got to turn to O’Malley.”

“And if O’Malley wins?” I said.

“Maybe it’ll be better.”

I shook my head.

“Still the same,” Redmond said. “Except Eamon be squeezing us ’stead of Wolfson.”

I nodded.

“Probably right,” Redmond said.

He looked into his nearly empty glass for a time, then finished the drink.

“So will you think about this?” he said.

“I wish you well,” I said. “But you need to understand. Fella like me got nothing much that’s worth anything, ’cept his gun and his word. When I hired on with Wolfson it’s like I sort of gave him my word I wouldn’t hire on against him first chance I got.”

“I just want the gun,” Redmond said.

“Sort of goes with the word,” I said.

Redmond nodded.

“I’ll talk with O’Malley,” he said.

“He’ll be no better than Wolfson,” I said.

“Can’t be worse,” Redmond said. “Step at a time.”

I nodded.

“You know,” Redmond said, “the only safe place in town right now is here?”

I shrugged.

“You seem like you’re a decent man, Hitch,” Redmond said. “I hope we don’t have to go against you.”

“We’ll see,” I said.

18.

Virgil and I took the horses out for a ride south of town on a bright morning.

"Ain’t good for ’em,” Virgil said. “Standing around in the livery all the time, eatin’.”

It was low rolling land where the small ranches were, and we let the horses amble.

“Lotta grass,” Virgil said.

“Government land mostly,” I said. “Ranchers are home-steading. ”

“They free-range the cattle?” Virgil said.

“They say that they graze them on all the homesteads,” I said.

“You believe that?”

“No.”

“Never saw government land people didn’t free-range,” Virgil said.

“Government’s a long way away,” I said.

“Enough land to support a lot of cattle,” Virgil said.

“Homesteaders are trying, I guess, but nobody got the money,” I said. “They’re talking about organizing.”

“Who got the money?” Virgil said.

“Wolfson,” I said. “Fella named Eamon O’Malley, runs a copper mine. Probably fella runs the lumber business, Fritz Stark.”

“Any of them interested?”

“In a cattle operation?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t know,” I said. “Ranchers say that Wolfson’s trying to run them off their land.”

“Tell me ’bout that,” Virgil said.

I did.

When I was done Virgil said, “Sounds effectual.”

I nodded. We let the horses stop for a time and eat some grass.

“This O’Malley fella,” Virgil said. “Think he’ll let that happen?”

I shrugged.

“He hired Cato and Rose for something,” I said.

“He did,” Virgil said.

We pulled the horses back up from the grass and moved on.

“We gonna look for Allie?” I said after a while.

“I guess,” Virgil said.

“When?”

“When you get through here,” Virgil said.

“I can get through when I want to.”

Virgil shook his head.

“Gonna be trouble,” he said. “You know it. I know it.”

“Might be,” I said.

“You ain’t going anyplace until that’s settled.”

“Why not?” I said.

“’Cause you ain’t,” Virgil said. “Neither would I. It ain’t how we are.”

“You gonna hang around and wait?” I said.

“Uh-huh.”

“’Cause you get lonesome without me?” I said.

“Uh-huh.”

“And I listen when you talk,” I said.

“Uh-huh.”

“And you don’t want me to have to go up against Cato and Rose alone.”

Virgil grinned at me.

“Uh-huh,” he said.

The sun was warm. There was a little breeze. We let the horses drink at a stream that wound down out of the high ground to the north. Then we moved on.

“We go looking for Allie,” I said, “where we gonna look?”

“Texas,” Virgil said. “She was always talking ’bout Texas.”

“Texas is big,” I said.

“It is,” Virgil said.

“What happens when we find her?”

“We’ll see,” Virgil said.

“You ain’t gonna kill her?”

“No,” Virgil said. “Can’t kill her. Why I killed him.”

I nodded.

“You take up with her again, Virgil,” I said, “she’ll probably do this again.”

“Maybe,” Virgil said. “Won’t know what’s gonna happen next, ’less we find her.”

“That would be true,” I said.

19.

I’m having a drink with Eamon O’Malley this afternoon, ” Wolfson said to me. “Two o’clock. I’d just as soon you were there.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Bring the eight-gauge,” Wolfson said.

“Sure,” I said.

The eight-gauge and I were in the lookout chair by quarter to two. The saloon was nearly empty. Couple of teamsters who had already unloaded and had time to kill until they were reloaded. A rancher whose wife was probably running up a bill at the Blackfoot Emporium. Three lumberjacks who weren’t working for whatever reason they had. Wolfson came in through the hotel entrance and went to a table in the front of the saloon two tables from me. He saw me and nodded slightly. There was no one else near us. Patrick brought him a bottle and two glasses.

At two on the hour, Eamon O’Malley came in through the street entrance and walked straight to Wolfson. He didn’t have an eight-gauge. But he did have Cato and Rose walking in behind him. Eamon sat down with Wolfson. Cato and Rose leaned on the bar. Rose winked at me. Cato looked at me without expression.

“Amos,” Eamon said.

Wolfson nodded.

“Eamon,” he said, and gestured toward a chair.

O’Malley sat across from Wolfson.

“Whiskey?” Wolfson said.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Eamon said.

He picked up the bottle.

“By God,” he said, “Bushmills.”

“In your honor,” Wolfson said.

Eamon poured a full glass.

“Ain’t seen whiskey like this since I was in Cheyenne,” he said.

“Been saving it,” Wolfson said.

He poured a splash for himself.

It was like watching two stallions pretending they didn’t want the mares.

Eamon drank some whiskey and smiled.

“Long time,” he said, “long time since Ireland.”

He looked around the saloon.

“Nice little business you got here, Amos,” he said.

“It’s a living,” Wolfson said.

“Damn good one, if I’m any judge,” Eamon said.

“Ain’t no copper mine,” Wolfson said.

Eamon drank some more whiskey.

“Ahh,” he said. “Mining’s all overhead until it peters out. This place . . . people keep coming. Town grows, you grow. You got the saloon, the store, the hotel, the bank. Wasn’t for me and Fritzie, you’d own the whole place.”

“I’d own a lotta headaches,” Wolfson said.

Eamon finished his whiskey and poured some more. Wolfson took another very small sip of his.

“Well, you know, that’s funny,” Eamon said, “funny you should say that. ’Cause I’m here to talk with you about selling to me. You make a nice profit, you don’t have any more headaches. You’re free to go where you want, do what you want.”

Wolfson stared at him.

“You want to buy me out?” he said.

“Yes,” Eamon said. “Fair offer.”

“Everything?” Wolfson said.

“Saloon, store, hotel, bank, cattle brokerage, everything.” Wolfson stared at him some more.

After a while Eamon said, “Fair offer, Amos.”

Still, Wolfson looked at him.

Finally, Wolfson said, “And if I decline the offer?”

Eamon drank some whiskey and glanced over at Cato and Rose.

“Then we’d probably have to insist,” Eamon said.

As quiet as I could, I pulled back both hammers on the eight-gauge. Cato and Rose both heard it. Rose smiled faintly.

“We?” Wolfson said.

Eamon rolled his head to include Cato and Rose.

“Me and some of my friends,” he said.

I don’t know how. He didn’t make any noise. But all of us became aware suddenly that Virgil Cole was standing in the doorway from the hotel. He was motionless, leaning his left shoulder against the doorjamb. Cato Tillson shifted slightly at the bar so as to face Virgil. Rose stayed where he was, looking at me.

“Well, bucko,” Eamon said, “who’s this?”

It was Cato who answered.

“That’s Virgil Cole,” Cato said.

The atmosphere in the room had changed. The way it does sometimes before a storm. The uninvolved bystanders in the saloon looked up nervously. Virgil neither moved nor spoke.

Eamon was a little drunk now, which always seemed to me a bad way to do business.

“Well, Virgil Cole be damned,” he said. “You want to hear my offer, Amos?”

Wolfson picked up the glass of whiskey and drained it and put the glass down carefully in front of him. He looked at Eamon for a moment without speaking.

Then he said, speaking carefully, “Fuck you, O’Malley.”

Eamon’s hands were resting on the tabletop. He looked down at them as if they were something new and interesting.

Without looking up, he said, “You don’t even want to hear my offer?”

“Fuck you,” Wolfson said.

“Onetime offer, Amos,” Eamon said.

Wolfson didn’t say anything. O’Malley turned and looked over his shoulder at Cato and Rose. He shook his head slightly. Rose looked at me and grinned, and barely shrugged his shoulders. Then O’Malley stood.

“More than one way to skin a cat, Amos,” he said.

“Fuck you,” Wolfson said.

Eamon nodded thoughtfully for a moment, then he turned and walked out the front door of the saloon, with Cato and Rose behind him.

20.

I let the hammers down carefully on the eight-gauge. Wolfson picked up the whiskey bottle and came to the bar. Virgil joined us. Patrick put up three fresh glasses and we drank some of the remaining Bushmills.

“This mean you’re willing to work for me?” Wolfson said to Virgil.

Virgil shook his head.

“Nope, just means I’m with Everett.”

“Everett works for me,” Wolfson said.

“Don’t need the money for now,” Virgil said. “But I’ll stay around, see what develops.”

“What do you think?” Wolfson said.

“Hired Cato and Rose for a reason,” Virgil said.

“Everett?”

“Agree,” I said.

“You’ll stick?”

“Yes,” I said.

Wolfson looked at Virgil.

“You?” he said.

“I’m with Everett,” Virgil said.

“How good are Cato and Rose?” Wolfson said.

“Very,” I said.

“Good as you and Cole?” Wolfson said.

“Yet to be determined,” Virgil said.

“You think he’ll hire some more?” Wolfson said.

“Might,” I said.

Wolfson looked at Virgil.

“Might,” Virgil said.

“You think I should hire some others?” Wolfson said.

“Going to war, good to have troops,” Virgil said.

“Can either of you help me with that?” Wolfson said.

“Probably,” I said. “But you got to understand, you hire a bunch of gunmen, you are not hiring from the top of the pile.”

“They be trouble?” Wolfson said.

“Sure,” Virgil said.

“Will I be able to count on them?” Wolfson said.

“No,” Virgil said.

“Most shooters ain’t too disciplined,” I said. “Where’s Stark stand in all this?”

“I think Fritzie just wants to cut lumber and sell it,” Wolfson said.

“And the ranchers?” I said.

“They don’t count for much,” Wolfson said.

“They might if they got together and took a side,” I said.

“Hell,” Wolfson said, “so would the chickens if they ganged up on the rooster.”

“Well,” I said. “First thing, I guess, would be to see if Eamon’s hiring.”

“And if he is?” Wolfson said.

“Maybe you start hiring, too. Virgil and I can sort of sift through them.”

“And if you don’t like them?”

“We’ll fire them,” I said.

“Where do I start?” Wolfson said.

I looked at Virgil.

“I was you,” Virgil said, “I’d see a fella named Willy Beck in Araby.”

“I say you sent me?” Wolfson said.

Virgil smiled a little.

“Sure,” he said.

Wolfson stepped away from the bar.

“You sure this ain’t just some kind of a business offer and that’ll be the end of it?”

“‘More than one way to skin a cat, Amos,’” I said.

He nodded.

“Bottle’s yours,” he said, and walked away.

We each added a little to our glasses.

“Elegant whiskey,” Virgil said.

“Why not take his money?” I said. “You’ll maybe end up fighting his battle?”

“Don’t want it,” Virgil said.

“Why not?” I said.

“More comfortable if I’m helping my friend,” Virgil said.

I sipped my whiskey.

“’Cause you ain’t a lawman anymore,” I said.

“Ain’t clear to me right now what I am,” Virgil said.

“You’re good with firearms,” I said.

Virgil nodded and drank some whiskey.

“And you’re my friend,” I said.

Virgil nodded again.

“We’ll see about the rest,” he said.

21.

It had been hot all week, so that when the rain came on Thursday night everyone was pleased. Zorn Tully came in, shook the rain off of his round hat, and offered to buy drinks for everyone. No one declined.

“What’s the celebration?” Patrick said when he finished putting the drinks out and Zorn had paid him.

“Leaving town,” Zorn said. “Just wanted to say good-bye to everyone before I went.”

“Where you going?” Patrick said.

“Maybe Laramie,” Zorn said. “Maybe Denver. Ain’t sure yet. Never been to Denver.”

“How come you’re going?” Patrick said.

“Sold my saloon,” Zorn said.

“You sold the Excelsior?”

“Yep, Eamon O’Malley bought it.”

"O’Malley?” Patrick said.

“Yep.”

“He give you a good price?” Patrick said.

“Fair,” Zorn said. “It was a fair price.”

The Excelsior Saloon was directly across the street from the Blackfoot.

“How come you decided to sell,” I said.

“Been here long enough,” Zorn said. “Fella came along, offered me a good fair price, I took it.”

“Much negotiating?” I said.

“No, like I say. Eamon came in, offered a good fair price.”

“Anyone come with him?” I said.

Zorn didn’t look at them.

“Sure,” he said. “Couple fellas work for him.”

I nodded.

“Cato and Rose?” I said.

Zorn sort of shrugged.

“Yeah,” he said. “I believe so.”

“Good negotiators,” I said.

“Good fair price,” Zorn said.

He was not just avoiding my eyes now. He was looking at something across the room. I looked, too. Just inside the saloon door, Cato and Rose stood looking at us.

Zorn began to move away from the bar.

“Everett,” Zorn said, “been good knowing you. I tole Patrick to give you one on me when you get off.”

I nodded, and Zorn Tully walked rapidly away from the bar and out the side door of the saloon where it connects with the hotel. I watched him go. Then I looked over at Cato and Rose. Rose grinned at me and shrugged and walked over. Cato stayed by the door.

“Heard Tully was buying drinks,” Rose said. “Guess we got here too late.”

“Said he was leaving town,” I said.

“I believe he is,” Rose said. “He tell you he sold his saloon?”

“He mentioned it,” I said.

“He tell you he sold it to Eamon O’Malley?”

“He mentioned that, too,” I said.

“Right across the street,” Rose said. “Kinda funny, ain’t it?”

“What’s funny?” I said.

“This little dump of a nowhere town,” Rose said. “On this side of the street, the saloon bouncers are you and Virgil Cole. On the other side of the street, the saloon bouncers gonna be me and Cato.”

“You’re right,” I said. “Lotta talent, for a little town.”

“More coming,” Rose said.

22.

Fair offer, my ass,” Wolfson said. "That cheap Irish fuck has never made anyone a fair offer in his life. You saw the way he tried to buy this place.”

It was late. The saloon was closed. Virgil and I sat with Wolfson at a table and had a drink.

“You think he paid him anything?” I said.

“Cash,” Virgil said. “Show money. Not much, but all cash, so it felt like something.”

Wolfson nodded slowly.

“Like a reservation buck,” he said. “On a binge.”

He poured himself another drink, offered the bottle toward Virgil and me. We both shook our heads.

“It’s starting,” Wolfson said.

“You and O’Malley?” I said.

“Yes.”

“Might be,” I said.

“You’ll stay,” he said.

“Yes,” I said.

Virgil said, “I’m with Hitch.”

“Think it’s time I should see that fella in Araby?”

“Willy Beck?” Virgil said.

“Why not?” I said.

“You agree with me?” Wolfson said. “This is not going to stop?”

“Not right away,” Virgil said.

“Frank Rose hinted to me that they were hiring.”

“God,” Wolfson said. “It’s like a damned war starting.”

Virgil and I were quiet.

“Why is he so crazy to take over?” Wolfson said. “A fucking war, for crissake!”

“Remember what he said, when he made the offer? A mine is all overhead until it peters out.”

“He wants overhead,” Wolfson said. “I’ll show him fucking overhead. He’s making big, big money up there.”

“Until it peters out,” I said.

Wolfson stared at me.

“You think it’s petering out?”

“He seems eager to get into a new business,” I said.

“Goddamn,” Wolfson said. “Goddamn.”

He poured more whiskey. Virgil and I declined again.

“He’s petering out, and we can hold him off long enough he’ll run out of money,” Wolfson said. “Will Cato and Rose stick with him if there’s no money?”

“No,” Virgil said.

“Nobody else he hires, either,” I said.

“So we hold him off he’ll have to quit.”

“He knows that, too,” Virgil said.

“Meaning?” Wolfson said.

"Meaning he’ll push pretty hard to get it done ’fore that happens,” I said.

23.

Me and Virgil were sitting on the front porch of the Blackfoot Hotel. Across the street at Zorn Tully’s old saloon, there was a new sign in place that read O’Malley’s New Excelsior. There was a lot of traffic on the street. Horsemen coming in, mostly. Some of them Eamon’s. Some of them ours.

“You ever heard about the Battle of Waterloo?” I said to Virgil.

“In Europe?” Virgil said.

“Uh-huh. The Duke of Wellington defeated Napoléon there.”

“Napoléon was the Empire of France, wasn’t he?”

“Something like that,” I said.

I knew he meant emperor.

“When I was at the Academy,” I said, “we had to read about it. The Duke’s army was full of riffraff, a lot of them had been grabbed off the street by press gangs, a lot of them been let out of prison to fight.”

Virgil nodded, watching the horsemen.

“So,” I said. “Somebody asks the Duke before the battle how he feels about his army. And he says, ‘I don’t know if they will scare the French, but they scare the hell out of me.’”

Virgil smiled and nodded as he watched the horsemen. Three riders pulled up in front of where we were sitting. The one closest to us was a kid with his hat brim turned up in front, and a feeble-looking little beard starting on his face. He had a Winchester in the saddle boot, and a big showy Colt with a white handle on his hip.

“You Virgil Cole?” he said.

“I am,” Virgil said.

“I heard you was the best,” the kid said.

Virgil shrugged.

“So far,” he said.

“My name’s Henry Boyle,” the kid said.

Virgil nodded.

“Lotta people claim I’m as good as anybody,” the kid said.

“Nice to know,” Virgil said.

“You working for Wolfson?” the kid said.

“I’m with Hitch,” Virgil said.

“Hitch working for Wolfson?”

“I am,” I said.

“Well, we’re on the same side, I guess,” the kid said.

Virgil said nothing.

The kid looked at Virgil. Virgil looked back. The kid glanced at the other two riders. They didn’t have anything to say. The kid looked back at Virgil, then at me. Nobody had anything to say.

“Well, nice talking to you,” the kid said.

Virgil nodded. The three riders moved on toward the livery.

“What the fuck is Willy Beck sending us?” I said.

“Not much,” Virgil said.

“I’ll bet Wolfson haggled on price,” I said.

Virgil looked after the departing Henry Boyle.

“And lost,” Virgil said.

24.

Bob Redmond walked up the board sidewalk toward the front porch of the Blackfoot.

"Mind if I sit?” he said.

Virgil didn’t respond, and I realized that I had assumed he would. It was funny, me and Virgil these days. Always before, he’d been in charge. Always before, I had worked for him. Now I wasn’t sure if I was in charge, and he didn’t exactly work for me. But things were different.

“Don’t mind,” I said. “This is Virgil Cole.”

“I heard of you,” Redmond said.

Virgil nodded.

“You working for Wolfson now?” Redmond said.

“Visiting Everett,” Virgil said.

“But if there was trouble?”

“You think there’ll be trouble?” Virgil said.

“It’s coming,” Redmond said. “Sure as hell.”

"Wolfson and O’Malley?” I said.

“O’Malley came and talked with us last night,” Redmond said.

“Who’s us?” I said.

“Ranchers, said there was trouble coming. Said we’re either with him or with Wolfson. Tole us if he ran things we’d get a fair shake on the beef prices, and a decent rate at the bank.”

“He want your help?” I said.

“I don’t know,” Redmond said. “My sense is that he just don’t want us, you know, sniping at his flank.”

“How many ranchers,” Virgil said.

“All told maybe fifty.”

“How many at the meetin’?” Virgil said.

Redmond paused and counted in his head.

“Me and six others,” he said.

Virgil didn’t say anything.

“We’re scattered,” Redmond said. “We work hard. Lot of us can’t get to meetin’s.”

“You speak for them all?” I said.

“I don’t know. Yeah, I guess I do. Nobody else does.”

“What do you want out of this?” I said.

“We got to get rid of Wolfson,” Redmond said. “He’s chokin’ us. We can’t make it with Wolfson running things.”

“And you think you can with O’Malley?” I said.

“No.”

“So?”

Redmond was quiet for a minute.

“We got to get rid of Wolfson,” he said.

“So you’re throwin’ in with him,” I said.

“I guess so, ’less you could help us.”

“How we gonna do that?” I said.

Redmond was sitting with his feet flat on the floor, his elbows resting on his thighs, his hands clasped. He stared down at the clasped hands for a time.

“What would work for us,” he said, “would be the two of them fight it out, and after they beat hell out of each other, and one of them finally wins, we take the town away from him.”

Redmond looked up at us. Virgil smiled.

“Nice,” Virgil said.

“Might need more than a few Winchesters for that,” I said.

“I know.”

“Got the balls for it?” Virgil said.

Again, Redmond looked at his hands for a while.

“No, I don’t think we do,” he said.

“Only a fool would have claimed they did,” I said. “It’s sort of special work.”

“But if you could help us, especially with Mr. Cole here. We couldn’t pay you much now, but . . .”

I put up my hand.

“Same answer as before. I work for Wolfson.”

“Mr. Cole doesn’t,” Redmond said.

“I’m with Everett,” Virgil said.

We all sat silently.

Finally, Redmond said, “Well, we can’t live the way we’re living.”

“You can count on changing that,” Virgil said.

25.

Virgil and I rode out in the morning to visit Fritz Stark at his sawmill. We had some strong coffee with him in the raw-plank shack that served as an office at the mill. The sound of the steam saw and the smell of sawn wood permeated everything.

“Name’s Everett Hitch,” I said. “He’s Virgil Cole.”

Stark was a tall, sharp-edged man with thick eyebrows and no social grace.

“What do you want?” he said.

“Wanted to talk,” I said.

“Go ahead,” Stark said.

"You probably know there’s trouble brewing in town,” I said.

“Never go to town,” Stark said. “Don’t know nothing ’bout it.”

“You know Wolfson?” I said. “Runs the emporium? O’Malley, who owns the copper mine?”

“Know ’em,” Stark said. “Don’t like ’em.”

“Why not?” I said.

“Coupla thievin’ cocksuckers,” Stark said.

“How about a young fella named Redmond?” I said.

“Don’t know him,” Stark said.

“If Wolfson and O’Malley got into some sort of shooting situation, would you back one against the other.”

“No,” Stark said.

He looked at Virgil.

“What’s your name again?” Stark said.

Virgil smiled. I could tell he liked Stark.

“Cole,” he said. “Virgil Cole.”

Stark nodded to himself.

“What I thought,” Stark said. “I know about you.”

“Uh-huh,” Virgil said.

“You’re a lawman,” Stark said.

“Used to be,” Virgil said.

“What are you now?” Stark said.

“Don’t know,” Virgil said.

“You up here working for somebody?” Stark said.

“Nope,” Virgil said.

“So why you here?” Stark said.

“Visiting Everett,” Virgil said.

“How ’bout you,” Stark said. “You a lawman?”

“Used to be,” I said.

“What are you now,” Stark said.

“I keep the peace in Wolfson’s saloon,” I said.

“Wolfson send you up here?”

“Nope.”

“So why you up here talking to me?” Stark said.

“Curious by nature,” I said.

“Well, I ain’t,” Stark said. “I just want to cut my lumber and stack it on the flatbed.”

“And you don’t plan to take sides,” I said, “if there’s trouble between ’em.”

“Hope they kill each other,” Stark said. “Got no use for either one.”

I stood.

“Thanks for your time,” I said.

“Well, I ain’t got much of it,” Stark said. “You want somethin’ to eat ’fore you go?”

I said, “No thanks.”

Virgil grinned.

“Your coffee’s so chewy,” he said. “It’s a full meal by itself.”

26.

We rode slowly down out of the trees toward Resolution, letting the horses pretty well take us. "Might be easier world,” Virgil said, “everybody was like Stark.”

“Might not be much fun,” I said.

“True,” Virgil said. “But he knows what he is. He’s a fella cuts lumber.”

“Yep.”

“I been reading a lot,” Virgil said.

“You do that,” I said.

“Like to try and learn stuff,” Virgil said. “I’m reading this fella Locke. You know, the English fella.”

“They told us about him at the Academy,” I said.

“You sure don’t talk like a fella went to West Point,” Virgil said.

“Been riding with you too long,” I said.

“Been good for you,” Virgil said.

“Maybe,” I said.

“This Locke,” Virgil said. “If I’m readin’ him right, he says that the law is sort of a contract between the people and the government.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So if either side breaks the contract,” Virgil said, “what happens?”

“I don’t know.”

The horses paused hock-deep in a small stream and drank some water.

“What I was wondering,” Virgil said, “when we was marshaling in Appaloosa, was we the government or the people.”

“Virgil,” I said, “mostly what I remember from the Academy is cavalry tactics.”

The horses stopped drinking and moved on.

“Well, I been thinking about that,” Virgil said.

“I know,” I said.

“I broke the contract,” Virgil said.

“You think so?” I said.

“Ain’t that what happened?” Virgil said. “I hired on to be the law, and I wasn’t.”

“Mostly you were,” I said.

“Mostly is okay for sodbusters,” Virgil said, “or miners, but when you’re a gunman . . .”

The horses plodded out of the tree cover and onto the cleared slope above the town.

“Wouldn’ta been no law,” I said, “in Appaloosa, wasn’t for you.”

Virgil didn’t answer.

Heading toward the town and the livery and maybe some feed, the horses started to move a little faster.

“Virgil,” I said, “ever since I know you, you been dividing everything into legal and illegal. Maybe there’s other ways to think about it. Everybody don’t go around thinking like that.”

We rode in silence for a little.

Then Virgil said, “I ain’t everybody, Everett. I kill people.”

27.

There was an old wooden barrel set on its end out there. Beside it was a pile of empty tin cans. There were five cans on top of the barrel. Arrayed about twenty-five yards away from the barrel were the troops of Wolfson’s new army. It was a sorrowful-looking group. But I’d seen some of O’Malley’s, and they were no better. We had a guy fired from the Pinkertons, a former shotgun messenger, two buffalo skinners who still smelled of it, a guy who’d been a deputy sheriff in Lincoln County, couple of guys who’d been in the Army, some others whose history I never did know, and out front and noisy, Henry Boyle.

“We need to see you shoot,” I said to the troops.

"You needs to see me shoot?” Boyle said. “You don’t know about me already?”

“Need to see it,” I said.

“I ain’t wasting my time on tin cans,” he said.

He looked around at his fellow soldiers and grinned widely.

“Whyn’t you fellas just trot me out a sodbuster or two?” he said.

He went into a sudden crouch and drew and pretended to shoot at a sodbuster. The draw was very quick. He slid the Colt back in its holster and straightened up, still playing to the other troops.

“Okay?”

I looked at Virgil. He nodded and walked in front of the army with his back to the barrel twenty-five yards away. He turned easily, drew his gun comfortably, and shot all five cans off the barrel. He opened the cylinder, took out the spent rounds, put in five fresh ones, and closed the cylinder. Everybody stared at him.

“Can you do that?” Virgil said to Boyle.

One of the odd things about seeing Virgil Cole shoot was that he never looked fast; everything looked sort of comfortable and relaxed. But I who had seen him shoot for real many times knew that however slow he looked, he was always just a little faster than the man he was shooting against. Since I had known him, no one had ever beaten him. A kid like Boyle would know the reputation, but he’d be puzzled by the fact that Virgil didn’t seem quick.

“That wasn’t fast,” Boyle said.

Virgil walked down to the barrel and put five new cans up.

“Accurate’s good,” Virgil said. “Whyn’t you shoot?”

The kid made a sort of scornful laugh and went into his crouch, did his fast draw, and knocked down two of the five cans.

“That was fast,” the kid said.

“Sure,” Virgil said, “and you missed three out of five. They was men shooting back, you’d be dead.”

“And you’da been dead ’fore you got the damn firearm out of the holster, for crissake,” Boyle said. “I could hit them all like you did, if I was as slow as you was.”

Virgil nodded and walked to the barrel. He set two new cans up beside the three that Boyle had missed. Then he walked back and stood beside Boyle.

“We’ll shoot together,” Virgil said. “I say I can knock all five cans down, ’fore you can get off a shot.”

“You’re crazy,” Boyle said.

“Everett?” Virgil said. “You wanna call it.”

I nodded.

“When I say ‘go,’ you shoot.”

Boyle went into his crouch, his hand curled, waiting near the gun butt. Virgil stood motionless, like he was waiting for a train. The troops were quiet. The wind was still. Somewhere I could hear the sound of a locust.

I said, “Go.”

With a leisurely movement, Virgil shot all five cans while Boyle was drawing. He opened the cylinder, took out the spent shells, put in the new ones, closed the cylinder, and slid the gun back into his holster. No one made a sound. It seemed as if in the intensity of the silence you could still hear the gunshots. Boyle stood holding his gun half-raised.

Boyle said, “You . . . you can’t do that again.”

“Sure I can,” Virgil said.

"You ...”

“First thing you boys want to do,” I said to the troops, “is hit the target. Second thing is to do it quick. But quick don’t matter if you don’t hit what you’re quick at.”

“Can you do that?” Boyle said to me.

“Pretty close,” I said.

“But not as pretty,” Virgil said. “Think about it. Everett and me been doing this shooting thing for quite some time. And we’re both still here. Must mean something.”

“I . . . goddamn, I never seen anything like that.”

“Lotta things you maybe never seen,” Virgil said. “Don’t mean they can’t happen. You was shooting against me for real, you’d have five bullets in your chest now.”

“Fuck,” Boyle said. “It was only a bunch of cans. The real thing is different.”

“Sure,” Virgil said.

Boyle holstered his piece and walked away.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s shoot. Take your time. Handgun, rifle, whatever you’re comfortable with.”

The new troops began firing. The ex-soldiers used Winchesters and had an easier time of it. The former deputy was pretty good with a Colt. And the Pinkerton guy. The shotgun messenger used a shotgun and had the easiest time of all. The two skinners couldn’t hit the barrel with handguns, let alone the cans.

“We’ll get you boys shotguns,” Virgil said.

When it was over, the former deputy from Lincoln County walked over to Virgil.

“That’s the best shooting I ever seen,” he said.

Virgil nodded and smiled at him.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

28.

Wolfson’s army was sleeping in his hotel, eating in his dining room, and drinking in his saloon. Except for Cato and Rose, who stayed in town upstairs at the Excelsior, O’Malley’s forces were domiciled at the mine. They didn’t have anything to do until the fight started, so they spent a lot of time in the New Excelsior. From across the street, O’Malley’s army didn’t look like much of an improvement on ours.

“Be a kindness to the world,” Virgil said, “to let them fight to the death.”

“Wouldn’t be a loss,” I said.

We were sitting on the front porch of the hotel, with our feet up on the rail.

“So,” Virgil said. “Wolfson’s got his army and O’Malley’s got his army. What happens now?”

“I don’t think they know,” I said. “Either one of them.”

“And the sodbusters?” Virgil said.

“They say they’re backing O’Malley.”

“That mean,” Virgil said, “they’re buckling up, riding on in?”

“Don’t know,” I said. “Don’t think they know.”

“They can’t keep paying these people to sit around and get drunk,” Virgil said. “Somebody going to have to do something.”

“I know.”

“Sodbusters were smart, they’d stay out of it until they see who wins,” Virgil said.

“They ain’t smart,” I said.

“Neither is anybody else,” Virgil said.

The Chinese cook came out of the hotel carrying biscuits and coffee on a tray. He put the tray down on the floor between us and went back in. I poured us some coffee.

“Chink ever say anything?” Virgil said.

“No,” I said.

“Does what he does, and keep his mouth shut,” Virgil said.

“He does,” I said.

“He’s smart,” Virgil said.

Across the street, Cato and Rose came out of the New Excelsior and sat down on its porch. Rose pretended to shoot us with his forefinger. Cato simply looked at us. I nodded at them.

“Why do you suppose they’re in town?” I said.

“Keep their troops from trashing the saloon,” Virgil said.

I nodded.

“It’s a problem,” I said.

Henry Boyle came walking up the street from the livery stable and turned into the saloon. He didn’t look at us as he passed.

“Speaking of problems,” I said.

“I embarrassed him at the can shoot.”

“You were trying to warn him,” I said.

Virgil shrugged.

“Now he gotta prove something,” Virgil said. “To me, to himself, to his friends. Maybe all of that.”

“Could be we’ll have to kill him,” I said.

“Probably will,” Virgil said.

We drank coffee. The cook had sweetened it already.

“Maybe we should fold it up here, Virgil,” I said. “And go to Texas.”

He shook his head.

“Why?” I said. “What do you care. You’re just helping me out.”

Virgil shook his head again. I looked at him for a moment.

“You want to see it through,” I said.

“Might as well,” he said.

I looked at him some more.

“You’re figuring yourself out,” I said.

Virgil shrugged.

"Instead of enforcing the law,” I said, “you’re helping out your friend.”

“Might be,” he said.

“Rules of friendship instead of the rules of law.”

“I guess,” Virgil said.

“You slick sonovabitch,” I said. “You’re using this fight to see what you are when you’re not a lawman.”

“Useful to know,” Virgil said.

“And after that,” I said, “we’ll go to Texas.”

“Sure,” Virgil said.

He looked at me for a long moment. Then he said, “Friendship’s real.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I know.”

“Wouldn’t work if it wasn’t,” Virgil said.

I nodded.

“Know that, too,” I said.

29.

Between engagements, Billie liked to stand by the street door and keep an eye out for clients. It was early in the evening, still light outside, and Billie at the door, when there were a couple of shots fired in the street.

“Everett,” Billie shouted. “There’s trouble outside.”

“Not my problem,” I said.

“No, but you might want to watch,” she said. “Fancy Guns Boyle just put a couple bullets through the front window at the Excelsior.”

“My goodness,” I said, and got down from my chair and walked over and stood.

In the street was Henry Boyle, obviously drunk, with four more of our army, also obviously drunk. He was waving his gun at the saloon.

“Fuck the Excelsior,” Boyle hollered. “Fuck O’Malley and the Excelsior.”

He had some trouble saying “Excelsior.” While he was struggling with it, Frank Rose came out of the Excelsior, and Cato Tillson behind him. Rose moved right a few steps, Cato left.

“You doing the shooting?” Rose said.

“You bet your ass,” Boyle said. “Me, Henry Hackworth Boyle.”

Rose looked amused, and without taking his eyes off Boyle, he said to Cato, “Hackworth.”

Cato nodded.

Virgil Cole had come up to stand with us. Virgil rarely made any noise when he walked.

“Well, well,” he said.

“Maybe we won’t have to kill him after all,” I said.

“How come you shooting holes in our window,” Rose said.

His voice was amused, as if he was having some fun with a mischievous boy.

“’Cause O’Malley owns it, and I’m with Wolfson.”

Rose nodded.

“He’s with Wolfson,” Rose said to Cato.

Cato didn’t speak.

“Lucky Wolfson,” Rose said, and smiled.

Boyle misunderstood Rose’s pleasantness. The mild tone made him feel even braver.

“So you fellas gonna do something about it?” he said.

Rose grinned.

“Yes,” he said. “As a matter of fact, Hackworth, we are.”

The drunks around Boyle began to move away from him. Boyle looked like he was trying to focus.

“What are you gonna do?” he said.

“We’re probably gonna shoot you, Hackworth,” Rose said.

“I got my gun right out,” Boyle said, and waved it at them. “What if I shoot you first?”

“Don’t make much difference, Hackworth,” Rose said. “Don’t figure, drunk as you are, you can hit either one of us, assuming you got the balls to actually try.”

“I got the balls,” Boyle said. “I got the balls. Don’t you think I don’t.”

Rose nodded indulgently.

“Maybe you do. And maybe you even hit one of us,” Rose said, smiling faintly, “the other one kills you.”

Boyle’s support moved farther away from him. Boyle frowned as if he was trying to concentrate. Rose stepped down off the porch of the Excelsior and began to walk toward Boyle.

“It occurs to me, Cato,” Rose said as he walked toward Boyle, “whoever shoots Hackworth got to go in later and clean the weapon.”

Cato nodded.

Boyle began slowly to back away as Rose walked toward him. He seemed not to know that he was doing it.

“I hate to clean a weapon,” Rose said. “Don’t you, Cato?”

Cato nodded again.

Rose reached Boyle, and suddenly his gun was in his hand and he brought it down hard across Boyle’s forearm. Boyle yelped, and his gun spun into the street. The fading remnants of Boyle’s supporters departed.

Rose’s gun was back in its holster. Boyle was hunched over, nursing his forearm against him. Rose took hold of Boyle’s shoulders, turned him, and kicked him in the backside.

“Go home, Hackworth,” he said.

“If I was sober,” Boyle muttered.

“You was sober,” Rose said, “you’d be dead. Me and Cato don’t take much pleasure shooting drunks, ’less we have to.”

Boyle looked at his gun lying in the street.

“Leave it,” Rose said.

“What am I supposed to do without a gun?” Boyle said.

His voice was petulant.

“Far as I can see,” Rose said, “whether you got a gun or not don’t make much difference.”

Still holding his bruised arm, Boyle looked for a moment longer at the gun. Rose took hold of his shirt collar in the back and shoved him toward the hotel. Boyle stumbled a couple of steps and slowed and got himself organized, and walked clumsily across the street toward the Blackfoot Hotel.

Rose looked over at the Blackfoot Saloon and saw us and smiled and made a thumbs-up gesture. I nodded. Then he went back up onto the porch, and he and Cato went back into the Excelsior.

“Too bad,” Virgil said to me. “Somebody’s gonna have to kill him. Woulda been convenient if it was them.”

30.

Her last client had left, and Billie’s evening was over. She sat with me and Virgil in the back of the Blackfoot and drank some whiskey thinned with water.

“How come that fool did that,” Billie said.

“Henry Boyle?” I said.

“Yes. How come he tried to go up against Cato and Rose.”

“Drunk,” I said.

Virgil shook his head.

“Scared,” he said.

“Scared and drunk,” I said.

Virgil nodded.

“Probably a connection,” he said.

"But if he was sacred,” Billie said, “why did he start trouble?”

“Seen a lot of kids like that,” Virgil said. “Killed some. They grow up scared and they think if they had a gun maybe they wouldn’t be scared. So they get a gun and they half learn to use it, and maybe they shoot a couple of drunks more scared than they are, and they think they are gunmen. They ain’t. What they are is still scared.”

“If I could shoot like you,” Billie said, “either one of you, I would never be scared of nothin’.”

Virgil grinned.

“I wasn’t scared ’fore I ever had a gun,” he said.

It startled me. Not the business about being scared and not scared. I understood that. It was just that I couldn’t imagine Virgil without a gun. As long as I’d known him, Virgil had been exactly what he was. Which was Virgil Cole. I couldn’t imagine him as anything else.

“I bet I’d feel a lot safer with a gun,” Billie said.

“And you’d have reason to,” Virgil said. “But you ain’t brave without a gun, you ain’t brave.”

“But Henry Boyle don’t know that,” I said to Billie. “You make a living doing gun work, you got to accept the possibility somebody gonna shoot you dead.”

“No matter how good you are?” Billie said.

“No matter how good,” I said.

Billie nodded.

“So you have to be brave anyway,” she said.

Virgil and I both nodded.

“Or at least calm,” Virgil said. “Calm’s probably better than quick, and scared don’t make you calm.”

“Henry can shoot a lot better than most,” I said. “’Cause most can’t shoot at all. But it’s not enough for him. Unless he can be the best, he has no peace of mind.”

“And he’s not the best,” Billie said.

“Nowhere near,” I said. “And if he ain’t the best, then he ain’t safe. Somebody might kill him.”

“He got embarrassed at target practice the other day. So he got drunk and went off on Frank Rose and Cato Tillson. It coulda got him killed. But instead it got him humiliated again. Now he’ll have to do something else, ’cause he can’t stand feeling the way he does.”

“Why?” Billie said.

“Don’t know,” Virgil said.

“Most of the people start trouble like that are scared,” I said. “Wickman was scared.”

“It’s funny, you know? If you boys are right, then the way you know a guy’s not scared is if he don’t start trouble. And the way you know he is is if he does.”

“Some truth to it,” Virgil said. “You know what you can do, and you know that you’re willing to do it, and you don’t have to show anybody anything. It’s kind of calming.”

“I don’t know, though,” Billie said. “I’m scared. I get humiliated. I don’t start a lot of trouble.”

“Maybe you ain’t as scared as you think,” Virgil said.

“And you ain’t a man,” I said.

“I wasn’t sure you knew that,” Billie said.

"Being a man in these parts can pressure you some,” Virgil said.

31.

Virgil sat alone near the back of the saloon sipping a beer, looking at nothing, and seeing everything, the way he did. Wolfson was eating supper at the bar. He seemed in a hurry to finish. After he finished his supper, Wolfson strolled over to me in the lookout chair.

“Want you to be sure and stay close tonight,” he said. “Cole, too.”

“Can’t speak for Virgil, but I’ll be here.”

“Which means he’ll be here, too,” Wolfson said. “Maybe you could speak to him when we’re through talking here.”

I nodded and said, “You expecting trouble?”

Wolfson smiled and leaned closer to me.

“Sent some boys out to O’Malley’s to hit him tonight,” Wolfson said, “when he ain’t ready for it.”

“And Cato and Rose are at the Excelsior,” I said.

“Yep.”

“And you kept me and Virgil here?” I said.

“Case it doesn’t work, I’ll need protection.”

“What are the boys planning on doing when they get there?” I said.

“Killin’ every last soul,” Wolfson said.

“Who’s leadin’ ’em?”

“Boyle,” Wolfson said.

I didn’t say anything.

“He’s perfect for the job,” Wolfson said. “Couldn’t wait.”

“Bet he couldn’t,” I said.

“I mean, ain’t every man ready to go out and kill twenty people for no reason ’cept I told him,” Wolfson said.

“Probably a good thing,” I said.

“Oh . . . yeah,” Wolfson said. “Sure. Boyle’s a fucking lizard. But when you’re at war with a bunch of fucking lizards, fella like him is handy.”

“You know Cato Tillson backed him down on the street the other night,” I said.

“Heard about that,” Wolfson said. “Boyle claims he was too drunk to see, let alone fight.”

I nodded.

“Probably so,” I said.

“Okay, stay close,” Wolfson said. “Might have some high celebrating later on.”

“What about the miners?” I said.

“A few could get hurt, I suppose,” Wolfson said. “Can’t be helped if they do. We’re in a fucking war, you know.”

“Right,” I said.

“I’ll be here in the saloon, until the boys come back,” Wolfson said. “Speak to Cole. I want you and him watching me tight.”

“Sure,” I said.

Wolfson gestured to Patrick, who handed him a bottle and a glass. Wolfson took it and sat near the bar at a table where I could see him.

Wasn’t a bad plan, if you don’t mind back-shooting twenty men, who would probably have back-shot you first if they’d thought of it before you did. If it worked, it would end Wolfson’s troubles right then, and leave him in charge of the town with twenty gun hands to back him.

I climbed down from the chair, took the eight-gauge with me, and went to talk with Virgil.

32.

Henry Boyle came into the Blackfoot about an hour later. His eyes were big and his face was flushed. He held the saloon doors open and behind him came the two buffalo skinners carrying a body, which they dropped on the floor near the bar. Wolfson walked over and looked down. It was O’Malley.

“What the fuck are you bringing that in here for?” Wolfson said.

“Thought you’d want to see him, prove that he’s dead,” Boyle said.

His voice had a high, strained tone to it.

"Okay,” Wolfson said. “He’s dead. Now get him the fuck out of my saloon.”

“You heard the man,” Boyle said in his odd voice. “Throw him in the street in front of the Excelsior.”

The two skinners dragged the body out through the rest of Boyle’s mob, which came boiling in through the door.

“We wiped ’em out,” Boyle said to Wolfson. “Ones ain’t dead are heading for Texas.”

He made a sound that might have been a giggle.

“And running hard,” he said.

Wolfson nodded absently.

“We lost two hands.”

“Good work, Henry,” Wolfson said.

Then he turned and raised his voice to the room.

“Great work, men,” he shouted. “Rest of the night, drinks on me.”

The mob cheered. Wolfson looked over at me.

“Anything goes tonight, Everett,” he said. “No rules. You may as well take the night off.”

I nodded.

“Billie,” I said. “Go to my room and go in and lock the door and don’t let anybody in but me . . . or Virgil.”

“I might make some money,” Billie said.

“Not enough,” I said. “Stay in my room. I’ll take you.”

She nodded. We stood and I walked with her through the saloon. Near the door to the hotel, one of Boyle’s mob grabbed at Billie’s arm.

“Hey, Billie, where you going,” he said. “You should fuck us all.”

I clubbed him across the side of the head with my fist and forearm, and he staggered back against the doorjamb, and we went out and went upstairs to my room. I took my spare handgun off the top shelf of the closet, made sure it was loaded, and put it on the nightstand.

“You know how to shoot it?” I said.

“Cock it and pull the trigger,” Billie said.

“Okay,” I said. “Use both hands. And don’t be afraid to shoot.”

“I ain’t afraid to shoot,” Billie said. “Anybody comes in here I’ll shoot him in the pecker.”

“Aim for the middle of his body,” I said. “Gives you a bigger margin for error.”

Billie nodded. Her eyes were very big.

“I’ll wait outside until I hear the door lock,” I said.

I patted her on the backside and went out. The door locked behind me, and I went on back downstairs.

33.

Boyle was standing on the bar, with a whiskey bottle in his left hand.

"We ain’t done yet,” he screamed. “Don’t get drunk till we done.”

The mob didn’t stop drinking, but they looked at him. He pointed at the street side of the saloon.

“Across the street,” he said. “Burn the Excelsior.”

There was a kind of hiccup in the noise level. Then the mob cheered. “No,” Wolfson shouted, but no one paid any attention.

“I want the property,” Wolfson said.

“Burn it,” somebody yelled. The mob took it up.

“Burn it. Burn it.”

It became like a battle cry.

“No, for crissake. That’s valuable property.” Wolfson was screaming now, but if anyone heard him, they didn’t care.

“Cato and Rose,” Wolfson screamed.

The mob did hear him.

“Cato and Rose,” somebody yelled.

Once again, the mob took it.

“Cato and Rose,” they screamed, “Cato and Rose.”

Boyle took a slug from his bottle.

“Yes,” he shouted. “Yes.”

“Get them,” Wolfson yelled. “That’ll end it.”

“Drag them out of there and hang them,” Boyle said.

“And don’t burn the saloon,” Wolfson screamed.

I walked to the back of the room where Virgil stood motionless, leaning on the back wall. My eight-gauge was leaning on the wall beside him. I picked it up.

“Cato and Rose,” Boyle screamed, still standing on the bar.

“Cato and Rose,” the mob answered.

“Between the mob and the booze,” Virgil said to me, “Henry’s ’bout as brave as he’s ever gonna be.”

“Think they’ll do it?”

“Yep.”

“I seen you face down a mob this big,” I said.

“No. You seen me face down a bunch of cowboys and gun hands. This is a mob. It’s killed ten, fifteen people, and it’s drunk.”

“Cato and Rose,” Boyle screamed.

He jumped off the bar and headed for the door. The mob crowded after him. They burst out of the saloon and into the street.

“Cato and Rose,” the mob chanted. “Cato and Rose.”

Virgil and I walked through the suddenly empty saloon and looked out.

Across the street, in front of the Excelsior, faceup in the dirt, was O’Malley’s body. Cato and Rose came out the front door of the Excelsior. Cato never took his eyes off Henry Boyle. Rose looked down at the body in the street. He smiled for a moment, nodded, and made a small, silent whistle. Then he surveyed the mob.

“We’ve come to hang you bastards,” Boyle said.

Cato said nothing. Rose continued to survey the mob.

Then he said, “You sure you got enough?”

Virgil and I stepped out onto the porch of the Blackfoot. The mob didn’t see us. It was focused on Cato and Rose.

“You won’t be such a smartass cocksucker,” Boyle screamed at him, “when your feet are kicking air.”

Rose looked past him across the top of the mob at us standing on the porch across the narrow street.

“We gonna let this happen?” I said.

“No,” Virgil said.

I nodded so that Rose could see me, and held the eight-gauge up over my head.

Rose smiled.

“I’m a talker,” he said to Henry Boyle. “I’ll stand out here all evening and chew the fat with you, Henry. But Cato ain’t a talker. You don’t get this smelly pack of vermin out of here, he’ll shoot you and I’ll have to start in, too.”

“Like hell,” Boyle yelled, and started toward the porch. The mob went with him. Cato shot Henry after he’d taken one step. Rose shot the men on either side of Boyle. Virgil shot the next one in line, and I cut loose with the eight-gauge and knocked down two people at the back. The mob turned in on itself. The eight-gauge must have sounded like a cannon from behind them. Some of the mob tried to turn toward us, some of it continued toward Cato and Rose. Some of it tried to run. We had the mob in a crossfire, and we cut it into scraps. The mob got off a few rounds, but the mob was shooting like a bunch of drunken wild men, in all directions. It hit nothing that mattered. After some frantic milling that maybe lasted a minute, the mob broke and ran, leaving Boyle and six others dead in the street with O’Malley. After they ran, there was no sound. Only the hard smell of gunpowder and some faint smoke hanging in the air. Virgil was reloading his gun. I broke the eight-gauge and put in two fresh shells. Across the way, Cato and Rose were reloading as well.

Then, in the stark silence, Cato and Rose, guns holstered, walked among the corpses across the street and joined us on the porch of the Blackfoot. Cato nodded his head once at us, and stood silent.

“Any of us get shot?” Rose said.

None of us had.

Rose said, “Thanks for the backup.”

“Professional courtesy,” Virgil said.

Rose nodded. Cato nodded. Both of them looked at me. I nodded.

“Lemme buy us a drink,” Rose said.

“Your saloon or ours?” I said.

“We’re already here,” Rose said.

“We are,” I said.

And we all went into the Blackfoot.

34.

You saved the building,” Wolfson said.

"Collative,” Virgil said.

Wolfson looked at him blankly.

“Collateral,” I said. “Saving the building was collateral to saving Cato and Rose.”

“Oh.”

“Virgil reads a lot,” I said. “He got a bigger vocabulary than he knows how to use.”

Virgil nodded.

We were alone in the Blackfoot, except for Wolfson and Patrick behind the bar.

“Well,” Wolfson said, “whatever. I’ll have the windows fixed over there by tomorrow. I’ll have the sign changed and have it open and running by tomorrow night.”

“Any deeds involved,” Rose said. “Titles, anything?”

“Hell, no,” Wolfson said. “There’s a piece of property standing vacant and decrepit. A blight on the town. I’m going to rescue it, restore it, make it an asset.”

“Maybe there’s heirs,” Virgil said.

“They show up, we’ll deal with them,” Wolfson said.

We all sipped a little of Wolfson’s best whiskey.

“How ’bout the copper mine,” I said. “If it’s still worth anything.”

“If it is I’ll add it to Blackfoot,” Wolfson said.

“What if the miners object?” I said.

Wolfson shrugged.

“How ’bout Stark?” I said. “Think he’ll give you trouble.”

Wolfson grinned, his loose eye wandering as he spoke.

“He won’t like it when I take his lumber business,” Wolfson said.

“Him, too?” I said.

“I’m going to own everything in this town,” Wolfson said. “Simple as that.”

“Ranches, too?” I said.

“Ranches,” Wolfson said, “lumber, mining, bank, general store, saloons, hotel, everything.”

Virgil was looking at Wolfson thoughtfully.

“We just shot hell out of your army,” he said to Wolfson.

“Which means if I hired you four boys to help me with this,” Wolfson said, “we should be pretty successful.”

“What would we be doing when we weren’t shooting ranchers and miners and lumberjacks?” Rose said.

“You could pretty much intimidate all those people,” Wolfson said. “Don’t know you’d have to do much shootin’.”

“Fine,” Rose said. “So what would we do otherwise?”

“Keep order,” Wolfson said. “There’s no law in this town. You boys could be like the law. Like Everett was in here.”

“’Cept we wouldn’t be the law,” Virgil said.

“Be the same,” Wolfson said. “’Fore you boys came here. Everett had this place turned into a damn refuge, you know? People got in trouble anywhere in town, they run here, to Everett.”

“But you wasn’t the law,” Virgil said.

“Just in here,” I said.

“Hell.” Wolfson drank some more whiskey. “We be running things on this whole side of the mountain. You want laws, I’ll write up some laws. You boys want to be lawmen, I’ll make you lawmen.”

“Just you,” Virgil said.

“Boys, a town’s got a right to appoint lawmen,” Wolfson said. “And right now, I’m the town.”

Virgil got up and walked to the saloon door and looked out at the silent street, lit by a full moon.

“Bodies are gone,” he said.

“Chinamen,” Wolfson said. “Take everything valuable and dump what’s left outside of town. Animals eat ’em pretty clean in a couple days.”

Virgil nodded slowly, staring out at the street.

“So we got a deal?” Wolfson said. “Pay you top wages.”

Cato looked at Rose. I looked at both of them. None of us said anything. We all looked at Virgil, who was still staring out into the street.

Then Cato said, “What you think, Virgil?”

Virgil was silent for a moment, then, without looking back, he said, “Gotta think on it,” and walked out into the moonlight.

35.

We could head for Texas,” I said to Virgil.

“We could,” Virgil said.

“I don’t owe Wolfson anything,” I said.

“Nope.”

“You haven’t even taken his money.”

“True,” Virgil said.

“Cato and Rose will probably stay,” I said.

“Probably,” Virgil said.

We were working the horses again. We’d already let them stroll. Then we’d breezed them pretty hard for a while. Now, with the reins looped over the saddle horn, we were letting them browse along, nibbling grass.

“We could head for Texas,” I said.

“Could,” Virgil said.

“Ain’t we just had this talk?” I said.

“Yep.”

“So why don’t we head for Texas,” I said.

“Ain’t time yet,” Virgil said.

“Because?”

Virgil leaned back in his saddle and looked up at an eagle circling slow and easy on the air currents in the sky.

“Don’t want Wolfson running the town,” Virgil said.

“Why not?”

“Same reason we didn’t want that mob lynching Cato and Rose,” Virgil said.

“’Cause it would be against the law?”

Virgil shook his head. The horses moseyed along, reins loose, head down, nosing at the grass.

“I ain’t a lawman,” he said.

“Good thing,” I said. “Ain’t nothing happened here since I got here had anything to do with law.”

“Had to do with us shooting better than them,” Virgil said.

“It did,” I said.

“Better than shootin’ worse,” Virgil said.

There was a stream to the right. In the late summer it would probably be dry. But for now, it came up near the bottom of the hills behind us and found its way down a shallow wash to the bigger stream that ran among the homestead ranches. The horses smelled it and veered over to it and drank from it. Virgil patted his horse’s neck quietly while he drank.

“Don’t feel bad about anything I done here,” I said.

Virgil patted his horse some more. He nodded.

“I know,” he said.

You got any money left?” I said.

“Not much,” Virgil said.

“Me either.”

“Don’t need much,” Virgil said.

“Got to have some,” I said.

“Maybe we should work for Wolfson,” Virgil said. “While we see how things develop.”

“And if they develop wrong?”

“Don’t know about wrong,” Virgil said. “But Wolfson shouldn’t run the whole town.”

“With Cato and Rose to back him.”

“So if it goes that way, we quit?”

“Probably,” Virgil said.

“And do what?” I said.

“Can’t say.”

“Might have to go against Cato and Rose,” I said.

“Might.”

“And you’re willing?”

“Yep.”

“Yesterday you was saving their lives,” I said.

“We was,” Virgil said.

“What’s the difference?”

“Don’t know,” Virgil said. “Maybe we’ll find out.” We picked up our reins and lifted the horses’ heads and pointed them back toward town.

“Virgil,” I said as the horses walked toward home, “I get killed while you figure out what you are, I’m gonna resent it.”

Virgil nodded.

“Don’t blame you,” he said.

36.

So we were all working for Wolfson. Me and Virgil doing lookout duty at the Blackfoot. Cato and Rose doing the same at the Excelsior. It was a lot more firepower than either saloon needed. And we all knew it. But we also all knew that keeping order in a couple of saloons was not why Wolfson paid us. It was just something useful to do while we waited.

On a wet Tuesday morning Virgil and I, with our hats pulled down and our collars turned up, rode through the hard rain, up to the copper mine with Wolfson.

“We couldn’t do this tomorrow?” I said to Wolfson.

“Decided to do it today,” Wolfson said. “Gonna do it today. When I do business, I do business.”

Wolfson looked sort of funny on horseback, out in the daylight. He had on a black slicker and a big hat, and seemed out of place.

“Fine,” I said.

Virgil said nothing. I knew he could barely tolerate Wolfson.

At the mine we put the horses under a tarpaulin shelter beside the mine shack and went on and had some coffee with the mine foreman, a tall, stoop-shouldered guy with a lot of gray beard. His name, he said, was Faison.

“Sorry about the trouble up here last week,” Wolfson said. “I hope no miners were hurt.”

“Nope, we stayed low,” Faison said.

“Smart,” Wolfson said.

“You taking over the mine?” Faison said.

“I’d like to do that,” Wolfson said. “Keep everybody on, promote you to mine manager.”

“More money?” Faison said.

“Of course,” Wolfson said.

Faison nodded.

“Nobody misses O’Malley,” Faison said. “Or the gun hands he brought in, neither.”

He looked at Virgil and me.

“No offense,” he said.

I shook my head. Virgil said nothing.

“Only thing anybody misses is payday,” Faison said. “You keep the paydays in order, we’ll be happy to work for you.”

“Excellent,” Wolfson said. “You bring the books into town soon as you can, go over them with Hensdale, my chief clerk, at the emporium.”

“I know Hensdale,” Faison said.

“Good.” Wolfson raised his coffee cup. “Here’s to bigger and better paydays.”

Faison nodded and raised his cup. Virgil and I did nothing. Wolfson might have glanced at us. It was always hard to tell because of the random eye.

“One favor,” Wolfson said after he’d put his cup back down. “I’d like a new sign that says Wolfson Mining.”

“Sure,” Faison said.

He and Wolfson shook hands, and we left. It was still raining steady, and the horses were not happy to leave the shelter of the tarpaulin.

“We going to talk with Stark?” I said.

“Wolfson said we were.”

“I wouldn’t expect much from Stark,” I said.

“Fritzie is smart,” Wolfson said. “He’s a businessman. He sees how the landscape has changed.”

I glanced at Virgil. He shrugged. The rain slanted in on us riding east. Virgil rode the same way as he did when it was sunny or cold or windy or not. Things didn’t make much impression on Virgil Cole. He just went on being Virgil Cole . . . except about Allie. We rode across the face of the hill for an hour to Stark’s lumber operation. The rain didn’t encourage talking. We left the horses under cover in a lumber shed and went to the office. Stark let us in.

“What the hell do you want, Wolfson?” Stark said.

“Just stopping by, say hello, talk about how things have changed.”

“I got no interest in talking with you,” Stark said. “And I don’t care what’s changed and what hasn’t.”

“I thought maybe we should talk about partnering up.”

“Partnering up?” Stark said. “With you?”

“Fritzie, look around,” Wolfson said. “I got this whole town, hell, the whole west slope, tied up pretty tight. It’s to your fucking benefit, you know? To partner with me.”

“Wolfson,” Stark said, “you are a greedy, slimy, pig-fucking sonovabitch. I wouldn’t partner with you in Paradise. You’re a thief. You’re a back shooter. You’re a fucking coward hiding behind vermin like these two.”

“You better think about what you’re saying,” Wolfson said.

“I’ve thought all I want to about it, you walleyed cock-sucker, ” Stark said. “I ain’t afraid of you or your two gunners, neither.”

“Maybe you’ll learn to be,” Wolfson said.

“And maybe I won’t,” Stark said.

He picked up an ax handle that lay on his desk.

“So unless you’re ready to fucking shoot me now,” he said, “get out of my office and off my land.”

Wolfson stared at him. Stark took a step toward him with the ax handle raised. Wolfson took a quick back step.

“No,” he said. “We won’t shoot you today.”

“Then get your ass out of here,” Stark said.

“But there’s no guarantees about another day,” Wolfson said. “Think on it.”

“Fuck you,” Stark said.

An argument like that doesn’t leave you with much to say. Wolfson turned and strode out of the lumber office. Virgil grinned at Stark for a moment, then we went after Wolfson. When we were on our mounts and heading back toward town, nobody said anything.

Finally, Virgil looked at me with the same grin he’d given Stark.

“Vermin,” he said.

37.

We were having a drink before work with Cato and Rose in the Blackfoot. A good-looking woman came in from the hotel lobby. She was wearing a blue gingham dress and a ribbon in her hair. She saw the four of us at the bar and walked over.

“I need help,” she said.

“Ladies don’t usually come in here,” I said.

“I don’t care,” she said. “It’s worse out there.”

She had a purple bruise on her left cheekbone that had begun to turn yellow, which meant she’d had it for a while. She’d probably made the dress herself, but it fit pretty well. Her dark hair looked as if she brushed it a lot. She seemed well-scrubbed.

“What do you need,” I said.

“My husband just hit me in the stomach and knocked me down.”

“Doesn’t look like the first time,” I said.

“No.”

“What’s different about this time,” I said.

“He was kicking me.”

“Where’d this happen,” I said.

“In the emporium.”

“And you got away from him and ran in here?”

“Yes,” she said. “But he’ll be in here after me.”

“What’s holding him up?” I said.

“He’s got to get the children into the wagon,” she said.

We all looked at her, even Cato.

“The children,” I said.

“He beats me up in front of them all the time,” she said.

Her voice was steady. But I could see that her hands were shaking.

“What’s your name,” I said.

“Beth,” she said. “Beth Redmond.”

“Bob Redmond’s wife?” I said.

“Yes.”

The saloon doors on the street side swung open and Redmond pushed in.

“Speak of the devil,” I said.

“Beth,” Redmond said when he saw her standing with us. “What are you, a goddamned whore? Get out of this place.”

She didn’t move.

“You hear me, woman?” Redmond said. “Out! Now!”

Cato Tillson looked at Mrs. Redmond and said, “You want me to kill him?”

“Kill him?” Mrs. Redmond said.

“Yes.”

“I . . . no,” she said. “God, no.”

“Okay,” Cato said.

He picked up his drink and leaned back in his chair to watch. For the first time, I think, it registered to Redmond who we were. He didn’t like it. But he had to be forceful. His wife was watching.

“This is none of your business,” he said. “Any of you.”

None of us said anything.

“I don’t know what she told you; she’s a lying bitch anyway. But I can’t have my wife flaunting herself like a floozy in a saloon.”

None of us said anything.

“So you either come right now, bitch,” he said to his wife, “or I’ll come over and drag you out by the hair of your head.”

None of us said anything. But Virgil stepped away from the bar and moved over to stand in front of Mrs. Redmond.

Redmond paused.

“This is family business,” he said.

Virgil said nothing.

Redmond looked at the rest of us.

“It is, you know,” he said. “Nobody got the right to interfere between a man and his wife.”

None of us said anything. Redmond looked at his wife again.

“What kind of whore are you, hiding from your husband behind this . . . this fucking . . . fucking gun shooter?”

Behind Virgil, Mrs. Redmond shook her head but didn’t say anything. Nobody else said anything. Nobody moved. Redmond didn’t have a gun. His good luck. If he’d had one he might have tried to use it. Bad luck, though, for Mrs. Redmond. If he tried to shoot with Virgil, he’d be dead and she’d be free of him.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay. That’s how it is, whore. Just don’t think you can come home after this.”

“I can’t come with you, Bob,” Mrs. Redmond said. “I can’t anymore.”

“Just stay away from me and my children,” he said.

She opened her mouth and took a short breath, and didn’t speak. He looked at her and turned his head and spit on the floor. He was careful, I noticed, not to spit on Virgil. Then he turned stiffly and marched out.

“Oh my God,” Mrs. Redmond said. “Oh my God!”

She began to cry.

38.

We got her to a table, and she sat down.

"Do you drink whiskey?” Virgil said.

She nodded as she cried. I gestured to Patrick and he brought us a good-sized glass of whiskey.

“Wolfson’s,” Patrick said as he put the glass down.

Mrs. Redmond picked it up with both hands and tried to hold the crying long enough to drink some. Breathing in tiny, shallow breaths, she managed to take a slug and swallow it. Then she put the glass down and cried some more.

After a while she took another slug and said, “What am I going to do?”

“What do you need?” Virgil said.

"I have no money, no clothes, no place to stay, nowhere to go,” she said.

“You can stay here,” Virgil said.

“Here?”

“In the hotel,” Virgil said.

“But I can’t pay.”

“We’ll arrange something,” I said. “Room at the hotel, meals, charge what you need at the emporium.”

“But . . .” She didn’t quite know how to ask the question.

She drank some whiskey.

“But do I have to . . . do I have to do anything?” she said.

Virgil smiled.

“No,” he said. “You don’t.”

Wolfson came into the saloon through the door that connected to the hotel lobby, and walked straight to our table.

“What the hell is she doing here,” he said.

“Having a drink,” Virgil said. “With me.”

It was a simple answer. But there was something in it that made Wolfson rein in.

“Well, I see that, Virgil,” Wolfson said. “But we don’t normally see women like her in here. She ain’t a whore, is she?”

“No,” Virgil said.

“No offense, ma’am,” Wolfson said.

Mrs. Redmond shook her head. She was beginning to enjoy the whiskey.

“I’d like her to be a guest of the Blackfoot,” Virgil said. “Room, board, charge what she needs at the emporium.”

“Sure,” Wolfson said. “Who pays.”

“She doesn’t,” Virgil said.

“So who pays?” Wolfson said.

“We was thinking it would be you, Amos,” I said. “You know, guest of the Blackfoot?”

“Including the emporium?” Wolfson said. “Why the fuck would I do that?”

Frank Rose was sitting with his elbows on the table, and his chin resting on his folded hands. He winked at Mrs. Redmond.

“Harmonious relationship,” he said to Wolfson, “with your gun hands.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Wolfson said.

“Can’t speak for Cole and Hitch,” Rose said. “But me and Cato will quit if she don’t get what she needs.”

“Quit?”

I looked at Virgil and nodded.

“That would be the occasion,” Virgil said, “among me and Everett, too.”

“And some of us might be kind of mad about it,” Rose said.

Cato stared straight at Wolfson and nodded his head slowly.

“You are threatening me,” Wolfson said.

Rose grinned at him.

“Only a little,” Rose said.

“Are you saying that if I don’t give this fucking woman room, board, and emporium charge privileges, you’ll quit?”

Rose looked at Cato, then at Virgil and me. All three of us nodded.

“Yes,” Rose said. “That’s pretty much it.”

“And you might cause trouble?” Wolfson said.

“We’re pretty good at that,” Rose said.

“For crissake,” Wolfson said. “Is she doing all of you?”

“None of us,” Virgil said. “And clean up your talk.”

Wolfson started to say something. Virgil was looking at him steadily.

“Room, board, free stuff at the store,” Wolfson said.

Virgil nodded. Wolfson looked at Mrs. Redmond.

He said, “You got anything to add, lady?”

“Her name is Mrs. Redmond,” Virgil said.

“Beth,” she said. “Beth Redmond.”

“You’re Bob Redmond’s wife?”

She nodded.

“Jesus Christ,” Wolfson said.

He turned away from the table.

“You’ll arrange it?” I said.

"Oh, fuck,” Wolfson said, and kept walking. “I’ll arrange it.”

39.

Patrick brought the bottle over and poured us all another drink. Mrs. Redmond took a drink and stared into her glass. She had stopped crying. And she was a little drunk.

“He isn’t as bad a man as he seems,” she said.

“Hard to be worse,” I said.

“He is just so strained,” she said, “trying to support me and the kids, and trying to organize the ranchers, and trying to fight Mr. Wolfson.”

None of us said anything.

“He gets crazy mad, sometimes,” she said.

“At you,” I said.

She nodded.

“But he never hurts the kids,” she said.

“He ain’t supposed to,” Virgil said.

She stared at him. I knew she didn’t understand him. Most people didn’t. There was about him a flat deadliness that frightened people. And yet he had protected her from her husband and helped her get settled in the Blackfoot.

“He wasn’t always like this,” she said. “It’s just that all we got is that piece of land, and he’s terrified we’re going to lose it. That Mr. Wolfson will take it away from us.”

“Make him feel like a failure,” I said.

“Yes.”

“This ain’t gonna help him,” Virgil said. “Us taking his wife away from him.”

“You didn’t do that,” she said.

“He’ll see it that way,” Virgil said.

Virgil probably knew something about that feeling. Mrs. Redmond drank more whiskey and began to cry again. She talked haltingly while she cried.

“My children.” She gasped. “My children. He won’t let me see my children.”

“He might,” Virgil said.

She shook her head.

“His mind is set,” she said. “When he sets it, ain’t nothing will change it.”

“Couple of us could take you out for a visit,” Virgil said.

She shook her head.

“No,” she said. “There might be trouble. I wouldn’t want the children to see it.”

“Well, then,” Virgil said. “Maybe Everett and me can ride out tomorrow and talk with him about this.”

“Oh, God,” she said. “Not in front of the children.”

“They home all the time?”

“They go a couple hours in the afternoon to Ruth Anne Markey, Charlie Markey’s wife. She teaches some of the kids in her home. Mostly Bob needs them to help with the place.”

“We can do it then,” Virgil said.

She stared at him again.

“Don’t hurt him,” she said. “Please don’t hurt him.”

“’Course not,” Virgil said.

Mrs. Redmond was silent for a time, staring into her glass. Then she pushed the glass away, folded her arms on the tabletop, and put her head down on her arms. In a few moments she was snoring softly.

“Care to give me a hand, Everett,” Virgil said.

I nodded, and we stood, and each with a hand under her arm, we got her to her feet and steered her to her hotel room.

40.

The horses had been ridden together so often that, both geldings, they had become friends. They would occasionally nuzzle each other when we stopped.

“Isn’t this sort of the way you took up with Allie?” I said to Virgil.

“How so?” Virgil said.

“She comes into town alone. No money. No place to stay. You find her a place to stay. Get her a job.”

“Uh-huh.”

“How’d that work out for you?” I said.

“Don’t know yet,” Virgil said.

“Damn,” I said. “You are a stubborn bastard.”

“I am,” Virgil said.

The horses moved along pleasantly. The air was warm, not hot, and there was a nice little breeze. Virgil rode well. He did everything well. When he rode, the horse seemed an extension of him. When he shot, the gun seemed part of him.

“Hard on women out here,” Virgil said.

“Hard on everybody out here,” I said.

“Women need looking after.”

“Allie?” I said. “I figure Allie’s pretty good at taking care of herself.”

“Allie thinks with her twat,” Virgil said. “It gets her in trouble.”

“True,” I said. “So what are you going to do with Mrs. Redmond?”

“Don’t know,” Virgil said. “Can’t let her old man beat on her.”

“We could let Cato kill him,” I said.

“Can’t do that,” Virgil said.

“Why not?” I said.

“Can’t do that,” Virgil said, as if it was an answer.

The horses eased down the trail toward the homesteads on the flat land. The homesteads weren’t much. Weather-grayed cabin and shed. Sparse-looking kitchen garden. An occasional split-rail corral with one or two horses. Redmond’s was no different. We found him straddling the peak of his cabin, patching the roof. When he saw us ride in he climbed down and went inside. By the time we reached the house, he was back outside with a Winchester.

“What do you want?” he said.

“Need to talk,” Virgil said.

“Got nothing to talk about,” Redmond said.

“You do,” Virgil said.

Redmond gestured with the Winchester.

“I know how to use this,” he said.

“’Course you do,” Virgil said. “You might get off a shot. You might even hit one of us. But ’fore you jacked the second shell up into the chamber you’d be dead.”

“And maybe one of you’d be dead.”

“Maybe,” Virgil said.

There was some silence. Virgil’s horse put his head over and snuffled at mine. Redmond lowered the Winchester slightly.

“What you want to talk about?” he said.

“Your wife and children,” Virgil said.

“Goddamn it,” Redmond said. “Wolfson don’t run my family.”

“This ain’t Wolfson,” Virgil said. “This is me.”

He was relaxed and comfortable in his saddle as he talked. Like he always was. Sometimes people would make a bad mistake and think he wasn’t ready. He was. Virgil was always ready. He just never looked it.

“You fucking her yet?” Redmond said.

“Nope.”

“Probably all of you, fucking her,” Redmond said.

“Nope.”

“Well, I’ll give her that,” Redmond said. “She’s hot enough. Or she used to be.”

“That be before you starting smacking her around?” Virgil said.

“That’s none of your business,” Redmond said.

“True enough,” Virgil said. “But she needs to see the kids.”

“She can’t,” Redmond said.

“Me and Everett,” Virgil said, “think she should visit the children, couple times a week. Cato and Rose agree with us.”

“You threatenin’ me?” Redmond said.

“I am,” Virgil said.

Again, silence. Redmond and Virgil looked at each other. Nobody could hold a stare very long with Virgil Cole. Redmond looked away.

“What if I say no?”

“Four of us will bring her out anyway,” Virgil said.

“Four fucking pistoleros against one farmer?” Redmond said.

“Yup.”

“Don’t seem fair,” Redmond said.

“One of us comes out,” Virgil said. “And you might try to shoot it out, and whoever would have to kill you. Four of us come out, and you won’t be that stupid.”

Redmond looked at Virgil. Then at me. I smiled at him. He looked back at Virgil.

“I already told them she’s a whore,” Redmond said.

“Tell ’em she ain’t,” Virgil said.

My horse tossed his head, and the sound of the bridle hardware was the only sound.

“Kids should probably see their mother,” Redmond said.

“Should,” Virgil said.

“When you want to bring her out?” Redmond said finally.

“Monday and Friday,” Virgil said.

Redmond nodded.

“Lunchtime,” Redmond said.

“Okay.”

“Don’t need all four of you to come.”

“Maybe at first,” Virgil said. “See how it goes.”

Redmond thought about it awhile.

“Why do you people give a fuck about me and Beth?” he said.

“Good to keep busy,” Virgil said.

Redmond nodded slowly. More to himself, I think, than to us.

“Four killers,” he said. “Four fucking gun-shooting killers.”

Virgil nodded.

“And all of a sudden,” Redmond said, “you’re like fucking law and order, for crissake.”

“Peculiar, ain’t it,” Virgil said.

41.

With Cato and Rose at the Excelsior, and me and Virgil at the Blackfoot, things got so peaceful that I stopped sitting in the lookout chair and sat with Virgil at a table near the bar.

“Quiet,” I said to Virgil.

“It is,” he said.

“Makes you wonder if they need us here,” I said.

“They’d need us if we wasn’t here,” Virgil said.

“Same at the Excelsior,” I said.

“Should be,” Virgil said.

“Cute,” I said. “They don’t need us unless we ain’t here; then they do need us.”

“Called keepin’ the peace,” Virgil said.

“That’d be us,” I said.

Two farmers came into the Blackfoot, and looked around, and came to our table.

One of them, a short, chunky guy wearing a pink shirt, said, “Cole and Hitch?”

“He’s Cole,” I said. “I’m Hitch.”

“We got a problem,” the farmer in the pink shirt said.

The man with him was taller and rounder. He was wearing a blue shirt.

“He’s got a problem,” the man in blue said. “Sonovabitch sold me a lame horse.”

“He had a chance to try the horse,” Pink Shirt said. “He didn’t say nothing about her bein’ lame when he bought her.”

“How lame,” Virgil said.

“Lame,” Blue Shirt said, “right front leg’s all swole.”

“Why?”

They both looked at him blankly.

“Why’s it swole?” Virgil said.

“’Cause she’s lame,” Blue Shirt said.

“Wasn’t swole when I sold her,” Pink Shirt said.

Virgil took a long breath through his nose.

“Where’s the horse,” Virgil said.

“Out front,” Blue Shirt said.

“Lemme see her,” Virgil said.

He and I stood, and all of us went outside.

The horse was a sorrel mare and pretty long in the tooth. Virgil sat on his haunches beside her, and looked at her swollen right foreleg without touching it. He nodded to himself.

“Everett,” he said. “Get me a bottle of good whiskey and a clean cloth.”

I went in and got what he ordered and came out with it.

“Gashed her leg on something,” Virgil said. “It’s infected.”

I handed him the cloth and the whiskey.

“Take her head,” Virgil said. “I’m gonna clean her wound.”

I held the horse by the bridle straps. Virgil carefully picked up her foreleg and held it between his legs, his back to the horse.

“Hang on,” Virgil said.

I put my weight on the head straps.

“Easy, darlin’,” Virgil said to the horse. Virgil poured about half the whiskey into a gash on her foreleg. The horse lunged back. I held her head. Virgil rode her foreleg comfortably, murmuring to the horse all the time, and in a moment she stopped lunging. He studied the gash.

“Again,” he said.

I clamped on the harness, and he clamped the foreleg tight between his legs and poured the rest of the whiskey over her wound. She struggled long this time, but we rode it out and she calmed down again. Virgil tore the cloth into strips and bandaged the wound. He continued to murmur to the horse as he had since he started. The horse stayed docile. Virgil stood.

“Whiskey ought to kill the infection,” he said. “Change the bandage every day. Week or so she’ll be fine.”

“I don’t want no damaged horse,” Blue Shirt said.

“Well, you bought her,” Pink Shirt said.

Virgil was standing next to the horse, patting her absently on the shoulder.

“Either she had the gash when you bought her,” Virgil said, “and you were too stupid to see it, or you caused the gash after you bought her and were too stupid to treat it.”

“You’re saying it’s my fault.”

“I’m saying you take care of the horse, and in a couple weeks she’ll be fine.”

“I’m not taking care of this damn horse,” Blue Shirt said.

“You are,” Virgil said.

Blue Shirt stared at him. Virgil looked at him steadily.

“What if I don’t?” Blue Shirt said.

“I’ll kill you,” Virgil said.

“Kill me?”

“Yep.”

“Over this fleabag of a fucking horse?” Blue Shirt said.

“Yep.”

“So,” Pink Shirt said. “It’s settled then.”

Virgil turned his head slowly and looked at Pink Shirt.

“Put her in the livery stable,” Virgil said. “You pay.”

“That’s not fair.”

“It’s how it is,” Virgil said. “Me and Everett will be checking. Anything happens to the horse, you answer to us.”

Blue Shirt took the lead from the hitching post and began to walk the horse slowly down the main street toward the livery stable.

“How ’bout we split the cost of the livery?” Pink Shirt said.

“Fuck you,” Blue Shirt said.

They kept walking and they didn’t look back. Virgil and I went back into the Blackfoot.

“Sheriff, judge, and jury,” I said.

Virgil grinned at me and said, “Got nothing else to do.”

42.

We rented Mrs. Redmond a buggy at the livery stable and rode out with her to her husband’s ranch. A hundred yards or so upslope from the ranch we stopped.

“You go on down,” Virgil said.

She didn’t say anything, but her face was tight and there was no color in it.

“Go ahead,” Virgil said. “We’ll be right here.”

She chucked to the horse and slapped the reins and the buggy went on down the easy slope to the ranch. As she got there the kids came out of the house and stood on the front porch. When the buggy stopped, the kids stared at their mother without moving. She said something to them, and after a moment they climbed into the buggy. The four of us sat our horses in a row on the hillside and watched. Rose on the left, Cato next to him, me, and Virgil on the right. Redmond never showed himself.

Mrs. Redmond sat in the buggy with her children for maybe an hour. The four of us sat our horses on the slope and watched. Then the kids climbed down and went to stand on the porch. The buggy turned slowly and started back up the slope. The kids watched as it went. When it reached us, she was crying.

“They want to know when I’m coming home,” she said. “They want to know when I’m going to stop being bad. They want to know if I’m mad at them. They want to know if Daddy is mad at me.”

Nobody said anything. We wheeled our horses in behind the buggy and rode in silence back to town.

“How’s that mare doing,” Virgil said to the stableman while he helped Mrs. Redmond down from the carriage.

“Good, Mr. Cole. Swelling’s way down.”

“Keep an eye on her,” Virgil said.

“You bet, Mr. Cole.”

We delivered Mrs. Redmond to her hotel room and then went into the saloon. Wolfson was waiting for us.

“Well, here it is,” Wolfson said. “The fucking pistolero benevolent society. I hire you to take care of beat-up women and old nags, for crissake?”

“You hire us to keep the peace for you,” Rose said.

He spread his hands to encompass the saloon and the street in front of it.

“Look how peaceful,” he said.

Wolfson nodded.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “I know. But sometimes I’m not so sure whether you work for me or I work for you.”

“We’re in this together, Amos,” Virgil said. “We all got collaborative goals.”

“’Less I don’t pay you,” Wolfson said.

“That might change things,” Rose said. “Right, Cato?”

“Sure,” Cato said.

“Well if you ain’t too busy with your fucking charity work,” Wolfson said, “maybe you’ll be good enough to ride out with me in the morning and foreclose on a bean wrangler.”

“Can’t pay his bill?” Virgil said.

“That’s right, so I’m taking his ranch in lieu.”

“Anybody we know?” I said.

“It ain’t Redmond, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“That’s what I was asking,” I said.

43.

We rode out the next morning, past Redmond’s ranch, farther out along the creek, with the warm morning sun on our backs. Wolfson was with us, and his chief clerk, Hensdale. Hensdale didn’t seem too happy being out where Wolfson actually did a lot of his business.

“There’s any trouble, Hen,” Wolfson said to him, “these boys will take care of it.”

“So why do I even have to come along?” Hensdale said.

“Because I fucking want you along,” Wolfson said. “You understand that?”

“Yes, sir,” Hensdale said.

“Good,” Wolfson said. “What’s this fella’s name again?”

“Ward,” Hensdale said. “Stanton Ward.”

The creek curved a little west and straightened out again, flowing south, and in the bend was the Ward ranch. It wasn’t much, less than Redmond’s. But the land was good, right by the creek. In front of the house there were twelve farmers, many of them with Winchesters or shotguns.

“Jesus,” Hensdale murmured.

We rode in and stopped in front of the farmers. One of them was Redmond. He had his Winchester.

“Don’t shoot Redmond,” Virgil said.

Cato and Rose both nodded. I nodded.

Wolfson said, “What the hell?”

Virgil paid him no mind. Cato and Rose fanned out to the right.

“There’s any shooting,” I said to Hensdale, “lie flat over your horse’s neck and get the hell out of here.”

Hensdale nodded. Virgil and I fanned left. We left Wolfson in the center, in front of Redmond, with Hensdale unhappily beside him. I could see Virgil studying the ranchers on our side of the action, deciding who to shoot first. On the other side of Wolfson, I could see Cato Tillson doing the same thing.

“Fella with the straw hat first,” Virgil said. “Then the one with the blue striped shirt.”

I nodded. I didn’t know how Virgil decided these things, but he had a way, and I trusted it. I rested the eight-gauge across my saddle.

“Ward?” Wolfson said.

A short, round man with a sandy beard was standing beside Redmond.

“I’m Ward,” he said.

“You owe me money,” Wolfson said.

Ward didn’t answer.

“How much?” Wolfson said to Hensdale.

Hensdale gave the figure in a soft voice, meant to suggest that it wasn’t his fault, he was only the bean counter.

“You got it?” Wolfson said.

“How’s he gonna have it,” Redmond said.

He was talking to Wolfson, but I knew he was aware of Virgil.

“Not my problem, you owe me, you can’t pay. I collect my collateral.”

“For God’s sake, Wolfson,” Redmond said. “Man’s got four children.”

“Didn’t come here to argue,” Wolfson said. “If I had, I wouldn’ta brought my friends.”

He nodded in a way to include the four of us.

“We ain’t gonna let you take his house,” Redmond said.

“That the way you see it, Ward?” Wolfson said.

Ward’s eyes shifted from Virgil to Cato Tillson to Rose and to me. Then he looked back at Wolfson.

“I . . . I can’t pay you,” he said. “Maybe if you gimme time.”

Wolfson shook his head.

“Time’s up,” he said. “We’ll wait here while you pack up the family and go.”

“He ain’t going,” Redmond said.

Virgil nudged his horse forward at a slow pace and rode him gently between Redmond and Ward. Then he moved the horse sidestep and eased Redmond slowly away from Ward. On the other side of Ward, Cato did the same thing to the farmer on that side. Rose and I followed and eased the next couple of clodhoppers away from Ward, and from each other.

“Don’t let them move us,” Redmond shouted, and tried to step around Virgil. Virgil herded him with his horse, like he was cutting out a steer.

“Hold it,” Redmond shouted. “Hold it or we’ll start shooting.”

“No,” Ward screamed. “No. I don’t want the fucking property.”

Virgil stopped his horse and sat still. The rest of us did the same.

“I can’t live like this,” Ward said. “I can’t live here waiting for the next shootout. I’m a rancher. I don’t want this.”

No one moved.

Then Redmond said, “Stan, if we don’t stop him here, where will we stop him?”

“Don’t care,” Ward said. “Stop him without me. Ranch is yours, Wolfson. I’ll take the horses, the wagon, and whatever we can load on it. Rest is yours.”

“Wise choice,” Wolfson said. “We’ll wait.”

Slowly, watching Redmond as he did, Virgil backed his horse up. The rest of us did the same. Redmond half-raised his Winchester. Virgil had no reaction. The hammer was down on the Winchester. Meant that Redmond would either have to work the lever or cock it, and that, for Virgil, was an ocean of time.

“Disagreement’s been revolved,” Virgil said. “Time to go home.”

The man in the straw hat said to Ward, “Need a hand with the wagon?”

Ward nodded.

“’Preciate it, Saul,” he said.

They turned and went toward the house. Some of the others went with them; the rest began to drift toward their horses.

“It’ll happen to one of us next, and then another one,” Redmond said in a high voice, “and another one, until he’s got it all.”

The rancher in the blue striped shirt paused near his horse. He was carrying his Winchester with the barrel pointing toward the ground.

He said to Redmond, “We ain’t gunmen, Bob.”

Then he swung up into the saddle and rode away.

44.

Virgil and I were leaning on the bar, watching the smoke swirl and the whiskey pour and the cards slap down on tabletops.

“Spent a lot of my life in saloons like this,” Virgil said.

“I know,” I said.

“Funny thing is, neither one of us drinks much.”

“Probably a good thing,” I said.

“Probably,” Virgil said.

He looked comfortably around, appearing to pay no attention, in fact seeing everything.

“I been reading a book by this guy Russo,” Virgil said.

“Who?”

“French guy, Russo. Wrote something called The Social Contract, lot of stuff about nature.”

“Rousseau,” I said.

“Yeah, him,” Virgil said.

Virgil never admitted to a mistake. But if he was corrected, he never made it again.

“He says that men are good, and what makes them bad is government and law and stuff.”

“Don’t know much about Rousseau,” I said.

“Didn’t teach you ’bout him?” Virgil said. “At the Point?”

“Nope. Spent a lot of time on Roman cavalry tactics,” I said. “Not so much on French philosophers.”

“That what he was?” Virgil said. “A philosopher?”

“I think so,” I said.

“Well, he says if people was just left to grow up natural, they’d be good,” Virgil said. “You think that’s so?”

“Don’t know,” I said. “And I ain’t so sure it matters.”

Virgil nodded.

“’Cause nobody ever grew up that way,” he said.

I nodded.

“And probably ain’t going to,” Virgil said.

I nodded again.

“So what difference does it make?” I said.

“I dunno,” Virgil said. “I like reading about it. I like to learn stuff.”

“Sure,” I said.

“And if this Rousseau is right, then the law ain’t a good thing, that protects people; it’s a bad thing that, like, makes them bad.”

“Ain’t much law here,” I said.

“’Cept us,” Virgil said.

I laughed.

“’Cept us,” I said.

Virgil grinned.

“And Cato and Rose,” he said.

We both laughed.

“There’s some law for you,” I said.

“And it don’t much come from no government,” Virgil said, “or any, you know, contract or nothing.”

“Nope,” I said.

“Comes ’cause we can shoot better than other people.”

“And ain’t afraid to,” I said.

Wolfson came across the room and stopped in front of us.

“Virgil,” he said. “I got something to say.”

Virgil nodded.

“I mean alone,” Wolfson said.

“Go ahead and talk in front of Everett,” Virgil said. “Save me the trouble of telling him what you said.”

Wolfson didn’t like it, but Virgil showed no sign that he cared.

“I didn’t appreciate you telling people not to shoot Redmond, ” Wolfson said.

“You wanted him shot?” Virgil said.

“I want to decide those things, not you.”

“Don’t blame you,” Virgil said. “But you ain’t doing the shooting.”

Wolfson frowned.

“I don’t get you, Cole,” he said. “I’d expect that you’d want him dead.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well,” Wolfson said, “I mean, you’re fucking his wife.”

Virgil stared at Wolfson and said nothing.

“Well, I mean, no offense,” Wolfson said.

Virgil stared silently.

“Damn it, Cole, you work for me, don’t you?” Wolfson said. “You act like you’re in charge of everything. Like you don’t work for anybody.”

Virgil shrugged. Wolfson looked at me.

“You too, Everett,” he said. “You act like a couple fucking English kings, you know? Like you can do what you want.”

“And Cato and Rose ain’t much better,” I said.

“No, goddamn it, they ain’t,” Wolfson said.

“You ever read Rousseau?” Virgil said.

“I don’t read shit,” Wolfson said. “Including Roo whatever his fucking name is.”

“Nope,” Virgil said. “’Spect you haven’t.”

He turned and spoke to Patrick.

“I’d like just a finger of whiskey,” he said.

Patrick poured some, and a shot for me as well. He held the bottle up toward Wolfson, and Wolfson shook his head.

“Things gonna have to change around here,” he said, and turned and walked away.

“Things gonna change,” he muttered as he walked. “Things gonna fucking change.”

“Why doesn’t he fire us?” I said.

“He’s scared of us,” Virgil said.

“And Cato and Rose,” I said.

“Same thing,” he said.

“So what do you think he’ll do?”

“Hire himself enough people to back him,” Virgil said. “Then he’ll feel safe. Then he’ll fire us.”

“You and me.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Cato and Rose?”

“Uh-huh.”

We sipped our whiskey.

After a while I said to Virgil, “Is it true?”

“What?”

“What he said. You poking Mrs. Redmond?”

“Ain’t gentlemanly to tell,” Virgil said.

I nodded.

“Hell, it ain’t even too gentlemanly to ask,” Virgil said.

“You are,” I said.

Virgil shrugged.

“Well,” I said, “ain’t you some kind of dandy.”

“Always have been,” Virgil said.

45.

The next time we took Mrs. Redmond out to the ranch, Redmond came out of the house with the children and Mrs. Redmond climbed down from the buggy and went and sat on the porch with them while we sat our horses up the slope a ways.

“You pay any of Wolfson’s whores, Everett?” Frank Rose said.

I nodded.

“They’re all Wolfson’s whores,” I said.

“He says we can use anyone we want, no charge,” Rose said. “And a whore wants to give it to me for nothing, I’ll take it, and so will Cato. But me and Cato, we figure it ain’t Wolfson’s to say, you know? I mean, he don’t quite own ’em. Unless we pay them when they fuck us, they’re getting nothing.”

Rose grinned.

“’Cept a’course the ride of a lifetime. How ’bout you, Virgil? You agree with that.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Cole don’t need no whores,” Cato said.

All three of us looked at him. Cato was still looking downhill at the Redmond ranch. Rose looked at Virgil, then suddenly down the hill at Beth Redmond. Then back at Virgil.

“Mrs. Redmond,” he said.

Virgil said nothing. Neither did Cato.

Rose looked at me. I shrugged.

We all looked down the hill, and no one spoke for a time.

Then Rose said, “Any one of us can deal with Redmond. Ain’t this a waste of manpower or something?”

“Maybe he don’t know that,” Virgil said.

“You mean if only one of us comes with her,” Rose said, “he might be tempted to give it a try?”

“Maybe.”

“And you don’t want him to get hurt.”

“Nope.”

“’Cause of the wife.”

“Maybe.”

“Ain’t got much use for a man beats on women,” Rose said. “You, Cato?”

“No,” Cato said.

“Not much of a man,” Rose said.

“No,” Cato said.

“He’s the only one fighting Wolfson,” I said.

“And he ain’t winning,” Rose said.

“True,” I said.

“You’d think Wolfson would be happy,” Rose said.

“But he’s not.”

“Hell, no,” Rose said. “He talked to me and Cato about you and Virgil. He don’t seem happy with Virgil.”

“Talked to you ’bout backing him,” Virgil said. “If he fired us.”

“Said he couldn’t trust you to do what he told you,” Rose said.

Virgil smiled.

“Tole him he could trust you to do what you said you would,” Rose said.

“That’s true,” Virgil said. “You tell him you’d back him?”

“No,” Rose said. “Tole him we wouldn’t.”

46.

You went out to the Ward ranch the other day,” Mrs. Redmond said.

"We did,” Virgil said.

The three of us were having our coffee on the front porch of the hotel, watching the soft rain thicken the street dust into mud.

“My husband was there,” she said.

“Yep.”

“Mr. Rose says you told everybody not to hurt him,” she said.

“Mr. Rose is a talker,” Virgil said.

“But you did say that.”

“Something like that,” Virgil said.

“He told us, ‘Don’t shoot Redmond,’” I said.

“Did you do that for me?” Mrs. Redmond said.

“Yes,” Virgil said.

She was quiet for a time, holding the thick mug in both hands.

“He’s not a bad man,” she said after a while.

Virgil didn’t say anything.

“Good men don’t generally beat up their women,” I said.

She drank some more coffee.

“I know,” she said. “But . . .”

There wasn’t much traffic on the main street at any time, but in the rain with the mud thickening, there was none. Virgil and I were silent.

“When we first got married,” she said, “he was working in Saint Louis in a leather factory, cleaning hides. We was living in a room in a house near the factory. He used to smell terrible when he come home.”

“Hides do stink,” Virgil said.

“I was seventeen,” she said. “I’d run off from home.”

“And there you were,” I said.

“And there I was,” she said. “Only thing we had for decoration in the room was this old calendar that Bob hung on the wall. Wasn’t even the right year. But it had a picture on it, of a little house in the middle of a field, with a tree over it, and a little stream running past. There was a man and woman standing outside the house with two little children beside them.”

The Chinaman came out from the hotel kitchen with fresh coffee, and poured some in our cups. When he left, Mrs. Redmond started talking again. I wasn’t exactly sure how much she was talking to us.

“That’s what we wanted, Bob maybe even more than me. And finally, when we got the homestead land out here, we thought we was going to have it.”

“Nobody never really gets the pretty picture,” I said.

“I guess not,” she said. “Maybe if it wasn’t for Wolfson . . .”

“There’s always a Wolfson,” Virgil said.

She nodded.

“He tried so hard,” she said.

Her voice thickened as she spoke, and she sounded like she might cry.

“He’s still trying. Trying to make a profit, trying to organize the other homesteaders to fight Wolfson . . .”

“And it ain’t working out,” I said.

“No,” she said.

“And he’s taking it out on you?” I said.

“I nagged him awful,” she said.

Across the street, at the Excelsior, Cato and Rose came out on their porch and looked at the rain. Mrs. Redmond waved at them. Rose waved back.

“That Mr. Cato doesn’t say much, does he,” she said.

“Cato’s his first name, ma’am,” I said. “Cato Tillson. And no, he don’t say much.”

“He seems like a good man, though,” she said.

I smiled.

“Depends on your definition,” I said.

“Like how?” she said.

“Cato shoots people,” Virgil said. “But he don’t do it for the hell of it. And he ain’t a back shooter. And he gives you his word, he keeps it.”

“That’s like you,” Mrs. Redmond said.

“Some,” Virgil said.

“Would he have really shot my husband that day in the saloon?” she said. “When he offered?”

“Oh, absolutely,” I said.

The rain picked up a little so that it drummed hard on the shed roof of the porch, and the runoff formed almost a curtain between us and the street. We drank our coffee.

“I wish you could help him,” Mrs. Redmond said after a time.

Neither Virgil nor I answered her. Across the street, Frank Rose was smoking a cigar, and the homey smell of it drifted through the rain to our porch.

“You still care about him,” I said.

“Yes.”

I nodded slowly.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “You’re thinking I’m with Virgil and . . .”

I nodded. She looked at Virgil. He didn’t say anything.

“My husband was hurting me. I was alone, no money, no place to go. I was terrified. I couldn’t see my children. Then Virgil come along and made all that go away. I am so grateful.”

“Good reasons,” I said.

She still looked at Virgil.

“Do you understand?” she said. “It ain’t just all that. I care about you, but . . . do you understand?”

Virgil nodded slowly.

“I do,” he said.

47.

It was a little after noon, with the sun out again, when a Cavalry lieutenant and a master sergeant showed up in front of the Blackfoot. They stopped their horses in front of where Virgil and I were taking in the sun. The lieutenant nodded at us, and the sergeant spoke.

“This town got a mayor?” he said.

“Nope,” I said.

The sergeant looked at the lieutenant. The lieutenant took over.

“Town council?” he said.

“Nope.”

“Sheriff?”

“Nope.”

The lieutenant was annoyed.

“Marshal?”

I shook my head.

“So who the fuck is in charge around here?” the lieutenant said.

I thought about it for a minute.

“Well,” I said, “fella named Wolfson owns the bank, the store, the hotel, the saloon, and the saloon across the street. I suppose he might be the one.”

“Where do I find him?” the lieutenant said.

“Usually eats breakfast,” I said, “’bout this time. In the saloon.”

The lieutenant glanced up at the sun.

“Breakfast?” he said.

“Works late hours,” I said.

The lieutenant nodded.

“Canavan,” he said to the sergeant.

“Sir.”

“See if you can find him and get him out here.”

The sergeant swung down and went into the saloon. The lieutenant was quiet, looking around the town. Then he looked back at us.

“You work for this fella, Wolfson?” he said.

I nodded.

“You ain’t bartenders,” he said.

“No,” I said.

“My name’s Mulcahey,” he said. “What’s yours.”

“Everett Hitch,” I said. “This here’s Virgil Cole.”

Mulcahey looked at Virgil for a silent moment.

Then he said, “Heard of you.”

Virgil nodded modestly.

“Any other gun hands in town?” Mulcahey said.

“Why do you ask?” Virgil said.

“Might need ’em,” Mulcahey said.

“Couple of boys across the street,” Virgil said, and nodded at the Excelsior. “Cato and Rose.”

“They any good?” Mulcahey said.

He was talking to Virgil now instead of to me.

“Yes,” Virgil said.

Sergeant Canavan came out of the Blackfoot with Wolfson.

“What can I do for you, Lieutenant,” Wolfson said.

“You get things done in this town?” Mulcahey said.

“I like to think so,” Wolfson said.

“A group of Shoshones jumped the reservation last night,” Mulcahey said. “The rest of my platoon is rounding up the settlers south of town and herded them in here.”

“Here? In town?”

“Yep, we need to make some arrangements to put them up until we get the Shoshones back where they belong,” Mulcahey said. “How many can you put up here?”

“Here? In the hotel?”

“Hotel, livery stable, saloon, wherever we have to,” Mulcahey said. “We leave them out there alone and the Shoshones can have them, one at a time.”

“Who pays for this?” Wolfson said.

“Sergeant Canavan will give you a voucher,” Mulcahey said. “We’ll have them all in here by nightfall.”

“You boys going to stick around?” Wolfson said.

“Nope, can’t guard these people and chase the Shoshones, ” Mulcahey said.

“How many bucks,” Virgil said.

“Maybe twenty,” Mulcahey said.

“I didn’t sign no contract,” Wolfson said, “that I gotta protect every shitkicker that homesteads near me.”

“I’m not asking you to do it,” Mulcahey said. “I’m telling you you’re going to.”

48.

Wolfson assembled most of the men in the Blackfoot Saloon. Almost everybody had a weapon, mostly Winchesters, a few shotguns, and an occasional breech-loading Sharps.

“You all know why we’re here,” he said, “and why I volunteered to house and feed you all.”

The women and children were housed in the hotel. The men were mostly sleeping on the floor in the Blackfoot and the Excelsior. In the hotel, the wives and the whores were a little uneasy with one another. And in the saloons the homesteader men were quite uneasy with those of us who worked for Wolfson. Beth and Bob Redmond moved around each other stiffly. And Stark and his lumberjacks were unhappy with everything. So was Wolfson. He’d had to hire another Chinaman to help in the kitchen cooking enough biscuits, beans, and salt meat for everybody. The Army vouchers would probably cover the cost, but there was unlikely to be any profit.

“The Army has asked me to take charge of the town defense until them red niggers is back where they belong,” Wolfson said.

Virgil looked at me. I grinned and shrugged.

“Army says the bastards aren’t in this area yet, but just to be sure,” Wolfson said, “I got a couple lookouts up on the roof of the hotel right now ready to fire off a warning shot the minute they see anything.”

Cato and Rose were drinking coffee at the bar near us. There were no liquor sales yet because of the meeting, but Frank Rose went behind the bar and got a bottle and poured a shot into his coffee, and left the bottle handy. Wolfson saw it and didn’t like it but said nothing of it.

“First thing we got to do is to block off both ends of Main Street,” Wolfson said. “Keep the buggers from getting in here and doing damage.”

Cato and Rose both looked at Virgil. Virgil looked at me. I shook my head.

“’Scuse me, Amos,” Virgil said.

Wolfson didn’t like that, either, but he forced a smile.

"Y’all know Virgil Cole,” Wolfson said, “one of the fellas works for me.”

“Thing is, Amos,” Virgil said, “if they was stupid enough to come charging up the main street, I wouldn’t want to discourage them. We could catch ’em in a crossfire and cut ’em in pieces.”

“I don’t want them in this town shooting up my property, ” Wolfson said.

“They ain’t coming in the main street,” Virgil said.

“They been fighting the Crows and the Arapaho for generations, ” I said. “They know how to fight. They ain’t going to ride into a shooting gallery.”

“So you’re saying don’t block the street.”

Virgil nodded.

“Everett’s right,” he said. “They ain’t going to ride in and let us catch them in a crossfire, but there’s no reason to make it difficult, case they want to.”

Redmond was standing in front of Wolfson.

“So what are we supposed to do?” Redmond said.

“Everett here is a graduate of the United States Military Academy at West Point, New York,” Virgil said. “He’s done some Indian fighting in his time.”

He made a gesture with his head that said, You tell them.

“Lookouts on the roof are good,” I said, to make Wolfson feel good. “And we need to organize our manpower, break down into squads, for instance, so that we can mobilize quickly if we have to.”

I looked at Fritz Stark.

“You take care of that with your people?”

“We’re already in crews,” Stark said.

“Good,” I said. “Redmond, you want to organize yours?”

“How many people in a squad?” Redmond said.

“Depends how many people you got,” I said. “I’ll help you.”

Redmond nodded.

“We’re ready to do what has to be done,” he said.

Virgil smiled slightly.

Frank Rose murmured, “Hooray!”

“Wolfson can manage the miners and the town folks,” I said. “And we’ll need some pickets.”

“Outside the town?” Redmond said.

“Wouldn’t be much use inside the town, now would they,” Wolfson said.

“That’ll be us,” Virgil said.

“Us?” Redmond said.

“Me and Everett,” Virgil said. “Cato and Rose.”

Everybody in the room, that I could see, looked relieved.

49.

It was a bright night. Lot of stars. Moon nearly full. Virgil and I were riding as soft as we could along the tree line uphill from the town.

“Think they’ll do what we told ’em?” I said. “If the Shoshones actually make a run at them?”

“Probably not,” Virgil said.

“On the other hand, the Shoshones probably won’t make a run at them. There’s what, twenty of them, Mulcahey said?”

“Yep.”

A night bird whistled in the woods. Both of us reined in and sat silently. The bird whistled again.

“Bird,” I said.

“Yep,” Virgil said.

We started the horses again.

“And maybe a hundred men with guns in the town?”

“At least,” Virgil said.

“So the Shoshones aren’t going to make a run at them.”

“Probably not,” Virgil said.

“They might come by the homesteads,” I said, “thinking they might pick off a homesteader or two, burn a couple ranches, run off some stock.”

“That’s right,” Virgil said. “Same for the lumber company. ”

“So we come across them doing this,” I said, “we do anything?

“We got four fighters,” Virgil said.

“We got a hundred men,” I said.

“And four fighters,” Virgil said.

I nodded.

“So we head back to town and keep the people safe,” I said.

“Uh-huh.”

“Hard for a lot of them to come back,” I said, “they get burned out.”

“Harder to come back from getting killed,” Virgil said.

“And it’s worth remembering that unless the Shoshones split up, there’s twenty of them and two of us, at any given time.”

“Shoshones won’t split up,” Virgil said.

“No,” I said.

“And if they get past us and into the town and we’re not there, and Cato and Rose aren’t there, it’ll be a bloodbath.”

“You don’t think Wolfson can rally the troops?”

“Redmond, either,” Virgil said. “Stark maybe, but . . . he’s not a gunman.”

“And Wolfson and Redmond would be fighting so hard to be in charge that they’d get in his way even if he was,” I said.

Virgil held his horse suddenly. I stopped with him. Virgil listened hard. I hadn’t heard anything, and I still didn’t. After a little bit, Virgil nodded to himself and moved his horse forward again. I went with him.

“Hear something?” I said.

“Nothing that matters,” Virgil said.

We rode on.

“How are things going with you and Mrs. Redmond?” I said.

“Her children are with her,” Virgil said.

“And her husband’s downstairs,” I said.

“That’s right.”

“So things ain’t going at all,” I said.

“That’s right.”

“Sorry to hear that,” I said.

“Things change,” Virgil said.

“Ever think about Allie?” I said.

“Yes.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say about that, so I moved to a different subject.

“Funny thing about Wolfson and Redmond,” I said. “First I thought they just wanted to get ahead in their own way.”

“Probably do,” Virgil said.

“Redmond’s stuck,” I said. “But Wolfson ain’t. He got ahead. He runs the damn town, and he still ain’t happy.”

“He don’t run the town,” Virgil said.

“Who does?”

“We do,” Virgil said.

50.

The Shoshones came in, south of town, about twelve hours ahead of the Army and set fire to the settlements. The smoke hovered over the town, and one of the lookouts fired off a warning shot, claiming Indians were upon us. Everyone with a weapon grabbed it and rushed to find a place to shoot from.

“They ain’t much of a threat to the Shoshones,” Frank Rose said. “But they’re likely to inflict considerable casualties on each other.”

“Guess we better take a look,” Virgil said.

“If the farmers don’t shoot at us,” Rose said.

“If they do, they’ll probably miss,” I said.

There was no sign of anyone in the area where the lookout had seen the hostiles. On horseback we slowly began to circle the town. The smoke from the burning settlements was plain enough, and the smell of it was strong. At the top of a small rise between the town and the settlements we saw two bucks. One had what looked like an old Army-issue Sharps. The other wore a Cavalry campaign hat and carried a button-flap holster that had probably been taken from a soldier someplace. We stopped. The Indians stopped. We looked at one another.

“There’s more of us than them,” Rose said.

“That we can see,” Virgil said.

“True,” Rose said.

“Don’t want to go charging after them and run right into eighteen more of them behind the rise,” I said.

We continued to sit with the smoke billowing up behind the Indians, and the pleasant breeze blowing it toward us. The Indians rode back and forth in front of us. The one with the Sharps brandished it at us. The guy with the campaign hat waved it at us.

“They think they’re out of our range,” Virgil said.

“They ain’t,” Cato said.

“You want to do it?” Virgil said.

“Sure.”

Cato handed the reins to Rose and slid off his horse. He took his rifle from the saddle and stepped away from his horse. He cocked the hammer, raised the rifle, let his breath out softly, and squeezed the trigger. The Indian with the Sharps slumped and then fell from his saddle. The other Indian gazed at him for a minute and then spun his horse. The gaze cost him. Cato hit him in the back between the shoulder blades as the Indian kicked his horse into a run. The Indian tossed forward over the horse’s neck and onto the ground. The two horses trotted a few feet and stopped and looked at the dead Indians, and began to crop the grass. Cato put two fresh rounds in his rifle, slid it back in the scabbard, and remounted.

We sat some more. No Indians came boiling over the rise. The horses continued to graze. The smoke continued overhead darkly. Virgil nudged his horse forward, and the rest of us followed. We rode slowly up to the two Indians. Both were dead. Neither was very old.

There was no sign of anyone downslope. Virgil dismounted and walked to the two horses. They looked at him. He took the primitive rope bridles off both horses. The horses went back to eating. Virgil left the rope on the ground and got back on his horse.

“Two kids,” he said, “showin’ off.”

“Whoever,” Rose said. “We just improved the odds a little.”

“We did,” Virgil said. And we turned our horses back to town.

51.

Two days later, Sergeant Canavan came into the Blackfoot, which was still bristling with guns. He smiled faintly when he saw them.

Then he came to Virgil and me and said, “Where’s that fella in charge?”

“Wolfson?” I said.

“Yeah,” Canavan said, “him.”

“Don’t know,” I said. “You can talk to us.”

“Bet I can,” Canavan said.

He looked around at the armed settlers everywhere. Again, he smiled faintly.

“Lieutenant Mulcahey wants you to know that we got the hostiles. Killed three, herded the rest of them back onto the reservation.”

“So we can call off the siege,” I said.

Canavan grinned.

“You can call off the siege,” he said. “Found a couple of ’em dead, south of town. That your doing?”

“Wasn’t very old,” Virgil said.

“Old enough,” Canavan said. “One of ’em had a trooper’s gun and hat.”

“Anything left out there?” I said. “For these people to go back to?”

“Nope.”

“Settlements?” I said.

“Burned all the buildings, killed any stock they could find.”

“Copper mine?”

“Burned pretty much everything that would burn,” Canavan said. “Missed the lumber camp for some reason.”

“Too bad you didn’t get them sooner,” I said.

“They slaughtered five people, west of here,” Canavan said.

“Okay,” I said. “Coulda been worse.”

“You’ll tell whatsisname Wolfson?” he said.

“We will,” I said.

“Thanks,” Canavan said.

“Want a drink ’fore you go?” Virgil said.

“No, thanks, got too far to go, and got to ride too hard,” Canavan said. “Have one for me.”

He looked around at the armed settlers.

“Don’t let them open fire till I’m out of range,” he said.

“War’s over,” I yelled. “Don’t shoot the soldier.”

Most of the men in the room heard me. They stared at me, as Canavan with a big grin walked out of the saloon door and swung back up on his horse.

“What’s that about the war?” Redmond said.

“Indians are back on the reservation,” I said. “You can put the weapons away.”

“Sergeant tell you that?” Redmond said.

“He did,” I said.

Redmond turned to the crowd.

“We’ve defeated the savages,” Redmond shouted.

He stepped up onto a chair.

“It’s over,” he shouted. “We’ve won.”

Wolfson came in from the hotel.

“What’s that?” he said.

“Indians are back on the reservation,” Virgil said to him.

“By God,” Wolfson said. “By God.”

He looked around at the men and at Redmond standing on a chair in front of them.

“Drinks are on me,” he shouted.

“No,” Virgil said.

“What?”

“Not until they put the guns away,” Virgil said.

Wolfson stared for a moment. Cato and Rose and I blocked access to the bar.

“I don’t like being told what to do by one of my fucking employees,” Wolfson said.

“You want a room full of armed drunks?” Virgil said.

Wolfson looked slightly startled. Then he shook his head and walked to the back of the saloon, and opened a storeroom door.

“Stash your weapons here,” he shouted, “then drink up.”

Virgil stood by the door as people put Winchesters and shotguns and an occasional sidearm into the storeroom. When everyone had done it, Virgil nodded at me, and the three of us stepped away from the bar. Virgil put a chair in front of the storeroom door and sat in it. I walked over and joined him.

Frank Rose said to Wolfson, “This gonna happen across the street?”

“Absolutely,” Wolfson said. “I’m heading over there now to let them know.”

“Same rules apply,” Rose said. “No guns.”

“This is my town, and we got plenty to celebrate.”

“No guns,” Rose said.

Wolfson shrugged. Rose nodded and looked at Cato, and the two of them walked out of the Blackfoot. Wolfson hurried behind them.

“Let me make the announcement,” he said. “Let me make the announcement.”

“You can do anything you want, Amos,” Rose said, “long as there’s no guns. Me and Cato hate drunks with guns.”

52.

Wolfson was having a meeting at a table in the Blackfoot. Hensdale was there, and Stark. Faison was at the table, and so was Bob Redmond. Virgil and I sat nearby and drank coffee with Cato and Rose, and listened.

“I can’t keep housing all these fucking people,” Wolfson said.

“My miners are ready to move on,” Faison said. “Mine’s pretty well run out anyway. You pay us the two weeks’ wages you owe us and we’ll find another mine.”

“Two weeks’ wages?” Wolfson said. “I been housing you for nothing.”

“You been letting us sleep on the floor of your fucking saloon,” Faison said. “Ain’t the same.”

“I gotta think ’bout them two weeks’ wages,” Wolfson said. “I don’t know what you did to earn it.”

“You think about it all you want,” Faison said. “But I go back and tell my miners you ain’t paying, you gonna have a visit from all of us.”

“Hear that, Virgil,” Wolfson said. “Sounds like a threat to me.”

“That’s what it sounds like,” Virgil said.

“Everything’s gone,” Faison said. “Bunkhouses, cook shack, mine office, and there ain’t enough copper left in that mine to pay for breakfast.”

“Ain’t my fault,” Wolfson said.

“Ain’t ours, either,” Faison said. “Mine ain’t worth saving. We know that. But you got to pay us so we can move on.”

“I ain’t made a penny,” Wolfson said, “since the fucking Indians left the reservation. I got you and these fucking homesteaders sprawled all over my property, eating my food. Who pays for that? Who pays for the fucking lumberjacks been eating everything but the fucking bar?”

“I’ll cover my people,” Stark said.

“Yeah? Who covers the shitkickers? They got no money,” Wolfson said. “They got no way to earn any. They owe me already, and all the collateral I got is their property, which is now mostly fucking cinders.”

“We’re not quitters,” Redmond said. “We can start over.”

“Start over?” Wolfson said. “Start over with what? I put myself in the fucking poorhouse giving you cocksuckers credit, and what do I get? A chance to fucking feed you and house you at my cost.”

“For Jesus’ sake, Wolfson,” Redmond said. “We got no place to go.”

“Well, find someplace, because I’m through.”

“There’s women,” Redmond said. I thought he might have glanced quickly at Virgil. “And kids.”

“Fuck ’em,” Wolfson said. “Women, kids, everybody. All you got to give me is your land, and that ain’t worth much.”

“Land?”

“I’m taking the land,” Wolfson said. “You people owe me ten times what it’s worth, but it’s all there is.”

“You can’t just take our land,” Redmond said.

“Can,” Wolfson said. “Will. So you and your women and children and sodbusters and shitkickers and chicken wranglers get the fuck out of my town.”

“We’re not going,” Redmond said. “We got no place to go.”

“You’ll go or I’ll run you out,” Wolfson said.

Redmond looked at us.

“You’d do that?” he said to us. “If he told you to, you’d run off a bunch of hard-working homesteaders, kids and everything?”

None of us said anything.

“Money talks,” Wolfson said. “You’re the only one doesn’t get that, Redmond.”

“You folks can come up to the lumber camp,” Stark said.

Everyone looked at him.

“It’s rough, but we’ll make do till you get back on your feet.”

“They ain’t gonna get back on their feet, Fritzie,” Wolfson said. “Don’t you get it? They got nothing.”

Stark stared at Wolfson for a time.

Then he said, “Wolfson, you are a fucking scavenger. You got no more heart than a fucking buzzard.”

“Fritzie,” Wolfson said.

“Don’t call me Fritzie, you walleyed cocksucker,” Stark said. “I don’t care how many gunmen you hire. Redmond, you bring your people up to my place today. We’ll work something out.”

“Mind if I sit in on that?” Faison said.

“You’re welcome to,” Stark said.

Then Stark got to his feet and turned his back to Wolfson and walked out of the saloon. Redmond and Faison got up and followed.

I looked at Virgil. He looked back at me and grinned.

“What’d I tell you about Stark?” he said.

53.

The settlers moved up to the lumber camp, and the miners joined them. Wolfson was away. Resolution was nearly empty. There was no money being spent, because nobody had any. The saloons were deathly silent, and with nothing better to do, Virgil and I rode out and looked at the burned-out homesteads.

The Shoshones had been effective. There wasn’t much to see: the barely recognizable remnant of a dead farm animal, a chimney that hadn’t burned, some scraps of harness, the metal prongs of a rake. A solitary buzzard circled in the sky, without much enthusiasm. Everything edible had been scavenged already. But with regularity along the trail through the settlements there were signs that said the same thing: NO TRESPASSING, per order Amos Wolfson, Owner.

“Think it’s legal,” Virgil said, “Wolfson taking their land?”

“Might be,” I said. “Don’t really know. I think it’s homestead land.”

“That make a difference?” Virgil said.

“I’d think so, but I don’t know.”

“Didn’t teach you ’bout real-estate law at West Point?” Virgil said.

“Nope. Know a lot about the Macedonian phalanx, though.”

“What the fuck is that?” Virgil said.

I explained.

“They taught you that at West Point?” Virgil said.

“Yep.”

“We ain’t been fighting with pikes for a while,” Virgil said.

“War department hadn’t caught on to that when I was there,” I said.

We moved on through the homesteads. Near the buildings, fresh new shoots of green were already beginning to push up through the burnt-over grass. At the top of the rise where we’d left them were the remains of the two Shoshone warriors we’d killed. There wasn’t much left of them. Their horses had long since drifted off, probably homing back to the reservation, the way horses do. Buzzards, coyotes, maybe a wolf, maybe a bear, maybe a cougar, certainly insects and other birds, had fed on them until there was nothing much to feed on. Their weapons were still with them. Something had even eaten at the holster that one of them had worn. The pistol was starting to rust. So was the old rifle. We sat our horses for a time, looking at the remains.

“Don’t seem right,” Virgil said. “He can just take everything they got.”

“No,” I said. “It don’t.”

“Don’t seem like it would be legal,” Virgil said.

“Don’t matter none,” I said. “Legal, illegal. There’s not any law around here anyway.”

“’Cept us,” Virgil said.

“What do we do when Wolfson tells us to move them off the land?” I said.

“Been thinking on that,” Virgil said.

He kept looking at the skeletal remnants of the two Indians.

“Can’t keep taking a man’s money,” Virgil said finally, “and keep saying no to what he wants you to do.”

“I know,” I said.

“Can’t run them people off their land,” Virgil said.

“I know,” I said.

54.

Virgil and I were on the front porch of the Blackfoot, admiring the early evening, when Beth Redmond came down the street with her skirts tucked up, astride one of those nondescript, big-boned horses that a lot of sodbusters had, because they could afford only one. When she reached us she held her skirts down and swung her left leg over the horse and slid modestly off him on the side away from us. Then she came around, hitched the horse, and came up on the porch and sat on the railing opposite us with her feet dangling.

“Evenin’, Beth,” Virgil said.

“Hello,” she said. “Hello, Mr. Hitch.”

I nodded toward her.

“Mrs. Redmond.”

“Virgil, we have to talk,” she said.

“Talk in front of Everett,” Virgil said. “I’d just tell him later anyway.”

“He knows about us?” she said.

“Yep.”

“That’s a little embarrassing,” she said.

“Everett don’t care,” Virgil said.

“But I might,” she said.

“Suppose you might,” Virgil said. “Hadn’t thought of that.”

I stood.

“I can go,” I said.

She shook her head rapidly.

“No,” she said. “Stay. What I’m talking about will include you, too.”

I sat.

“We ain’t going to leave,” she said.

“You and Redmond?” Virgil said.

“None of us,” she said. “Mr. Stark’s going to help us rebuild. He’ll give us the lumber on credit. He’ll give some of the men jobs in the lumber camp.”

“Wolfson already put up signs on the land,” I said. “He says it’s his now.”

“We won’t let him take it,” Mrs. Redmond said.

Neither Virgil nor I said anything.

“Since the Indians,” she said, “when we were all together, and armed, and ready. The men feel like they won, and can win again.”

“Mrs. Redmond,” I said. “They didn’t see an Indian.”

“Please call me Beth,” she said. “I know. But they were ready, and it makes them feel better. And Mr. Stark is making them feel better. They ain’t felt good for an awful long time. They need to do this.”

I nodded. Virgil nodded.

“Stark gonna help you when the guns come?” Virgil said.

“He said he would.”

“Bunch of lumberjacks,” Virgil said.

“They’re tough men,” she said.

“With a peavey,” Virgil said. “Guns are a little different.”

“I know,” Beth said. “But we ain’t gonna go.”

“How ’bout you and your husband,” Virgil said.

“It’s the same thing as the rest,” Beth said. “When we was all here, and the Indians was coming, and everybody had a gun, he felt like he was protecting me and the kids. He felt like he was the leader of his friends. He felt good.”

“He know ’bout us?” Virgil said.

“Yes.”

“How’s he feel ’bout that?” Virgil said.

“He thinks he deserved it,” Beth said. “For beating me up and everything. Swears that he’s a changed man now. Swears that he’ll never hit me again.”

I knew Virgil would not ask, so I did.

“You and him back together, then?” I said.

“Yes.”

She looked sideways at Virgil. Virgil nodded.

“I’m sorry, Virgil,” she said. “You’ve been a good friend.”

“Perfectly fine,” Virgil said.

No one spoke. The nondescript plow horse was scratching the underside of his jaw on the hitching rail. We all watched him.

Then Virgil said, “You got something else, Beth.”

She nodded.

“I . . .” She stopped and then tried again. “I . . .”

She stopped and looked wordlessly at Virgil.

“You want us to help you,” Virgil said.

“Help him,” she said. “Help the men. Don’t run them off, no matter what Wolfson says.”

Virgil nodded.

“Can you do that for me?” Beth said.

Virgil didn’t speak for a while. I waited. Beth waited.

Then he said, “I won’t run them off.”

Beth looked at me.

“Mr. Hitch?”

“Everett,” I said.

“Will you run them off, Everett?” she said.

“No,” I said. “I’m with Virgil.”

“What about the other two,” she said.

Now that it was out, she was emptying the pitcher.

“I’ll talk to them,” Virgil said.

“Will they listen to you?”

“Yes,” Virgil said.

“And Mr. Wolfson, what will he do?” she said.

“Hire other people,” Virgil said.

“And what will you do then?” Beth said.

It was out, and we were all looking at it. None of us said anything for a time.

Finally, Virgil said, “Step at a time, Beth. Step at a time.”

55.

Wolfson got ahead of us. He came back from his travels with a big-bodied, dark-haired man named Major Lujack.

“Major Lujack is the head of Lujack Detective Agency in Wichita,” Wolfson said. “And a retired Cavalry officer.”

“Battle of Muddy River?” I said.

Lujack looked at me and nodded.

“You’ve heard of Major Lujack?” Wolfson said.

“Slaughtered a camp full of Comanche women and children, ” I said. “In eastern Colorado. While back. Got a medal for it, and was discharged two weeks later.”

“Everett’s retired Army, too,” Virgil said.

“It was an honorable discharge,” Lujack said.

“Army covered it up,” I said. “Made it sound like a battle. But they got rid of you.”

“Who’s this?” Virgil said.

He was looking at a willowy, round-faced, sloe-eyed man with a flat crowned hat and striped pants, who was standing next to Lujack.

“My assistant,” Lujack said. “Mr. Swann.”

“I’m Mr. Cole,” Virgil said. “This is Mr. Hitch.”

Swann nodded.

“Major Lujack is here to help us with the settlers and all,” Wolfson said. “The rest of his people will be arriving soon.”

Both Lujack and Swann wore guns. They seemed comfortable with them.

“How many,” Virgil said.

“Three squads of five men and a squad leader,” Lujack said.

“Plus you and Mr. Swann,” Virgil said. “So twenty.”

“Yes,” Lujack said.

Virgil was looking at Swann. Swann was looking back at Virgil.

“You fellas have had a long ride,” Wolfson said. “Lemme show you your rooms.”

“Certainly,” Lujack said.

He looked at me. Swann looked hard at Virgil. Then they turned and followed Wolfson.

“Whaddya know about Lujack?” Virgil said.

“He’s a butcher,” I said.

“Why’d he do it?”

“Don’t know,” I said. “Don’t know why he even attacked them. There wasn’t a warrior within fifty miles.”

“And the Army gave him the boot?”

“Yeah. Some of his command had refused to keep up the killing once they realized they weren’t fighting men. Afterwards, he was in the process of court-martialing them.”

“Insubordination?” Virgil said.

I grinned.

“Desertion,” I said. “In the face of the enemy.”

“Even the Army couldn’t stomach it,” Virgil said.

“That’s right,” I said. “They called it a victory, promoted him to major, cancelled the court-martial process, and gave him an honorable discharge.”

“Three squads,” Virgil said. “Each with a squad leader.”

“Plus Lujack and Swann,” I said. “You know anything ’bout Mr. Swann.”

“Pretty much all I need to,” Virgil said.

“Ever hear of him?” I said.

“Nope,” Virgil said.

“But you know what he is,” I said.

“I do,” Virgil said. “You?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I know what he is.”

“Might be we’re being replaced,” Virgil said.

“Do look kind of suspicious,” I said. “How ’bout Cato and Rose.”

“Days are numbered,” Virgil said. “But Wolfson’ll wait until all the squads arrive. Case we resent it.”

“We gonna resent it?” I said.

“Hell, no,” Virgil said. “Makes it easier to change sides.”

56.

The squads drifted into town over the next few days, set up tents, and dug latrines out back of the hotel. A lot of them appeared to be ex-soldiers. No one was in uniform. But there was a military tone to things, and everyone wore badges that said Lujack Detective.

“Heard about Lujack,” Frank Rose was saying. “Offered me a job once.”

“Think he remembers?” I said.

“Hell no,” Rose said. “I never talked with him. His bitch buddy does most of the early hiring work.”

“Swann?”

“Yep. And Lujack makes the final call.”

“And you didn’t get that far?” I said.

“Did,” Rose said. “But I didn’t like Swann. So I never showed up for Lujack.”

“How’s he work?” Virgil said.

“Pretends he’s still a major,” Rose said. “Runs things like a military unit. Chain of command, all that shit.”

“Ah, yes,” I said. “One of the many reasons I left.”

“Got a lot of bad, mean people working for him,” Rose said. “And he keeps them in line.”

“They good?” Virgil said.

“Yeah,” Rose said. “Lujack don’t hire no virgins. They know what they’re doing and they’re willin’ to do it.”

“Puts them ahead of the collection of gasbags,” I said, “that Wolfson brought in before.”

“The way it works,” Rose said, “you hire Lujack. Lujack hires everybody else.”

“And pays them,” Virgil said.

“Yep. You pay Lujack,” Rose said. “Lujack pays them.”

“So their loyalty is always to Lujack,” I said.

“Yep.”

“Look at the Winchesters,” I said.

“What about them.”

There were three pyramid-shaped clusters of rifles.

“They’ve stacked arms for each squad,” I said.

“One stack per squad,” Rose said.

We all looked at the rifles. We all smiled.

“See that fella there,” Cato said, “with the big yella mustache? And the black handle Colt? Saw him kill three men in Ellsworth. They had words in the street.”

Cato gestured as if shooting.

“Bang, bang, bang,” he said. “One bullet each.”

And made a falling gesture with both hands.

“Hope the words mattered,” Rose said.

“Don’t matter much anymore,” Cato said.

It might have been the most I’d heard him talk since he’d arrived.

“Figure they’ll get through setting up today?” I said.

“Sure,” Rose said. “Hell, they’re almost there now.”

“So you think Wolfson’ll fire us tonight?” I said.

Rose shrugged.

"If he brings them all in for a meetin’,” Virgil said. “You’ll know.”

57.

Wolfson had his meeting. He sat at a back table in the Blackfoot, with Swann on one side of him and Lujack on the other. The three squads stood against the wall on either side of the room.

“Boys,” Wolfson said to the four of us standing in front of the table. “We’re gonna have to make a change.”

None of us spoke.

“You boys done a fine job keepin’ the peace here in Resolution, ” Wolfson said. “But we all knew it was only temporary, and, well, now we got what you might call permanent cadre here, and there just ain’t no need for you fellas.”

“Don’t fuck with it, Wolfson,” Virgil said. “Just fire us.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want you to think of it as getting fired,” Wolfson said. “I like you boys. It’s just that you, ah, served your term, you know?”

Cato Tillson looked slowly around the room, snorted silently to himself, and walked out. Wolfson watched him and didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he refocused on the rest of us.

“I’ve asked Major Lujack to be town marshal,” Wolfson said.

“With nineteen deputies,” Rose said.

“Exactly.”

“I figure you owe me four days’ pay,” Rose said.

“I do,” Wolfson said. “And I’m happy to give all of you what I owe you. And room and board through the end of the week . . . plus a nice bonus for the job you did.”

“When do I get the money?” Rose said.

“Tomorrow. See Hensdale anytime tomorrow,” Wolfson said. “All of you.”

“I will,” Rose said, and headed for the door.

Wolfson looked at Virgil and me.

“You boys been with me the longest,” Wolfson said. “And I want to thank you both special.”

“Amos,” I said, “I’m too old to listen to horseshit. I’ll stop by and see Hensdale.”

“Well, just so there’s no hard feelings,” Wolfson said.

“None,” I said.

“You, Virgil?” Wolfson said.

“No feelings at all,” Virgil said.

Wolfson nodded. There didn’t seem to be anything else to say. But nobody ended it, and Virgil, for whatever reason, didn’t seem quite through yet. I didn’t know what his reason was, but Virgil was never a creature of whim, he was doing something. What he appeared to be doing was looking at Swann. Swann looked back.

Finally, Lujack said, “’Fore you boys go, I’d be interested in your plans.”

“Got no plans,” I said.

Virgil continued looking at Swann, as if Swann was an odd specimen of something.

“You, Cole?” Lujack said.

“None,” Virgil said.

Then I realized what Virgil was doing. He was pretty sure he’d have to go against Swann one day, and he was getting to know him as well as he could in preparation for that.

“Well,” Lujack said. “That’ll be fine for a few days, while you get your affairs in order. But in a week or so, I’ll be asking you all to move on.”

“We’ll keep it in mind,” I said.

Swann continued to meet Virgil’s stare. But it was a waste of his time. Virgil was probably unlike anyone Swann had ever seen. Virgil didn’t care if you met his stare or not. He didn’t care if he intimidated you or not. He was just gathering information.

“You got any plans, Cole?” Lujack said.

Without taking his eyes off Swann, Virgil said, “I’m formulatin’. ”

“And you heard me,” Lujack said, “about not hanging around too long.”

“I did,” Virgil said.

“Hope you’ll keep it in mind,” Lujack said.

“Surely will,” Virgil said.

He continued to look at Swann.

“Would,” Swann said to Virgil, “I was you.”

“One of the things I’m real happy about,” Virgil said, “is you ain’t me.”

They looked at each other for another minute. Then Virgil nodded to himself as if he’d learned something and turned and walked out. I went with him.

58.

Virgil and I were sitting out front of the Excelsior, formulatin’ with Cato and Rose, when the new marshal and his deputies rode out of town in a neat column of twos, heading south. Virgil stood as they went by.

“Think I’ll go along behind them,” he said, “for observatory purposes.”

“Might as well go along,” I said. “Being as how I got no job.”

“None of us got a job,” Rose said. “Me and Cato may as well tag along.”

Twenty horses, riding in a column on a dry dirt road, kicked up enough dust so we had no trouble keeping track. We rode together at an easy pace far enough behind them so’s not to cause a stir.

The trail ran out through the settlements in a series of small, low hills that stepped down to the level ground. As we came to the top of one of them, we could see a homestead below us. There was a lumber wagon, and several men were unloading lumber beside a half-built house frame. Lujack and his men rode on down to the property. The four of us stopped on the top of the small rise and watched.

The two columns peeled left and right as they reached the property. Nine men in either direction, with Lujack and Swann in the center. The horsemen stopped and sat their mounts. Lujack spoke to the men building the house, and one of them stopped work and came forward. He talked with Lujack. As the conversation proceeded, the man got more and more excited, waving his arms, pointing at the half-built house. Finally, the man stopped speaking and folded his arms and stood. Lujack said something to Swann.

With a fluid motion, Swann drew his gun and shot the man. The sound of the shot rolled past us at the top of the hill. You could tell the man was dead by the way he went down. And afterward, the clenched void of silence.

Below us, everyone seemed painted on a backdrop until Lujack spoke to the workmen. They listened. Then Lujack made a hand gesture and the company wheeled and he led them out, once again in a column of twos, raising dust as they came back up the rise, and past us, where we sat on our horses.

No one said anything, and the column passed with no sound but the horses’ hooves on the dusty trail, and the jingle of spurs and bridle trim. Neither Lujack nor Swann paid us any attention.

As the column disappeared over the next rise, the men below gathered around the man whom Swann had shot. After a time they put him in the bed of the near-empty lumber wagon and laid him out as best they could. Then the teamster and another man climbed up and turned the wagon, and the horses plodded up the hill, kicking up some dust of their own, as they trailed the marshal and his deputies back into town.

“Major Lujack don’t appear to take criticism well,” Rose said.

“You want to pull out of here?” I said to Virgil. “And go find Allie?”

“Not yet,” Virgil said.

“You boys got anyplace to go?” I said to Cato and Rose.

“Nope,” Rose said.

“There’s twenty of them,” I said, “and four of us.”

“Not if we pick off a few,” Cato said.

Virgil looked down at the half-built house. The rest of the workers had scattered, and nothing moved. He turned his horse then, and rode slowly after the wagon. The rest of us followed.

“We’ll think on it,” he said.

59.

Virgil decided that it was time to try out the old sorrel mare, see if her gashed leg had healed and she was sound. I went with him because I had nowhere else to go, and we rode easily up the hill north of town and sat the horses in the shade just inside the tree line.

Virgil got off the mare and picked up her foreleg. He looked at it and squeezed it gently and put it down and remounted. The mare cropped a little grass. Virgil patted her neck.

“Good as new,” he said.

“Which ain’t all that good,” I said.

“Nope,” Virgil said, “she ain’t much. But what there is of her is working fine.”

We looked down at the town below us. It wasn’t much, either. They were building a town marshal’s office next to the Blackfoot, on the north side. While we watched, a squad of new deputy marshals rode down Main Street and south out of town.

“You remember,” Virgil said as we watched them ride out, “how we got to be the law in Appaloosa?”

“Them three fellas, owned businesses in town, they hired us,” I said.

“Town council.”

“So they said.”

“Anybody elect them?” Virgil asked.

“Not that I know of,” I said.

The squad of deputies disappeared over the crest of the first hill south of town and reappeared at the crest of the next one.

“We had a set of laws,” Virgil said, “written out clear.”

“And we wrote them,” I said.

Virgil nodded.

“So this collection of vermin,” he said, “is as much the law here as we was in Appaloosa.”

“I guess so,” I said.

The squad went over the next hill, where the road curved, following the creek.

“We done the right thing,” Virgil said, “best we could, in Appaloosa.”

“Yep.”

The deputies were out of sight now.

“These people won’t do the right thing,” Virgil said.

“Not likely,” I said.

“Already done the wrong thing, shooting that sodbuster,” Virgil said.

“I’d say so.”

“And they’re the law.”

“’Fraid so,” I said.

Virgil nodded his head slowly, gazing downhill at the ugly little town.

“Not much of a place,” he said.

“No,” I said.

“Getting worse,” Virgil said. “Mine’s dried up. Lumber company’s out of business, at least for now. Homesteaders been run off the land.”

“Yep.”

“There’s no money to be spent,” Virgil said. “Nobody to borrow from the bank. Nobody to buy feed at the emporium. No beef to broker. Whiskey sales are almost nothing in the saloons.”

“Hard to make a profit,” I said, “by eliminatin’ your customers. ”

“Whole fucking town is going under,” Virgil said.

“Seems so,” I said.

“And Wolfson wants it,” Virgil said.

“Yep.”

“Why?” Virgil said.

“He probably don’t know, either,” I said.

“Don’t seem worth killing folks over.”

“Hell, Virgil,” I said. “You know better’n I do that people kill folks for nothing at all.”

Virgil nodded again.

“They do,” he said.

Then he clucked to the mare and we rode on back down the hill.

60.

We were sitting with Cato and Rose at a table in the Excelsior, where they no longer worked. They didn’t act like they didn’t work there. When Virgil and I came in, Rose went behind the bar and got four glasses and a bottle and brought them out.

“Nice thing,” Rose said, “’bout being out of work, gives you time to sit around and drink whiskey.”

We all sipped the first sip. I could feel it seep happily through me.

“Whaddya do when you’re working, Frank?” Virgil said.

Rose looked at him. He was puzzled.

“Same as you,” he said.

“And what’s that?” Virgil said.

Rose looked at him some more.

“Shootin’,” he said, and grinned, “or threatenin’ to.”

“That bother you?”

Rose looked surprised.

“Shootin’ people?” he said. “No.”

“You, Cato?”

Cato shook his head.

“Everett?”

“Depends on who I’m shootin’,” I said.

“And why,” Cato said.

All three of us looked at him. It was always surprising when Cato spoke.

“Right,” Rose said. “I mean, I ain’t gonna back-shoot nobody, or shoot no women or kids.”

“How ’bout that sodbuster got killed the other day?” Virgil said.

“No,” Rose said. “That was wrong. Me and Cato both think that was wrong.”

Cato nodded.

“You was working for Wolfson still, would you do it?” Virgil said.

Rose thought about it for a minute. He looked at Cato. Then he said, “No, neither one of us.”

Cato nodded briefly.

“Everett?” Virgil said.

I shook my head.

“Probably not.”

Virgil nodded.

We all drank a little more.

“What’s bothering you, Virgil?” Rose said. “You know what we are, what we do. What the hell are all these questions?”

Virgil shook his head and sipped another taste of whiskey.

“So you shoot who you want and not who you don’t want,” Virgil said.

“Yeah,” Rose said.

Cato nodded.

“Because you can,” he said.

“Pretty much,” Rose said.

He looked at me.

“You, Everett?”

“Yeah,” I said.

Virgil stared into his whiskey for a moment, then drank some.

“You think Swann feels that way?” he said.

“Naw,” Rose said.

“So how’s he decide?” Virgil said.

“He don’t,” Rose said. “He’ll shoot anybody he can get away with.”

“He likes it,” Cato said.

“And we don’t?” Virgil said.

Rose shrugged.

“Me and Cato don’t. I mean, we don’t mind. But it’s not a thrill or nothing.”

“So why do it?” Virgil said.

“Because we’re good at it, and it ain’t hard work,” Rose said. “’Cept if you get killed.”

Cato nodded.

“People always gonna kill other people,” Rose said. “Always gonna be fellas like us, that are good at it. And there’ll be fellas like Swann who are good at it, too.”

“So if you’re good with a gun,” Virgil said, “you can shoot people or not.”

“Uh-huh,” Rose said.

“And who decides?”

“Me,” Rose said.

Cato and I both nodded. Virgil stared further at his whiskey.

“Don’t seem the way it oughta be,” Virgil said.

“Don’t,” I said.

“But it is,” Virgil said.

“Ain’t much else,” I said.

61.

Some men behind a stone outcropping drew down on us with Winchesters as Virgil and I rode up to the lumber camp.

“Name’s Virgil Cole,” Virgil said. “Tell Stark me ’n Hitch come to talk with him and Redmond.”

There was some scurrying around through the woods while we sat our horses, and after a time we got to go ride in. It was an odd-looking lumber camp. Tents pitched. Cook fires going. Children scrambling around. Women doing laundry. Stark and Redmond were on the steps of the lumber shack.

“’Fore you get off them horses,” Stark said, “I want to know why you’re here.”

“We was thinking we might give you a hand,” Virgil said.

“With what?”

“Wolfson.”

Stark looked at us for a moment.

“You and Hitch?” he said to Virgil.

“Me ’n Everett,” Virgil said. “Cato and Rose.”

Stark and Redmond were silent for a moment.

Then Stark said, “You four?”

“Yep.”

“Why?” Redmond said.

He was looking hard at Virgil.

“Seems like a good idea,” Virgil said.

“That’s all?” Redmond said.

“Either we climb down and talk about this,” Virgil said, “or we turn around and ride back out. “

“Climb down,” Stark said. “We’ll sit outside. It’s a little close inside.”

We sat on the front steps of the lumber shack.

“Lujack and Swann and their people rode out and killed one of your people,” Virgil said.

“Ty Harrison,” Redmond said. “A fine man.”

“Sure,” Virgil said. “You folks gonna stick it out?”

“We ain’t running,” Redmond said.

“Next sodbuster starts to rebuild, same thing’s going to happen,” I said.

“Next time, we’ll go in force,” Redmond said.

Virgil ignored him. He looked at Stark.

“What do you say, Stark?”

“Lujack and his people,” Stark said. “They’re good.”

“Yes,” Virgil said.

“Good as you?”

“Probably not,” Virgil said. “But there’s a passel of them.”

“You have a plan?” Stark said.

“Not yet,” Virgil said.

“What do you think of Redmond’s plan?” Stark said.

“They’ll get slaughtered,” Virgil said.

Stark nodded his head slowly, and kept nodding as he spoke.

“Yes,” Stark said.

“You think we’re afraid?” Redmond said.

Virgil looked at him and at me. I nodded.

“How many of your people have ever killed anybody?” I said.

“I don’t know,” Redmond said. “But we ain’t backing down.”

“Do you know anybody who ain’t backing down who’s ever killed anybody?” I said.

Redmond frowned at me. Then he shrugged.

“No,” he said.

“Gunfight ain’t like other things,” Virgil said.

“Lujack’s people are professionals,” I said. “You’ll get buried.”

“He ain’t gonna run us off,” Redmond said.

Both fists were clenched in his lap. His face was red.

“Hell he ain’t,” Virgil said.

Redmond stood.

“You calling me a coward?” he said to Virgil.

Virgil looked at him as if he were an odd specimen of insect Virgil hadn’t seen before.

“At the moment,” Virgil said, “I’m calling you a fool.”

“I’ll fight you,” Redmond said. “Goddamn it, I will.”

“Bob,” Stark said, “shut the fuck up.”

“I ain’t scared of him,” Redmond said.

“Should be,” Stark said, in a voice that would have cut through shale. “Now sit fucking down and shut fucking up. These people are trying to help you.”

“We don’t need it,” Redmond said.

But he sat down.

“We could all go down, lumberjacks, us, everybody,” he said. “There’d be like fifty of us.”

“And leave who,” I said, “looking out for the women and children?”

“They wouldn’t . . .” Redmond said.

“’Course they would,” Virgil said.

Redmond started to speak, and stopped and started again and stopped.

“Jesus,” he said finally.

“Finally,” Stark said to him, “do you get it? You know what you’re dealing with?”

Redmond nodded silently.

“You’ll help us,” Stark said to Virgil.

“If you’re going to stay with it,” Virgil said. “If you ain’t, me ’n Everett will ride off down to Texas.”

“You’d run from Wolfson?” Redmond said.

“Got no reason not to,” Virgil said. “’Less you folks are gonna stay and fight.”

“We are,” Redmond said softly. “We got no place else to go.”

“Stark?” Virgil said.

“I’ll be here,” Stark said. “I’m not gonna ask my boys to go up against professional shooters. But there’s enough of us, I think, to keep them out of here.”

“Got enough food?” I said.

“For now,” Stark said. “Shot an elk couple days ago. That’ll help.”

“Wolfson ain’t gonna sell you none,” I said.

“Nope.”

“Any come in on the lumber train?”

Stark smiled without any amusement.

“Somebody blew the tracks of my spur about ten miles west of here,” he said.

“So you can’t sell your lumber, either,” I said.

“Not for now.”

Virgil looked at me.

“Well,” he said. “Seems like we ought to clean this up pretty quick, Everett.”

I nodded.

“What are you going to do?” Redmond said.

“We’ll talk with Cato and Rose,” Virgil said. “And you stay here and hold tight. Don’t get caught out in the open.”

“You four against twenty?” Stark said.

“At first,” Virgil said.

62.

What you suppose Wolfson’s gonna do with all that sodbuster land he’s got?” Rose said while we were eating breakfast in the Excelsior.

“Not much,” I said, “because we ain’t gonna let him keep it.”

“Sure,” Rose said. “But what’s he think he’s gonna do with it.”

“Could run cattle,” I said.

“Not the best range I ever seen,” Rose said.

“Could reparcel it,” I said. “Sell it off to a new crop of homesteaders.”

“That’s what he’ll do,” Virgil said. “Sell the land in house lots. The bank will hold the mortgages, so he’ll still control it. They’ll be new customers for the store and the saloons.”

“So why not keep the sodbusters he’s got now,” Rose said.

“He’s wrung ’em dry,” Cato said.

All three of us looked at him. But he didn’t add anything.

After a time Virgil said, “Cato’s right. They got nothing. They can’t repay a mortgage. They haven’t got any money to spend at the emporium. They probably can’t even rebuild enough to make a profit. But they can keep him from owning the land, and they can keep him from reselling to people who have some money.”

“For him to squeeze out of the new folks,” I said.

“So unless he can run them off, or starve them out, or kill them,” Rose said, “these shitkickers are just in Wolfson’s way.”

“Yep.”

“And they got nothing to bargain with,” Rose said.

“Just us,” I said.

Virgil appeared to be paying no attention to the conversation. He stood up suddenly.

“Think I’ll go talk to Wolfson,” he said, and walked out the front door of the saloon.

“What the fuck is he doing?” Rose said.

“Let’s go see,” I said.

We got up and went after Virgil.

Wolfson was at his table in the Blackfoot, and with him were Lujack and Swann.

“Virgil,” Wolfson said, “I thought you’d be on your way to Texas by now.”

Swann shifted a little in his chair. Virgil walked across the saloon and stopped in front of Wolfson.

“Used to work for you,” Virgil said.

Wolfson nodded his head once.

“We ain’t gonna let you run them settlers off their land,” Virgil said.

No one at the table said anything for a long time. Virgil stood patiently. He was doing what he always did, just going about his business, plowing straight ahead. Nothing bothered him. He never seemed in a hurry, except things always seemed to happen faster for him than other people.

Finally, Wolfson said, “You’re not?”

“Nope,” Virgil said.

“You and them three boys?” Lujack said, nodding at Cato and Rose and me.

“That’s right,” Virgil said. “Wanted to let you know. Give you a chance to negotiate, if you was of a mind to.”

“Negotiate?” Lujack said.

Lujack was slowly discovering what so many people had discovered before him, that Virgil Cole was not like other folks.

“We ain’t negotiating shit,” Wolfson said. “You boys got a brain in your heads, you’ll skedaddle the fuck out of Resolution while we’re still willin’ to let you.”

Virgil nodded and looked at Swann.

“You got anything to say?” he said to him.

Swann looked lazily at Wolfson and Lujack seated with him, and then at me and Cato and Rose, behind Virgil.

“Not right now,” he said.

They looked at each other. Swann didn’t like the odds, and he was right. But he wasn’t afraid of Virgil, which could be a mistake. Though as Virgil always insisted, you didn’t know for certain until it happened.

Virgil nodded slowly.

Then, without speaking again, he turned and walked out of the saloon. Cato and Rose and I followed him.

63.

It’ll be like it was with the Shoshones,” I said. "They may not come, but you can’t plan on it.”

"We’re losing manpower,” Stark said, “every day. Mostly miners are moving on.”

“Mine’s dried up,” Faison said. “Nothin’ to hold ’em.”

“Wolfson know that?” I said.

“They send somebody up every day to look at us,” Stark said. “Coupla riders.”

“Where?” I said.

“Top the ridge over there,” Stark said.

He pointed west.

“Where we’ve cleared the trees,” he said.

“When do they come?”

“Late afternoon.”

“So the sun’s behind them,” Rose said.

“And anybody wanted to pick them off from down here,” I said, “be shooting into it.”

It was the middle of the afternoon. We were at the lumber camp, outside the lumber office, with Stark and Faison and Redmond and several men I didn’t know. Virgil and Cato both looked up at the sun.

“Awful long shot, sun or no sun,” I said.

“Better to be closer,” Virgil said. “And not facing the sun.”

Cato nodded and tapped himself on the chest. Virgil nodded back. Cato stood and walked away from the group and around the corner of the lumber office. Everyone watched him go. No one said anything.

So I said, after a time, “You need to stay careful. Keep your pickets posted on the road, and above the camp, too. Lujack and his posse may not come prancing up the road for you.”

Stark and Faison nodded.

“So that’s it?” Redmond said. “That’s your plan? They’re stealing our land and killing our people, and we sit here and wait for them to starve us out?”

Virgil looked at Redmond.

Since he never showed anything, only somebody who knew Virgil as well as I did would know how close Redmond was coming to the edge of Virgil’s patience.

“That’s what you should do,” I said. “We got other plans.”

“I want to know what they are,” Redmond said. “I got a right. I got a right to know. I got a right to know where Tillson went. What’s he doing? I . . .”

“Redmond,” Virgil said.

His voice was so soft it was barely more than a whisper. But it was clear and hard, and all of us turned toward it. And Redmond stopped talking.

“You need to understand coupla things,” Virgil said. “We got no quarrel with Wolfson. He hired us. He paid us, and when he didn’t need us no more, he paid us off. Nothing wrong with any of that.”

Redmond nodded.

“And we all need to make a living,” Virgil said. “And there ain’t one to be made here.”

Virgil paused and looked around. No one said anything.

“And Everett and I need to get on down to Texas,” Virgil said.

Redmond nodded.

“So we stayin’ here is a big pain in the ass for us, and a big favor for you,” Virgil said. “You got that part of it, Bob?”

Redmond nodded.

“Now, here’s the other thing,” Virgil said. “What we do, me, Everett, Cato, and Rose, what we do is a thing where you kind of feel your way along, extinctual, you might say.”

“Instinctual,” I said.

Virgil nodded approvingly.

“That’s right. So people always askin’ us what we gonna do and how and when, we find that very annoying, especially when we doin’ those people a big, large fucking favor for nothing.”

Nobody said anything.

“You understand that?” Virgil said to Redmond.

“Yeah.”

“Good. Then shut the fuck up and do what we tell you.”

Redmond opened his mouth and couldn’t seem to think of anything to say and shut it and nodded yes.

Virgil looked at him silently for another moment, then looked at me and nodded.

“So you got women and children here,” I said. “And you got a lot of men with Winchesters, and nothing else to do. Put the men around the perimeter.”

“Any advice on exactly where?” Stark said.

“You know the place better than I do,” I said. “Just keep them close enough together so nobody can slide in between ’em. Change the guards often so they don’t get skittish and shoot each other.”

“Even though you don’t think they’ll come,” Stark said.

“Ain’t no reason for them to come,” I said. “But people ain’t always reasonable. And Wolfson’s probably less reasonable than most.”

“There’s the riders,” Rose said.

Squinting into the sun, I could see two horsemen on the top of the treeless hill. One might have had a telescope. As I watched, both of them whirled suddenly and reached for their guns. Before they cleared leather they toppled slowly from their horses, and the sound of two shots rolled down the hill toward us, slowed and softened by the distance.

“That’d be Cato,” Rose said.

64.

Cato Tillson rode down the hill and into camp, hazing two riderless horses ahead of him.

"Figure it’ll confuse ’em a little,” Cato said, “if the horses don’t come back.”

“Spoils of war,” Rose said.

Cato nodded and dismounted.

“You know how to take care of horses?” Virgil said to Redmond.

“’Course,” Redmond said.

“Then take care of these,” Virgil said.

Redmond looked sorta sullen about it, but he took the reins and led both horses off. The rest of the men drifted away. It was like Cato made them uneasy.

“Odds are improvin’,” Virgil said. “You give them a chance.”

“Yep,” Cato said. “Called ’em out.”

“What I hear,” Virgil said, “that ain’t much of a chance.”

“It ain’t,” Cato said.

“Didn’t expect it would be,” Virgil said.

“There was two of ’em,” Rose said.

“Ain’t being critical,” Virgil said, “just thinking about it.”

“What’s to think?” Rose said. “Cato’s maybe the best I ever seen at this. He’s supposed to slow down?”

“Nope.”

“We’re all good at this,” Rose said. “Most fellas go up against any one of us in a fair fight, they ain’t got much of a chance.”

“So the fight ain’t exactly fair anyway,” Virgil said.

“No,” I said. “It ain’t. Never was.”

Virgil nodded and walked a little distance away and looked silently into the woods. Redmond came back to the lumber office.

“How come you didn’t bring them bodies down with you,” Redmond said to Cato.

“Why?” Cato said.

Virgil turned when he heard Redmond.

“Them horses taken care of?” he said.

“Unsaddled ’em myself,” Redmond said. “Fed ’em. Gave ’em water.”

Virgil nodded.

“My older boy’s currying them now,” Redmond said.

Virgil nodded.

“Cato left them bodies up there,” Virgil said, “so that by the time Lujack and his people found them, they’d be a mess.”

“That ain’t Christian,” Redmond said.

“That’s true,” Virgil said. “But a body left out for the sun and the buzzards and such to work on it ain’t a pretty thing to find. Lujack’s posse might find it discouraging when they do.”

“My God,” Redmond said. “You people actually think like that.”

Cato had gone into the office and gotten himself some coffee. He came out in time to hear Redmond’s question, and he smiled faintly to himself and sat on the step and blew on the surface of the coffee, which was still too hot to drink. Virgil looked at me. I nodded and took a big breath and let it out.

“It ain’t how we think,” I said to Redmond. “It’s how we are. You unnerstand? It’s why we can do what we do. You ain’t like that. Most people aren’t. No reason to be. But we are, and what you need right now is people like us.”

Redmond nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “We do.”

65.

It was a bright night, with a nearly full moon, when Cato and Rose, and me and Virgil, rode on down into Resolution. There wasn’t much movement on the streets, but there was a lot of noise from the saloons. We rode in behind the Excelsior and turned into the passage that separated it from the laundry, and stopped. We sat our horses quietly in the shadows of the alley and waited.

“This ain’t gonna work more’n once,” I said.

“Once might be enough,” Virgil said. “Make them come after us.”

“And if it don’t?” I said.

“We need to get them out in the open,” Virgil said. “Can’t fight them in here. Too many, still.”

“So if this doesn’t work,” I said, “we find something else.”

“We do,” Virgil said.

Three men came out of the Excelsior and walked unsteadily down Main Street. They didn’t see us.

“Thing is,” I said, “if Wolfson wins this thing, he loses the town anyway.”

“To?” Rose said.

“Lujack,” I said. “Fella ain’t a shooter hires twenty shooters to work for him, and they’re together long enough, what happens?”

Rose grinned dimly.

“Fella that ain’t a shooter ends up working for the fellas that are,” he said.

“Pretty much what happened with us,” Virgil said. “Why Wolfson hired Lujack. He couldn’t trust us to do what he said, and he couldn’t make us.”

“Not so much fun being Lujack,” Rose said.

“He needs gunmen for what he wants,” I said. “And he ain’t one himself.”

“Like a rabbit hiring coyotes,” Rose said.

Two deputies came out of the hotel across the street.

“Making their rounds,” Virgil murmured.

Frank Rose slid off his horse and handed the reins to Cato.

“Mine,” he said. “Cato’s two ahead of me.”

Virgil nodded.

Rose stepped out into the street and walked behind the deputies. One of the deputies heard him and looked back, and said something to his partner. They both stopped and turned. Rose stopped about forty feet away and stood looking at them. They didn’t recognize him.

“You want something?” the deputy said.

“Kinda curious,” Rose said, “’bout them Colts you’re carrying.”

“Curious?” one of the deputies said.

“If you’re any good with them,” Rose said.

The two deputies moved away from each other, facing Rose.

“Why you wantin’ to know that?” the deputy said.

“’Cause I’m plannin’ on shootin’ you both,” Rose said. “’Less you’re faster than me.”

“You’re what?” the deputy said.

“I was you I’d draw now, ’cause I’m fixin’ to shoot,” Rose said.

Rose drew. The deputies drew. Rose killed them both. One shot each. Then he sprinted back to the alley where we waited, took his reins back from Cato, and stepped up onto his horse. Across the street, several deputies were easing out of the hotel door, guns drawn.

“Sixteen to four,” Rose said as he turned his horse.

“Every little bit helps,” Virgil said.

And we wheeled and rode out of town at a full gallop.

66.

From where we sat, among some rocks at the top of the hill near the lumber camp, we could see the deputies out in force, posted at points around the town. In the late morning a squad of them, plus Lujack and Swann, rode halfway up the hill and, carefully out of rifle range, studied the area, riding in a slow arc in front of us. Lujack had a telescope.

“Got ’em frustrated,” Virgil said.

I nodded. Virgil was leaning against the rocks. He straightened suddenly and turned. His Colt was in his hand. Beth Redmond came up the path behind us. The Colt was back in the holster. I doubt that she ever saw it.

“What are you looking at?” she said when she got to us.

“Our adversities,” Virgil said.

“What?” she said.

“Our adversaries,” I said.

“Oh.”

Virgil nodded

“May I look?” she said.

“Surely,” Virgil said.

Beth peeked over the top of one of the rocks.

“They’re out of range,” I said. “You can just stand up and look, you want to.”

She stood.

“Who is the one with the sort of Army hat on?” she said.

“Lujack,” Virgil said. “One in the Stetson is named Swann. He’s the shooting specialist.”

“What are they doing?” she said.

“Trying to figure out a way to get to us,” Virgil said.

“To kill you?”

“Yep.”

She nodded, watching the riders as they moved slowly east to west, studying our situation.

“Do you think they’ll attack us?” she said.

“Here?” Virgil said.

“Yes.”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Too many men, with too much cover,” Virgil said. “Lujack don’t know the landscape, ’cept from a distance. He don’t know what he’d ride into.”

“So what are they doing?” she said.

“Trying to figure out something, just like us,” Virgil said. “They’ve lost four men so far.”

“Four men?”

“Yep.”

“Cato Tillson shot a couple the other day, up on that hill,” I said. “And Frank Rose killed a couple last night in Resolution. ”

“In Resolution?”

“Yep.”

“That’s so dangerous,” she said. “What was he doing in there.”

“We all went in,” I said, “after dark, thought we might pick off one or two. Rose felt it was his turn.”

“Why?”

“Why was it his turn?” I said.

“No, why did you all go in there.”

“Trying to cut the odds,” Virgil said.

He continued to watch the riders as he spoke.

“And trying to get them to come after us.”

“Why do you want them to come after you?” she said.

“Get them out in the open,” Virgil said. “See what we can do with them.”

“They’re out in the open now,” she said, looking down at the riders.

“Not all of them,” Virgil said.

“And they’re too open,” I said. “We’d have to cross a half-mile of open country to get to them. They are professional gunmen.”

“So you wouldn’t have a chance,” Beth said.

“Not a big one,” I said.

The deputies went out of sight around the curve of the hill.

“What if they sneak in behind you?” Beth said.

“Cato and Rose are up there,” I said. “Other side of that hill. Between us, we can see the whole circle of the compass.”

Beth looked up at the hill and then back down at the now-empty slope in front of us.

“Virgil,” she said.

“’Course,” Virgil said.

He was still watching the empty slope. I started to move away.

“No, stay, Everett,” she said. “You can hear this.”

I nodded and leaned back against the rock.

“My husband thinks you don’t like him,” Beth said to Virgil.

“I don’t,” Virgil said.

“Because of me?”

“Hard to like a man beats his woman,” Virgil said.

“I know. God, don’t I know that.”

Virgil didn’t say anything.

“But . . . Virgil, he’s trying. He’s trying so hard.”

“Trying what?” Virgil said.

I could see Beth take in a big breath.

“He’s trying so hard to be a man,” she said. “He come from nothing, and he was still a boy when we come out here, and the land and the children were enough to break him, and . . . and now it’s all plomped down on him: Indians, gunmen, killing. He’s lost his land, he’s trying to hold the other homesteaders together. . . . He’s trying to hold himself together. . . . It’s too much for him.”

“He been hitting you again?” Virgil said.

“No, Virgil, he hasn’t. I swear to God he hasn’t touched me since I left him before the Indians.”

“What would you like?” Virgil said.

“Don’t treat him like a boy,” she said. “Talk to him like he’s a man.”

Virgil stared at her for a long time without speaking.

“We meant something to each other,” Beth said. “It wasn’t just fucking. I know it wasn’t.”

“That’s true,” Virgil said.

“So please, Virgil, for me,” she said. “Just treat him like a man.”

Virgil nodded slowly.

“All right,” he said.

67.

Virgil and I sat on our horses on the little rise that sloped down to what used to be the Redmond ranch. The burned-out buildings had been cleared, and the property was staked out in house lots that looked a good bit smaller than the original. Beyond where the house had stood was a creek that had cut its way maybe a foot deep into the prairie. A few cottonwoods grew along it.

“Cluster of trees there,” Virgil said. “Provide some cover.”

I nodded.

“Man and a horse, I’d say.”

Virgil nodded, running his eyes over the layout.

“Hill over there, other side, beyond the house that way,” he said.

“That would work, ’less they come that way.”

“No reason they should,” Virgil said.

“Might start getting cautious,” I said. “We’ve picked off four of them so far.”

Virgil shrugged.

“They do, the ball goes up a little sooner.”

“Okay,” I said.

“So,” Virgil said. “We put two over there. One behind the cottonwoods.”

He glanced around the hilltop where we were.

“One of us up here,” he said, “back’a that outcroppin’.”

“And Redmond down there, starting to rebuild,” I said.

“Yep.”

“You think he’ll stay?” I said.

“Claims he will,” Virgil said.

“But do you think so?” I said.

“Wants to be a man,” Virgil said.

I didn’t say anything.

“I ain’t rubbin’ Beth’s nose in it,” Virgil said. “If he can do it, it’ll help us bed this thing down a lot earlier.”

“And if he gets killed in the process?” I said.

“It’s a risk you and me are taking,” Virgil said. “And Cato and Rose, and we got a lot less at stake than he does.”

“I know,” I said.

We turned the horses and headed back toward the lumber camp, swinging wide around town as we went.

“Mrs. Redmond know about this plan?” I said.

“Don’t know,” Virgil said. “I didn’t tell her.”

“He will,” I said.

“Maybe not,” Virgil said. “Maybe scared he won’t be able to carry it off, and don’t want no one to know unless he does pull it off.”

“You may be right,” I said.

The horses were beginning to labor a little as we went uphill. We slowed them to a walk.

“When you want to do this?” I said.

“Tomorrow seems good,” Virgil said.

“We go down early,” I said.

“Three of us,” Virgil said.

“And one of us brings Redmond down,” I said. “Once we’re in place.”

“Be sure he comes,” Virgil said. “I’d like you to do that.”

“Sure,” I said. “And if they see me with him?”

“Just one man,” Virgil said.

He grinned.

“I know how fearsome you be, Everett,” Virgil said. “But them deputies probably don’t.”

“Hope they spot him soon,” I said. “I don’t want to sit out here all day, or all week.”

“We’ll help them,” Virgil said. “Have him build a cook fire, send up some smoke.”

“You still didn’t answer my question,” I said. “Think he can do it?”

Virgil shook his head.

“Don’t know,” he said. “You.”

“Don’t know, either,” I said.

Virgil grinned again.

“And he’s our hole card,” Virgil said.

68.

Virgil left with Cato and Rose before it was light. After sunup I went and collected Redmond. He had already hitched the wagon and loaded it with tools and lumber. He was carrying a Winchester. His face was pinched, and he looked pale. Mrs. Redmond was with him.

“Where are you going with my husband?” she said to me.

“Doing a little business,” I said. “Shouldn’t take long.”

“He won’t tell me where he’s going,” she said.

I nodded. Virgil had gotten that one right.

“Will you?” she said.

“No, ma’am,” I said.

“Bob?” she said.

“Can’t,” he said.

He climbed into the wagon and stored the Winchester under the wagon seat. He looked at his wife, and his children, who were staring at him wordlessly. I saw him swallow. Then he turned his head away and clucked at the mules and the wagon began to roll. I rode along beside it. I had my Colt on my hip, and a Winchester in a saddle scabbard under my left leg. Both weapons were .45s, so I could load both from my belt. I had the eight-gauge in a scabbard under my right leg, and a belt of shotgun shells looped over my saddle horn.

We didn’t talk as we went, in a wide circle around Resolution, and on south downhill toward his land. Redmond was having trouble keeping his throat open. He swallowed often. He drank frequently from his canteen.

The lumber and tools rattled in the wagon bed. The harness creaked. The mules blew occasionally. Otherwise, no sound on the ride until we got to the top of the little hill where he could look down at the lots that had been marked out on the land where his house once stood. We stopped.

“Jesus,” he said.

I nodded. He looked around.

“I don’t see any of the others, Cole, those fellas.”

“You’re not supposed to,” I said. “They’re here.”

“How do you know?” he said.

“They said they’d be here.”

“Well, what if something happened? Can’t they just let us know they’re here?”

“And anyone that might have spotted us and is laying low with a spyglass?” I said.

“Well, could they maybe just whistle or something?”

“No,” I said. “Now, you remember what we told you. Build a cook fire, send up some smoke. Park the wagon near where you’re working. Leave the Winchester in it. If things start to happen, get behind the wagon. Take out the Winchester. Defend yourself.”

He nodded painfully.

“Where you gonna go?” he said.

“I’m goin’ downhill to the west, like I’m headin’ on. Then I’m circlin’ back in behind them cottonwoods along the creek.”

“You really think somebody is watching us?” he said.

“Nope.”

“But you’re acting like they might be.”

“Yep.”

“’Cause you don’t know they’re not.”

“Correct,” I said. “Remember, stay close to the wagon. Trouble starts, get behind it.”

“You scared, Everett,” Redmond said.

“Of what? Dying? Fella asked Virgil Cole that question once, when we was marshalin’ over in Appaloosa. Virgil says to him, ‘You think me and Hitch are in this line of work ’cause we’re scared to die?’”

“So you ain’t?” Redmond said.

“Don’t look forward to it, but no, I ain’t scared enough so it gets in the way,” I said.

“And Cole ain’t scared.”

“Hell, no,” I said. “But, tell the truth, I don’t think it really occurs to him that he might.”

“I got a wife and kids,” Redmond said.

“I know,” I said. “That makes it harder.”

I gestured toward the house lots at the foot of the hill. He slapped the reins and the mules started down.

“Don’t forget to unhitch the mules,” I said. “No reason they should get shot.”

He nodded as he drove down the hill. I turned my horse and rode west like I said I would and when I was out of sight, looped back and came in behind the cottonwoods.

69.

It was probably the smoke from Redmond’s fire that did it, but with the sun just a little west of noon, they came down the south side of one of the hills in the distance. Too far to be sure, but it looked like six of them riding two by two. They disappeared into the valley and came up over the next hill. They were six, a full squad of Lujack’s deputies. Redmond saw them. He stood frozen for a moment, then looked furtively around.

Don’t look, goddamn it.

The riders kept coming down into the next valley, out of sight, then reappearing on the top of our hill. They sat their horses for a moment, looking down at Redmond. The mules were unhitched, grazing toward the creek near my cottonwoods. Redmond stood frozen with a shovel in his hands in front of the wagon.

Get behind the wagon.

Redmond didn’t move. He looked at the rifle under the wagon seat, then back at the riders.

Behind the fucking wagon.

The riders began to walk their horses down the last slope. I looked at the sky. The sun wasn’t an issue. They were coming from the north. I was coming from the west, but the sun was so nearly straight up that it wasn’t a factor. The riders came on. Close enough now so I could hear the sound of the horses’ hooves on the dry surface of the prairie. Nobody had his gun out. These were essentially town men. Nobody was bent out of the saddle reading sign, seeing how many different horses had ridden by here. Probably weren’t good at sign. And they were sure of themselves. They knew how to do this, and Redmond didn’t. They’d probably spent a lifetime scaring clodhoppers.

Behind the goddamned wagon.

And suddenly Redmond moved. He turned and ran around the wagon as if his knees wouldn’t bend. He looked again at the Winchester under the wagon seat. But he didn’t touch it. Probably scared to start trouble.

The riders came to a halt in front of him and ranged out in a single row of six. One of them, probably the squad leader, spoke to Redmond.

“What are you doing?” he said.

Redmond stared at him for a moment. The squad leader was tall and narrow, with sloping shoulders and a big hawkish nose.

“It’s my land,” he finally said.

Redmond’s voice was hoarse.

“You think so,” the squad leader said.

Redmond nodded. The squad leader took a big revolver out of his holster and held it easily by his side.

“What do you think,” the squad leader said, “’bout being buried on it.”

Redmond’s voice was squeaky.

“I don’t . . .” He started and didn’t finish.

He looked at the cottonwoods, where he knew I was.

“Say good-bye to it, pig farmer,” the squad leader said.

On the hill, Virgil Cole’s horse stepped out from behind the rocks with Virgil sitting in the saddle. The horse stopped. Virgil drew and fired in the easy, liquid way he had and shot the squad leader between the shoulder blades. The squad leader pitched forward and draped over his horse’s neck. The gun fell from his hand. The horse seemed disinterested. From behind the next hill down from Redmond, Cato and Rose came, pushing their horses hard, bent low over their horses’ necks. I took out the eight-gauge and pushed my horse out of the trees, through the shallow stream, and came at the squad’s right flank on a gallop. Virgil came somewhat more sedately down his hill and shot at least one more as he came. Redmond yanked the Winchester from under the wagon seat and dropped to the ground behind the wagon. I cut loose with the eight-gauge. It is not easy to shoot from a moving horse. But if you’re going to do it, an eight-gauge is the thing to do it with. The rider nearest me had his gun out and was turning toward me when the pellets hit him, about everywhere, and knocked him backward off his horse. The horse scrambled away from him as he fell, and then stopped and stood.

It was over very quick. Four of the deputies were on the ground by the time all of us reached the wagon. The other two were retreating at a gallop. One of the men on the ground was still moving in spasms. Cato rode over and from his horse shot the deputy in the head.

“Hate to see him suffer,” Cato said.

“You want to ride the other two down?” Rose said.

The two runners were already over the second hill.

“Nope,” Virgil said.

Redmond crawled out from under the wagon.

“I shot one,” he said. “I think I shot one.”

Virgil and I looked at each other.

“What?” Redmond said.

Virgil shook his head.

“Sort of ain’t considered, ah, sportin’,” Frank Rose said to him. “Counting up who shot who.”

“Like counting your money,” I said, “while you’re playing poker.”

“Why not?” Redmond said. “I don’t get it.”

Virgil looked at him briefly.

“No,” Virgil said, “you don’t.”

He turned his horse and began to ride north toward the lumber camp. Redmond stared after him.

“He’s just leavin’?” Redmond said. “Like that?”

Cato and Rose followed Virgil.

“Done what he came to do,” I said. “Hitch them mules up.”

“They’re all leavin’,” Redmond said.

“I rode out here with you,” I said. “I’ll ride back with you.”

“But they musta heard the shooting in Resolution,” Redmond said. “Won’t they be riding out here?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Take ’em a while to figure out it wasn’t them shootin’ you,” I said. “And when they do, they’ll stay where they are.”

“Stay in town?”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

“Odds are shrinking,” I said. “They’ll stay in town, protect themselves and Wolfson.”

“They won’t be coming after us?”

“Nope.”

Redmond was harnessing the mules.

“Jesus Christ,” he said. “It’s like they ain’t chasin’ us. It’s like now we’re chasin’ them.”

“Sorta like that,” I said.

70.

Frank Rose had liberated several bottles of whiskey from the Excelsior Saloon when he left. He and Cato and Virgil and I took one of them to our spot behind the rocks and passed it around.

“Redmond’s down there telling anybody he can get to hold still,” Rose said, “’bout the big battle out on his land.”

“His first time,” Virgil said.

“Think he actually fired that Winchester?” I said.

Nobody knew.

Above us the moon had waned into something a little more than half. There were a lot of stars, and we could see one another easily. I took some whiskey.

“So they’re down there hunkered behind their fucking barricades,” I said. “And we’re up here hunkerin’ behind ours.”

“And running low on food,” Rose said.

“Guess we got to go down and get them,” Virgil said.

Cato nodded and reached for the bottle.

“Think we should,” he said.

He drank, handed the bottle to Virgil, who drank.

“There’s still twelve of ’em by my count,” I said.

“Thirteen,” Rose said, “if Wolfson will fight.”

“Maybe we should keep sniping them off for a while longer, ” I said.

“Nope,” Virgil said. “They ain’t comin’ out. And I wanna go to Texas.”

“So we gotta go in,” I said.

“Yep.”

Nobody said anything. The bottle passed around some more. From the lumber camp we could hear an occasional domestic sound. Cook pot clattering. Children yelling.

“Think Redmond learned anything today?” I said.

“Nope,” Virgil said.

“Think he can ever learn anything?” I said.

“Nope,” Virgil said.

“Think he’ll beat his wife again?”

“Maybe not,” Virgil said.

The bottle came my way again. I took a drink.

“We can speak to him ’bout that ’fore we leave,” I said.

“Yep,” Virgil said.

He drank some whiskey and gave the bottle to Rose.

“There’ll be sentries posted in town,” I said.

“Sure there will,” Virgil said.

“So we can’t creep up on them so easy,” Rose said.

“Nope.”

We were quiet. The moon had moved west a little. The sounds from the lumber camp had died down. We heard an occasional night bird back in the woods, and somewhere below us and west a coyote was howling.

“They’ll come to us,” Virgil said.

Cato nodded.

“Why?” I said. “They sit tight and wait and after a while people will start drifting away. Not enough food, no way to earn a living, boredom, fear, they wait long enough we’ll have nobody to protect, and in time Wolfson will get what he wants without shooting anybody.”

“Two things,” Virgil said. “Wolfson’s stupid. He got no patience. Can’t stand not getting what he wants. And this looks bad for Lujack. He can’t drive off a bunch of sodbusters? ”

“And us,” I said.

“Four men,” Virgil said. “Who’s gonna hire him next time?”

“I wouldn’t,” I said.

“No,” Virgil said. “You wouldn’t. Also, he’s an arrogant sonovabitch.”

“He can’t believe he can beat us,” Rose said.

“Okay,” I said. “I see that. So what do you think they’ll do?”

“Don’t know,” Virgil said. “But they’ll do something. All we got to do is be ready.”

Rose leaned back against the rock. He looked up at the stars and took a pull at the whiskey bottle.

“Ain’t got all that much else to do,” he said.

71.

Three of us were playing cards for not much money behind the rocks. Cato was among the rocks, watching.

"Somebody coming,” he said.

We all stood up and looked. A young woman was riding an old fat gray roan up the open slope toward us. She didn’t look comfortable on the horse.

“Billie,” I said.

“The little whore?” Virgil said.

“Yes.”

Virgil nodded.

“Okay,” he said. “It’s a start. You talk to her, Everett. She trusts you.”

I waited until she was closer, then I walked out around the stone outcropping and a little ways down the slope.

“Billie,” I yelled.

She looked over.

“It’s Everett,” I said. “Ride over here.”

She pulled the horse’s head left, using both hands, and banged her small heels on the horse’s ribs. I smiled. The horse lumbered slowly toward me.

“Nice to see you, Billie,” I said when she arrived. “Every-body treating you good?”

“I’m all right, Everett,” she said. “We miss you.”

“I miss you, too,” I said. “Where’d you get that horse?”

“Mr. Wolfson got it for me.”

“And sent you up to talk with us?” I said.

“He gimme a note,” Billie said.

She reached inside her dress and fumbled out a folded-up piece of paper and handed it to me.

“He says I should wait here for you to gimme an answer,” Billie said.

“Can you hold the horse there okay?” I said.

Billie’s skirts were hiked up to her thighs. Her legs were too short for the stirrups and stuck nearly straight out from the sides of the horse.

“I can ride a horse, Everett,” Billie said.

“I can see that,” I said. “You want to get off and sit, I’ll boost you back up when it’s time to go.”

“I’m just fine right here,” Billie said.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll be back.”

I went around the rocks and sat down and opened the paper and read it aloud.

Virgil Cole,

I would like to meet with you and try to straighten out the trouble between us. Somewhere neutral, under a white flag. You can bring your men and I will bring mine. I’m sure we can work something out. Please tell Billie your answer.

Sincerely yours,

Amos Wolfson

“Lemme see it,” Virgil said.

I handed it to him, and he frowned over it as he read. Rose looked over his shoulder. Cato was still up in the rocks, watching.

“How’s the girl doing out there,” I said to Cato.

“Horse is eatin’ grass,” Cato said.

“She still got the reins?” I said.

“Yep.”

Virgil handed the letter back to me.

“Whaddya think, Virgil?” Rose said.

Virgil shook his head and stood and walked around the rock and leaned on the downslope side of it and looked down at the town. He could see Billie, and Billie saw him. But he gave her no notice.

“What’s he doing?” Rose said.

“He’s thinking,” I said.

"Hell,” Rose said. “I never done enough of that to know it when I see it.”

72.

From his side of the rocks, Virgil yelled to me.

"Come on out here,” he said. “We’ll talk to the girl.”

I went out, and we walked over to Billie.

“Hello, Mr. Cole,” Billie said.

Virgil tipped his hat.

“You take what I tell you back to Wolfson.”

“He tole me you should write it down,” Billie said.

“Ain’t got a pencil,” Virgil said. “I’ll tell you simple. You’ll remember.”

Billie nodded.

“Tomorrow morning. An hour after sunup,” Virgil said. “He brings Lujack and Swann with him. Nobody else. They ride up here, stop out of rifle range. I’ll see them and ride down.”

“That’s all?” Billie said.

“Say it back to me,” Virgil said.

Billie repeated what Virgil had said.

“You’ll remember it just that way,” Virgil said.

“Yessir.”

“Okay, Billie,” Virgil said. “Ride on down and tell him.”

“You’re gonna meet them three by yourself,” she said.

“I am,” Virgil said. “Now go tell him.”

“Yessir,” Billie said.

She dragged the horse’s head around and headed back down the hill. Virgil and I walked back in behind the rocks and sat down.

“You hear the plan?” I said to Cato and Rose.

“We could hear,” Rose said.

“Wanna explain it to me a little?” I said to Virgil.

“I’m gonna kill ’em,” he said.

“All three,” I said.

“Yep.”

“Alone,” I said.

“Yep.”

“Swann’s a pretty fair gun hand,” Rose said.

“So I hear,” Virgil said.

“Why not bring us with you?” I said.

“’Cause they won’t come,” Virgil said. “Or they’ll come with all their troops.”

“True,” I said.

“It’s our chance,” Virgil said, “to get them out in the open.”

“You think they’ll do it?” I said.

“They’ll do it, long as it’s three of them and just me,” Virgil said.

“They’ll have the rest of the outfit out of sight someplace, ” Rose said.

“Probably will,” Virgil said. “But the closest cover is a fair piece. I figure I kill them and head up the hill, I’ll be close enough for you to cover me before the rest can get there.”

“They’ll pull up,” Cato said, “first one we knock down.”

“And once they understand that it’s over, they won’t stick around,” Virgil said.

“No,” I said. “They won’t. They got no stake in this.”

“For crissake,” Rose said. “They won’t even be getting paid anymore.”

“Swann wouldn’t stick around,” Virgil said, “Wolfson and Lujack were dead. But I gotta kill him first so’s he won’t get that chance.”

“You pull this off,” I said, “and we got the town.”

“I don’t,” Virgil said, “and we’re no worse off than we were.”

“’Cept for you bein’ dead,” I said.

“’Cept for that,” Virgil said.

73.

It was a bright, hot day. The sky was very high. And it was very still, with no wind, the stillness made more intense by the hum of insects. I watched the three riders come out of town and head toward the slope in front of us. They were walking their horses. No one was with them. At the foot of the slope they stopped.

“It’s them,” I said to Virgil. “Swann’s on your right. West end of the line.”

Virgil nodded and clucked to his horse and rode out around the stone outcropping, and started at a slow walk down the long slope. Through the glass, I scanned the area. No sign of deputies. If they were around, they were probably behind the higher ground to the east, where I couldn’t see them. As Virgil rode down the slope, Cato and Rose lay in the rocks on either side of me with rifles. I had one, too, propped in the rocks in front of me while I was spy-glassing.

“You know what’s making that sound?” Rose said. “I been hearing it all my life. I never seen the bug that makes it.”

“I dunno,” I said. “Locust, maybe?”

“Cicadas,” Cato said.

Rose and I looked at each other.

“They make it with their hind legs,” I said.

“What I heard,” Rose said. “Rub ’em together.”

“They make it with their belly,” Cato said.

Rose and I nodded.

“See the funny-looking little bush there, where Virgil is now?” I said.

They did.

“I can hit that with a rifle,” I said. “I tried it last night.”

“I heard you,” Cato said.

Must have been the excitement of the moment, for Cato, he was positively babbling.

“Okay,” Rose said. “So if Virgil makes it back to there, he’s in rifle range, and we can cover him.”

It was long enough after sunrise so that there should have been activity in the lumber camp, but I didn’t hear anything there, either. I don’t know if the camp was laying low, holding its breath, or if I was just so locked on what was going on down the hill that I didn’t hear anything. I noticed that the cicada sound no longer registered, either, so it probably had to do with concentrating.

“Virgil beats Swann,” Cato said. “He may pull it off. I don’t know ’bout Lujack, but Wolfson pretty sure ain’t much.”

“Nobody, far as I know, ever beat Virgil,” I said.

“If they had, he wouldn’t be here,” Rose said.

“True,” I said.

“Swann’s still here, too,” Cato said.

“Also true,” I said.

“So we’ll see,” Cato said.

“And pretty quick,” I said.

Virgil reached the foot of the slope and stopped his horse maybe twenty feet in front of the three men. I looked at Swann through the glass. He was perfectly still on his horse, relaxed, looking at Virgil. Virgil had the same stillness in a fight. He had it now.

I put the glass away so I could see the whole scene.

Apparently, Wolfson said something and Virgil answered. Swann’s gaze never wavered from Virgil. Then it seemed as if nobody said anything, as if everything stopped. Then, with no visible hurry, Virgil drew. Swann was good, he had cleared his holster when Virgil shot him and turned quietly and shot Lujack, as Lujack was still fumbling with his holster. Wolfson didn’t draw. Instead, he raised both hands over his head as high as he could reach. Virgil shot him. There was almost a rhythm to it. As if something in Virgil’s head was counting time. Swann. Lujack. Wolfson. Orderly. Graceful. One bullet each. And three men dead.

Then, with the three men on the ground and their riderless horses starting to browse the short grass, Virgil opened the cylinder, took out the three spent shells, inserted three fresh ones, closed the cylinder, holstered his gun, turned his horse, and headed back up the hill at a dead gallop.

“Swann started things, ’stead of Virgil,” Cato said, “he mighta won.”

“But he didn’t,” I said.

74.

The deputies came boiling up over the hill where they figured to be, and rode hard after Virgil. There might have been ten. They were bunched, and at the distance and speed, it was hard to count for sure. When they came to the dead men, they reined in. Some of their horses were a little spooked about the corpses and shied and danced a little. Some didn’t seem to notice that anything had happened. The horses of the dead men had paid very little attention, and were now eating grass a few feet from the bodies. I guess shooting bothered some horses and not others. Horses were hard to figure. Like people.

The deputies gathered, milling around the deceased as they discussed what to do. Nobody got down and checked on the dead men. They’d all seen it enough to recognize death when they saw it.

Virgil was well up the hill now, past the bush that marked rifle range. The deputies still milled. Virgil’s horse pounded up to the rock outcropping and around it. His hooves clattered where some of the ledge was exposed underfoot, and then he was behind the rocks, breathing in big huffs. Virgil slid off him, took a loop around a tree with the reins, and joined us in the rocks.

“Swann was good,” Virgil said.

Below us, the deputy with the big mustache, who had killed three men in Ellsworth, rode a ways up the hill but stopped a long way short of the rifle-range bush.

“Cole,” he shouted.

Virgil climbed down from the rocks and went out in front of them, and stood. I slid forward a little so I could see him.

“You hear me, Cole?” the deputy shouted.

“Yep.”

“We got no stake in this, we’re hired hands. For us, the job’s over.”

Virgil waited.

“You hear that?” the deputy yelled.

“Yep.”

“We’ll be out of here by tomorrow night,” the deputy shouted.

Virgil didn’t say anything for a minute. He looked up at me looking down from the rocks, and he grinned.

Then he turned back to the deputy down the slope and waved his right hand.

“Hasta la vista,” he shouted.

And the deputy turned his horse and headed back down the slope and joined the other deputies. They left the bodies where they had lain, rounded up the riderless horses, and drove them ahead of them as they went back into town. After maybe an hour or so, someone came from town in a buckboard and gathered up the bodies.

75.

We had a pack mule for supplies, and were saying good-bye to Cato and Rose, when Beth Redmond came out of the hotel that used to belong to Wolfson.

“You’re really going,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said.

“I’ll miss you.”

“We’ll miss you, too, ma’am,” I said. “Won’t we, Virgil.”

“We will,” Virgil said.

“You know, the men got together and elected Mr. Stark mayor of Resolution,” she said.

“Yep,” Virgil said.

“He’s going to run the bank and the store and everything that poor Mr. Wolfson, ah, left behind.”

“Stark knows how to run things,” I said.

“Everybody wanted both of you to stay on, too,” she said.

“These boys’ll make a fine pair of marshals,” Virgil said.

Rose grinned at her.

“Like my new badge?” he said.

“You and Mr. Tillson look very nice,” she said.

No one mentioned that the badges were lifted from the dead bodies of Lujack and Swann.

“You have any problems,” Virgil said, “with anybody, you understand? You see Cato or Rose, they’ll straighten it out.”

She nodded.

“Will you be coming back this way anytime?” she said.

“Never know,” Virgil said. “Right now I got to go to Texas.”

She stood in front of him, looking at him for a moment, then she put her arms around him and kissed him hard on the mouth.

“You’re a good man, Virgil Cole,” she said when she was through. “Thank you.”

Virgil grinned at her.

“You’re welcome,” he said, and patted her on the backside, and swung up onto his horse.

She gave me a little hug, too, and a kiss on the cheek, but with less enthusiasm. I hugged her back gently.

“Good-bye, Beth,” I said, and got on the horse.

Virgil looked down at Beth.

“Remember, he gives you any trouble . . .”

“Come see us,” Rose said.

“He’s changed,” Beth said. “But thank you.”

Beth turned and went back into the hotel. Virgil and I looked at Cato and Rose.

“Never got to fight you,” Virgil said.

“Not this time,” Rose said.

“Probably just as well,” Virgil said.

“Probably,” Cato said.

We nodded. They nodded. Then we started the horses and headed south out of Resolution.

Virgil didn’t say anything the whole day. We were in open country when we camped that night. I took a bottle of whiskey out of my saddlebag, and we had some while we made a fire and cooked some sowbelly and beans under the big, dark sky.

“You think he’ll leave her alone?” Virgil said.

“Redmond?” I said. “Probably not.”

“Be all right for a while,” Virgil said. “Then something’ll go wrong and he’ll be under pressure. . . .”

“And he won’t be man enough to handle it,” I said. “So he’ll convince himself it’s her fault and smack her couple times to make himself feel better.”

“He hurts her,” Virgil said, “Cato will kill him.”

“I know,” I said.

“And it’ll break her heart,” he said.

“Yep.”

“But she’ll be better off,” Virgil said.

“She won’t think so for a while,” I said.

Virgil leaned back against his saddle and drank from the bottle and looked up at the infinite scatter of stars.

“She was a nice clean woman,” he said. “Always took a bath ’fore we done anything.”

I didn’t comment. He handed me the bottle. I had some.

“Smart,” he said. “Good lookin’, good hearted. Hard to figure why she’d love a jackass like Redmond.”

I said, “Uh-huh.”

“But she does,” Virgil said.

“Uh-huh.”

Virgil took another turn on the bottle, then he looked at me and grinned.

“She’s such a dope,” he said. “He ran off to Texas with somebody else, she’d go on down there looking for him.”

“Uh-huh,” I said.

I put my hand out for the bottle and Virgil passed it to me.

“And her friend would go with her,” he said.

I drank some whiskey.

“Uh-huh,” I said.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

THE SPENSER NOVELS

Rough Weather

Now and Then

Hundred-Dollar Baby

School Days

Cold Service

Bad Business

Back Story

Widow’s Walk

Potshot

Hugger Mugger

Hush Money

Sudden Mischief

Small Vices

Chance

Thin Air

Walking Shadow

Paper Doll

Double Deuce

Pastime

Stardust

Playmates

Crimson Joy

Pale Kings and Princes

Taming a Sea-Horse

A Catskill Eagle

Valediction

The Widening Gyre

Ceremony

A Savage Place

Early Autumn

Looking for Rachel Wallace

The Judas Goat

Promised Land

Mortal Stakes

God Save the Child

The Godwulf Manuscript

THE JESSE STONE NOVELS

Night and Day

Stranger in Paradise

High Profile

Sea Change

Stone Cold

Death in Paradise

Trouble in Paradise

Night Passage

THE SUNNY RANDALL NOVELS

Spare Change

Blue Screen

Melancholy Baby

Shrink Rap

Perish Twice

Family Honor

ALSO BY ROBERT B. PARKER

Resolution

Appaloosa

Double Play

Gunman’s Rhapsody

All Our Yesterdays

A Year at the Races

(with Joan H. Parker)

Perchance to Dream

Poodle Springs

(with Raymond Chandler)

Love and Glory

Wilderness

Three Weeks in Spring

(with Joan H. Parker)

Training with Weights

(with John R. Marsh)

PUTMAN

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

Publishers Since 1838

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3,

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Copyright © 2009 by Robert B. Parker

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Published simultaneously in Canada

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Parker, Robert B., date.

Brimstone / Robert B. Parker.

p. cm.

eISBN : 978-1-101-05049-1

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party web-sites or their content.

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For Joan: Well worth the pressure

1

IT’S A LONG RIDE SOUTH through New Mexico and Texas, and it seems even longer when you stop in every run-down, aimless little dried-up town, looking for Allie French. By the time we got to Placido, Virgil Cole and I were almost a year out of Resolution.

It was a barren little place, west of Del Rio, near the Rio Grande, which had a railroad station, and one saloon for every man, woman, and child in town. We went into the grandest of them, a place called Los Lobos, and had a beer.

Los Lobos was decorated with wolf hides on the wall and a stuffed wolf behind the bar. Several people looked at Virgil when he came in. He wasn’t special-looking. Sort of tall, wearing a black coat and a white shirt and a Colt with a white bone handle. But there was something about the way he walked and the way the gun seemed so natural. People looked at me sometimes, too, but always after they looked at Virgil.

“Think that wolf might’ve exprised of old age,” Virgil said.

“A long time ago,” I said.

“Exprised ain’t right,” Virgil said. “You went to West Point.”

“Expired,” I said.

“Means died,” Virgil said.

“Uh-huh.”

Virgil believed in self-improvement. He read a lot of books and had a bigger vocabulary than he knew how to use. He sipped his beer.

“Mexican,” he said. “Mexicans know how to make beer.”

“How much money you got?” I said.

“Got a dollar,” Virgil said.

“More than I got,” I said.

Virgil nodded.

“Guess we got to get some,” he said.

I grinned at him.

“We got sort of a limited range of know-how,” I said.

“Least we know it,” Virgil said.

“Lotta saloons, lotta whores,” I said. “Not much else.”

“Railroad station,” Cole said.

“Why?” I said.

“No idea,” I said.

A tall, thin young man in an undershirt stood up from a table near us and walked over to us. He wasn’t heeled that I could see.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said to Virgil. “Boys at my table got a bet. Some say you’re Virgil Cole. Some say you’re not.”

The young man hadn’t shaved lately, but he was too young to have much of a beard. His two front teeth were missing.

“I am,” Virgil said.

The boy looked over his shoulder at the others at his table.

“See that?” he said. “See what I tole you?”

Everyone stared at Virgil.

“Seen you in Ellsworth,” the kid said. “I was ’bout half growed up. Seen you kill two men slick as a whistle.”

“Slick,” Virgil said.

The others at his table were all turned toward us.

“How many men you figure you killed, Mr. Cole?”

“No need to count,” Virgil said.

Most of the room was looking at us now, including the bartender. The boy seemed to have run out of things to say. Virgil was silent.

“Well, uh, it’s been a real pleasure, Mr. Cole, to meet you. Can I shake your hand?”

“No,” Virgil said.

The boy looked startled.

“Virgil don’t shake hands,” I said to the boy. “He don’t see any good coming from letting somebody get hold of him.”

“Oh,” the boy said. “A’course not. I shoulda known.”

Virgil didn’t say anything. The boy backed away sort of awkwardly. When he got to his table, his friends gathered in tight and whispered together.

“No need to be explaining me,” Virgil said to me.

“Hell there ain’t,” I said.

Virgil smiled. The kid at the next table got up and went out without looking at Virgil. A fat Mexican girl in a loose flowered dress came to the table.

“Good time for joo boys?” she said.

“Sit down,” Virgil said.

“Buy drink?” she said.

Virgil shook his head.

“Nope,” he said. “You know a woman named Allison French?”

The woman shook her head.

“Probably calls herself Allie?” Virgil said.

“No.”

“Plays the piano?” Virgil said. “Sings?”

“Don’t know nobody,” the Mexican woman said. “Round the world for a dollar. Joo friend, too.”

Virgil smiled.

“No,” he said. “Thanks.”

“No drink?” she said. “No fuck?”

“Nope,” Virgil said. “Anybody knows Allison French, though, they get a dollar.”

The woman stood up and went back to the other girls in the back of the saloon. She was too fat to flounce, but she was trying.

“Think she gets many dollars?” I said to Virgil.

“Nope.”

“Easy to turn down,” I said.

Virgil shrugged.

“She probably don’t like it, either,” he said. “Just doing what she gotta.”

A group of four men came into Los Lobos and stood at the bar and looked at Virgil. Each of them had a whiskey. Pretty soon two more men drifted in, and then three, until the bar was crowded with men.

“Looks like that kid been spreading the alert,” I said to Virgil.

“ ’Fraid so,” Virgil said.

“All of ’em look like town people,” I said. “Don’t see no cowboys.”

“Nope,” Virgil said.

“I’m feeling a little left out,” I said. “Nobody’s looking at me.”

“That’s ’cause you’re ugly,” Virgil said.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Señorita offered me round the world for a dollar.”

“She included you second,” Virgil said.

“That’s just ’cause I ain’t famous like you,” I said.

“Also true,” Virgil said, and drank the last of his beer.

2

“I GOT ENOUGH CHANGE,” I said, “I can buy two more beers. Save the dollar for a room.”

“Maybe sleep in the livery stable,” Virgil said. “I’ve slept in worse than a hayloft.”

“We been sleeping in worse for most of the last year,” I said.

Virgil nodded. He was looking at the bartender coming toward our table carrying a bottle and three glasses. With him was a short, wiry man. Not thin, exactly, but lean, sort of hard-looking, with a scraggly blond beard.

“You’re Virgil Cole,” the wiry man said as he reached the table.

Virgil nodded.

“Like to buy you a drink, if I can,” the wiry man said.

“Sure can,” I said, real quick, before Virgil could be unfriendly. You never knew with Virgil.

I gestured at an empty chair, and the wiry man sat down. The bartender put three glasses on the table and poured a useful amount of whiskey in each one.

“Name’s Cates,” the wiry man said. “Everybody calls me Cates.”

Virgil nodded and sipped his whiskey.

“Whiskey clears the throat,” Virgil said. “Considerable better than beer.”

“It does,” Cates said. “You boys been traveling?”

Virgil nodded.

“This here’s Everett Hitch,” he said.

“By God,” Cates said. “I heard a you, too.”

“See that,” I said to Virgil.

“You been with Mr. Cole for some time,” Cates said.

“I have,” I said.

Virgil grinned.

“Well,” Cates said. “I’m proud to meet both you boys. Especially you, Mr. Cole.”

“ ’ Specially,” Virgil murmured to me.

“The great Virgil Cole,” Cates said happily, “right here, in my saloon.”

Virgil looked at me without expression.

“With his friend,” Virgil said.

“Of course,” Cates said. “With his friend, Mr. Hitch.”

“Everett,” I said. “And he won’t mind you call him Virgil.”

Virgil nodded. Cates nodded. And we all drank. Cates picked up the bottle and poured us all some more. Cates looked around the room.

“Look at the crowd,” he said. “Got to say you’re a big attraction, Virgil.”

“Like a geek show,” Virgil said.

“No,” Cates said. “God, no. It’s respect. It’s like a hero has come to town.”

Virgil looked at me.

“Hero,” he said.

“That’d be you,” I said.

“Maybe you boys don’t take it serious, but I’m here to tell you that we do.”

“ ‘ We’?” Virgil said.

“Everybody,” Cates said. “I got a proposal for you.”

Virgil didn’t say anything. If Cates minded that, it didn’t show.

“My shotgun lookout works ’bout twelve hours a day,” Cates said. “He needs a break.”

“Any law in town?” Virgil said.

“Never needed none,” Cates said.

Virgil nodded.

“Like to hire you to sit shotgun,” Cates said. “Couple hours a day is all, start of the evenin’.”

“Draw a crowd?” I said.

“Sure would,” Cates said. “The great Virgil Cole? Sitting shotgun in Los Lobos? Good gracious. It would put this whole damned town on the map.”

“And make you some money,” I said.

“Sure would; why I want to do it. But what’s good for me is good for the town, and the other way around as well.”

“How much,” Virgil said.

“Give you a dollar a day,” Cates said.

“Each,” Virgil said.

“You and Everett?” Cates said.

“Uh-huh.”

Cates looked at the bar, which was two deep now with people drinking and watching Virgil. He looked at me and back at Virgil. Then he nodded.

“Done,” he said.

He went into his pocket and took out two silver dollars and put them on the table.

“First day in advance,” he said.

Virgil picked up the coins and gave one to me.

“Don’t know how long I’ll be in town,” he said.

“Long as you’re here, the deal stands,” Cates said.

“I’m looking for a woman,” Virgil said.

Cates grinned and waved his hand toward the back of the saloon.

“Take your pick,” he said.

“Woman named Allison French,” Virgil said.

“Can’t say I know her,” Cates said.

“Sings,” Virgil said. “Plays the piano.”

“In saloons?” Cates said.

“Yep.”

“Lotta saloons in town,” Cates said. “I can ask around.”

“Do,” Cole said.

3

WE TOOK A ROOM in the Grande Palace Hotel, which was not accurately named, and agreed to live on Virgil’s dollar a day and save mine for when we moved on. During Virgil’s shift on lookout, I sat around Los Lobos and observed. During the day we strolled around the ugly little bare-board town and asked about Allie.

“When’s the last time you did a lookout job?” I said to Virgil after the first night.

“Sorta helped you out a year ago up in Resolution,” he said.

“But when did you actually earn money at it?” I said.

“ ’Fore I met you,” Virgil said.

“Close to twenty years,” I said.

“Yep.”

“How’s it feel?” I said.

“People come here to look at me, Virgil Cole, the famous shooter. I feel like I’m in a circus.”

“But . . .” I said.

“Need the money,” he said.

“And we can’t steal it,” I said.

“Can’t do that,” Virgil said.

We were having breakfast in a cook tent that had no name, only a sign outside that said EAT. Virgil put down his coffee cup and looked at me.

“Ain’t gonna talk about this ’cept once,” Virgil said. “I got something I got to do. So I will do whatever I have to do to do it.”

“Lotta do’s in there, Virgil.”

“You know what I’m saying.”

I grinned at him.

“I do,” I said.

“And you’re with me.”

“I am,” I said.

“Because that’s how we are,” Virgil said.

I nodded.

“It is,” I said.

“So I’m gonna sit lookout until we know that Allie ain’t here. Then we gonna move on.”

“I know,” I said.

Virgil picked up his coffee cup and drank some.

“Coffee ain’t very good,” he said.

“Better than no coffee,” I said.

Los Lobos was regularly jammed with Virgil-watchers at the beginning of the evening. On the third night we were there, Cates came in and walked over to my table. I noticed that people made room for him quite carefully as he walked through the crowd. He seemed to be the most pleasant man in the room. But people were careful around him.

“Evenin’, Everett,” he said.

“Cates,” I said.

“Mind if I sit with you?”

“Have a seat,” I said.

Cates sat; the bartender brought him whiskey and two glasses. He poured himself a glass and offered some to me.

I shook my head.

“I’ll drink a little beer,” I said.

“Backing up Cole?” Cates said.

“Something like that.”

“That why you got the shotgun?”

“Didn’t know what else to do with it,” I said. “Leave it someplace and somebody’ll steal it.”

Cates looked at the shotgun for a moment.

“That’s some big load,” he said.

“Eight-gauge,” I said. “Brought it along with me when I left Wells Fargo.”

“Blow a big hole,” Cates said.

“Does,” I said.

“Shotgun messenger?” Cates said.

“Yep.”

“When’d you do that?”

“After I got out of the Army, I did a little of this, a little of that, ’fore I met Virgil.”

“You enlisted?”

“Nope.”

“West Point?” Cates said.

“Yep.”

“I’ll be damned,” Cates said. “You never got along too well with the Army, I’m guessing.”

“Lotta rules,” I said. “How about you. How’d you end up here?”

“Come into a little money, sort of unofficial like,” Cates said. “Bought this place when it was a rattrap. Hundreds of ’em. Got a couple big mean tomcats, fixed it up a little, and things are starting to build.”

“Nothing like a tomcat,” I said.

“Coyotes got one of ’em, but the other one’s still working here,” Cates said.

“Feed him?”

“Nope. He stays nice and fat on his own.”

“Good thing,” I said.

“Self-supporting,” Cates said.

Cates poured himself a little more whiskey and looked at it in the glass. The room was thick with smoke, and noise, and the smell of whiskey.

“You still looking for that girl?” Cates said.

“Yep.”

“Don’t know if it’s the right one, but there’s a girl named Frenchie, works out of a saloon in the river end of town. Used to sing and play the piano some, they tell me. But she was pretty bad, so she mostly now just works on her back, if I can say that to you.”

“You can,” I said. “Won’t do anybody any good to say it to Virgil, though.”

There were some cards being played along the left wall of the saloon, and the whores clustered at the back, foraying out now and then for a prospect, taking him out through a door in the back of the room. They were generally not gone for long.

“No,” Cates said. “I figured it wouldn’t. Why I’m talking to you.”

“What’s the saloon?” I said.

“Barbary Coast Café,” Cates said.

I smiled.

“Do get some names round here,” Cates said. “Don’t we.”

“As grand as it sounds?” I said.

“No,” Cates said.

We both looked at Virgil sitting motionless in the high chair, looking at nothing, seeing everything.

“Don’t use a shotgun,” Cates said.

“Mostly no,” I said.

“Guess he don’t need one,” Cates said.

“Virgil don’t need much,” I said.

4

I LEFT THE EIGHT-GAUGE with the bartender and went out into the darkening street. The dust was nearly ankle-deep on top of the hard-baked dirt beneath it. I walked toward the river. If I hadn’t known where it was, I could have followed the smell of it. Around Los Lobos, among the saloons and bordellos, there were a few commercial enterprises that sold cloth and feed and nails. As I got closer to the river the shops disappeared and there were only saloons and whorehouses. The Barbary Coast Café was the last place on the street. It stood right up against the mudflat that bordered the depleted river. This time of year the Rio wasn’t very grand. In spring the mudflats would be covered with water. But now there was mostly mud, with just enough water running down the center to remind us it was a river.

The Barbary Coast was where it belonged. It was a two-story building made of whatever they had available, some warped lumber that hadn’t cured when they put it up and was now warped and split from the drying process. Some of the roof was tin, some was Mexican tile. Most of the windows had no glass and were covered with something that might have been flour sacks. The front door, which stood open and looked like it wouldn’t close, appeared to have been rendered from a wagon gate.

I went in. It was dark and smelled of coal oil and smoke, full spittoons and sweat, cigar smoke and booze. It wasn’t crowded. There were men lining the bar, which was two planks on a couple of fifty-gallon kegs. There were some cards being played by candlelight at a few unmatched tables around the room. Half the tables were empty. And along the wall past the bar was a small flock of desperate-looking whores. The pickings looked slim. But repulsive. I pulled my hat down over my eyes and went to the bar, squeezed in among the other men, for concealment, and ordered a beer.

“No beer,” the barman said.

“Gimme what you got,” I said.

The barman poured something from a jug into a dirty glass. I sniffed it and put it down.

“Frenchie around?” I said.

“Her?” the barman said.

“Her,” I said.

The barman shrugged.

“Over there with the rest of ’em,” he said. “Pink dress.”

I looked at the whores. It was hard in the dim light, and I almost missed her. The pink dress was dirty. Her hair was ratty. She was a lot thinner than she had been, and the body that had once so proudly pushed at the confines of her dress now seemed shrunken inside her clothes. I studied her over the right shoulder of the fat man next to me. A lot less than she had been, but it was Allie. I watched her for a moment as she scanned the room, looking for prospects. Then I put a dime down beside my drink and moved away from the bar, not looking at Allie. The barman picked up my dime and then carefully poured the undrunk whiskey back into the jug.

I went back into the despondent street feeling tired and tight across my shoulders. So we’d found her. I didn’t want Virgil to see her in this setting. But it wasn’t for me to decide. It was the only setting she was in, and we’d spent a year looking for her. I started back up the street toward Los Lobos. For maybe the first time since I’d known Virgil, I didn’t know what he would do.

5

VIRGIL DIDN’T SAY A WORD from the time I told him we’d found Allie to the moment we stopped outside the rat hole where she worked. I had the eight-gauge with me, simply because I was more comfortable with it than without it, especially when I had no idea of what was going to happen.

Virgil studied the Barbary Coast Café.

“In there,” he said.

“Yes.”

Virgil looked at it some more. Then he nodded once and started forward, and we walked in through the front door. Virgil stopped inside to let his eyes adjust.

“Where is she?” Virgil said.

She was right where she had been. I nodded toward her. Virgil looked at her for a considerable time. Then he nodded again and walked over to her and stood in front of her. She looked up at him, forcing her customer’s smile, started to speak, and stopped. The smile remained in place on her immobilized face. Virgil waited. She stared.

Then she said, “Virgil?”

Virgil nodded.

She said, “Virgil.”

Virgil nodded.

She said, “Oh, sweet Jesus, Virgil, get me out of here.”

“Yes,” he said.

He took her arm and they started toward the door.

“Hey,” the barman said. “Stairs in the back.”

Virgil showed no sign that he’d heard.

“Whores ain’t allowed to leave the premises,” the barman said.

A fat man with a droopy mustache and long, greasy hair came from across the room and stood in the doorway.

“You planning on taking that whore somewhere?” he said.

There was a scar at one corner of his mouth, as if someone had cut him with a knife. He was wearing suspenders and no belt, and he had a Colt stuck in the right-hand pocket of his pants. With fluid economy, Virgil pulled his gun and slammed it against the fat man’s head. The fat man went down. Virgil guided Allie around him and out the front door.

The bartender said, “Hey.”

I looked at him and shook my head. Then, with the eight-gauge leveled at the room, I backed out the front door and started up the street behind Virgil and Allie, keeping an eye over my shoulder at the Barbary Coast Café. Nobody came out.

Off the lobby of the Grande Palace Hotel there was a one-chair barbershop, and in the back of it was a small room, run by two fat old Mexican women, where you could get a bath. Virgil took Allie in there.

“Scrub her,” he said to the two women. “And wash her clothes.”

Allie stood motionless and silent.

“What she wear after?” one of the women said.

“We’ll worry about that,” Virgil said, “when she’s clean.”

6

ALLIE LOOKED LIKE A KID. Her hair was clean and straight. She wore no makeup, and she sat barefoot and cross-legged on the bed, wearing one of my clean shirts, like a dress, with the sleeves rolled.

“I could step out for a while,” I said. “Get me a drink. Let you folks talk.”

Virgil shook his head. So I sat on a chair in the corner of the room and was quiet.

“You run off,” Virgil said to Allie.

“I was ashamed,” she said.

“You sick at all?”

“No, honest to God, Virgil,” she said. “I haven’t got nothing.”

“All this time you been whoring?” Virgil said.

“I know, but I been lucky. I haven’t caught nothing.”

Virgil nodded.

“You been whoring since you left.”

Allie nodded slowly.

“Mostly,” she said. “I had to live, Virgil.”

Virgil nodded.

“You did,” he said.

There was nothing in Virgil’s voice. The single oil lamp next to the bed lit Allie pretty good, but it left most of the room sorta dark. The silence that hung between them seemed heavy.

“I was ashamed,” Allie said. “And after Everett shot Bragg, I was scared.”

“Of what?” Virgil asked.

“You,” she said. “That you’d find out about me. Me, maybe, maybe I was scared of what I was.”

“What were you?” Virgil said.

“I was an awful woman, I wanted everything, and being a woman, alone, out here in this country with no rules . . .”

“I had rules,” Virgil said.

“And I was breaking them, Virgil. Only way I knew to get what I wanted, feel like I wanted to feel, be how I wanted, only way for me was to fuck somebody.”

“Fucked a considerable number of somebodys,” Virgil said.

“Yes,” Allie said.

It was a child’s voice, piping out from the fresh-scrubbed child’s face. Virgil was silent. His face was in shadow. I was nearly invisible sitting away from the light in the corner.

“I shoulda stayed with you, Virgil.”

“Yes,” Virgil said. “You should have.”

“But I was bad, just bad, all I can say. I run off and I tried but I could never find a decent man, never nobody like you, Virgil. And they passed me around and I kept going down, down, and down, and . . .” She stopped talking and took in a deep breath, and let it out very slow. She did it again.

Then she said, “I had to do some awful things, Virgil . . . awful things with awful men.”

Virgil was silent. Allie looked down at her hands folded in her lap.

“Awful,” she said.

Virgil stood suddenly and walked to the window and looked down through the darkness at the ugly street.

“And now?” he said.

“I guess I’m awful,” she said. “I look awful. I feel awful. I ain’t worth no man’s attention. I ain’t worth anything.”

“You changed any?” Virgil said.

“I don’t know,” Allie said. “I’m at the bottom, Virgil. I can’t go down no further.”

“Think you could change?”

“I’d like to. I can’t stand this no more. I’d surely try.”

“What you think we should do?” Virgil said.

He was still looking down into the street.

“I don’t know,” Allie said in a really small voice. “I might just die.”

Virgil didn’t move from the window.

Still looking down into the street, he said, “Sooner or later. Everett, you got a thought?”

“I don’t, Virgil. I don’t believe it’s mine to think about.”

“You believe her?” Virgil said.

“I believe what’s happened to her,” I said.

“Think she can change?” Virgil said.

“Believe she wants to,” I said.

“Think she can?”

“Don’t know, Virgil.”

Virgil turned slowly from the window and looked at me in the near darkness.

“Everett,” Virgil said. “You killed a man for her and me. I want to know where you stand.”

“You know where I stand, Virgil,” I said. “Been with you near twenty years. Plan to be with you as far as we go.”

“Think I should take her back?” Virgil said.

“Don’t recall that she asked you to,” I said.

“You think I should?” Virgil said. “I need to know what you think.”

“We don’t have to leave her here,” I said. “We can take her someplace where she gets a decent chance.”

“But you don’t think I should take her back.”

“She is what she is,” I said. “Been what she is for a long time.”

“And you don’t think she’ll change,” Virgil said.

“Don’t think she’s got anything to change to,” I said.

“You don’t think I should take her back,” Virgil said.

“No,” I said. “I don’t.”

Allie’s breathing was shallow in the silence. She seemed like an injured sparrow, sitting cross-legged on the bed in a shirt much too big for her, staring at her hands.

“No,” Virgil said. His voice sounded hoarse. “I don’t think so, either . . . but I got to do it.”

I stood.

“It’s yours to say,” I told Virgil. “I’m going to bunk in the livery stable tonight.”

Neither Virgil nor Allie said anything. Neither one moved as I left the room and closed the door behind me.

7

WE TOOK ALLIE TO BREAKFAST in the cook tent. With her dress washed and her hair combed, she looked a little better than she had when we dragged her out of the Barbary Coast Café. But she didn’t look good.

“I got to get some new clothes, Virgil,” she said.

“Next town,” Virgil said.

“We leavin’ this one?”

“Yep,” Virgil said. “Can’t make a livin’ here.”

“Virgil,” Allie said, “I don’t even have any underwear.”

“Next town,” Virgil said.

His eyes moved slightly and stopped. Then moved again. I was used to Virgil looking at things. If it was worth mentioning, he’d mention it.

“We need money,” he said.

“Sell the horses?”

“Yes, livery stable will probably buy them. Take what you can get; I don’t want to wait around here.”

“Saddles? bridles?”

“All of it,” Virgil said. “And don’t waste time. Want to catch today’s train.”

Virgil had seen something.

“On my way,” I said.

Man doesn’t sell his horse if he don’t have to. The livery-man knew he had me in a box and got the horses and gear for a lot less than they were worth. Still, it would cover us for a bit. With the money in my pocket, I walked back up past the cook tent. Virgil and Allie weren’t there. I went on to the hotel. When I got there they were packed, my stuff and Virgil’s. Allie didn’t have any. There wasn’t much. Just the clothes would fit in a saddlebag. Virgil didn’t run, so it must have to do with Allie. It was one of the many things I didn’t like about Allie. I was used to Virgil being Virgil. He was always Virgil. But with Allie he was different. I didn’t like different.

We went downstairs and walked to Los Lobos, where Virgil gave notice and shook hands with Cates. Then we went back out to the street and started toward the railroad station. Across the street a group of men watched us come out. And, when we started down the street they walked along with us on the other side. One of them was the fat man with the scar and the long hair that Virgil had buffaloed when we’d taken Allie out of the Barbary Coast Café.

Virgil paid them no mind as we walked.

“I count six,” Virgil said to me softly. “Anything develops, I’ll take the first man. You take the last, and we’ll work our way to the middle.”

I nodded. At this range, with the eight-gauge, I might get two at a time.

“Virgil,” Allie said. “What is it.”

“Nothing to worry about,” Virgil said.

Allie looked for the first time at the men across the street.

“Oh my God, Virgil, it’s Pig.”

“That his name?” Virgil said.

“Don’t let him take me back.”

“Nope,” Virgil said.

“Everett . . .”

“We’re fine, Allie,” I said. “We’re fine.”

Pig was carrying a big old Navy Colt in a gun belt that sagged under his belly. There was dried blood on his shirt. It appeared that he hadn’t changed it since Virgil hit him. The left side of Pig’s face was swollen and dark, with a long scab where Virgil’s front sight had dragged across the cheekbone. The five men with him were all carrying. I thumbed back both hammers on the eight-gauge.

We kept walking our parallel walk. Allie held tight to Virgil’s left arm. At the end of the street was the Barbary Coast Café, and across the street from that the railroad station, and beyond that the river. And nothing else. It was obvious where we were going.

“I need you to let go of my arm now, Allie,” Virgil said.

His voice was quiet. He could have been asking her to pass him the sugar. He was Virgil Cole again. Even with the stakes as high as they would ever get for him, he was now Virgil Cole. It was a relief. At the end of the street we stopped and the six men stopped across from us. The railroad station was on their side. We looked at one another. Pig was at the far left end of the line that now faced us.

“Hey, Whoreman,” Pig shouted. “Whatcha gonna do now?”

“Same deal,” Virgil said to me. “Pig goes first. You start at the right end.”

“Yep.”

“Allie,” Virgil said. “Any shooting, you lie flat down in the street, you unnerstand?”

“Virgil . . .”

“Unnerstand?” Virgil said again.

His voice was still calm, but it had flattened a little.

“Yes,” Allie said in a small voice.

“Okay,” Virgil said, and stepped off the boardwalk and into the street.

Allie moved behind me. She was mumbling softly to herself, and after a moment I realized she was praying. Virgil walked straight across the street toward the six men, and specifically toward Pig.

I knew what he was doing. Never let it be you and them, Virgil always said. Always make it between you and some of them.

“I want my whore back,” Pig said.

Virgil kept walking. Pig hadn’t expected it. He wasn’t quite sure what he should do.

“You think you gonna hit me again when I ain’t ready?” Pig said.

“I’m gonna kill you,” Virgil said.

Virgil didn’t speak very loudly, but all of us heard him, and his voice made Pig flinch back a half step. I brought the eight-gauge up to a kind of parade rest position. The men to Pig’s left moved a little away. Virgil was close now. If Pig was going to make his move he’d need to do it now, before Virgil was on top of him. He knew it, and tried to draw his gun. Virgil shot him before Pig got his hand on the butt. Without any pause Virgil shot the man next to him. I picked off the two at the other end of the line. The remaining two didn’t know whether to shoot at me or Virgil and ended up running away.

Time slows down in a gunfight. Even so, including Virgil’s walk across the street it had lasted less than a minute. Virgil reloaded and went to each of the down men to be sure they were dead. Then he holstered his gun and walked back.

“Train comes at noon,” Virgil said.

And we walked on to the station.

8

WE SAT IN THE BACK of the train, on the left side, Virgil on the aisle. Virgil always sat on the left on the aisle so that his gun hand was unencumbered. Allie sat next to him. I sat across from them, facing the rear. Since people could board from either end, it was nice to watch both doors. The train bumped along. Virgil had his feet up and his hat tipped down. Allie sat erect beside him with her hands folded in her lap, looking out the window at the west Texas countryside. Occasionally, we passed cattle. Otherwise, there was nothing much to see but grassland.

“You ever pray, Everett?” Allie said.

“Not much,” I said.

“Ever think about it?”

“Praying?”

“God,” Allie said.

“Not much,” I said.

“You know, after I run off,” Allie said, “got taken up by a Mexican man, I think. He took me a ways and sold me to couple men who were half Comanche. They kept me awhile and sold me to Pig.”

I nodded. Virgil appeared to be asleep, though I doubted that he was.

“When I was in that place,” Allie said, “I started praying. I prayed that Virgil would come and find me. And you too, Everett.”

Allie didn’t want to hurt my feelings.

“Heard you praying back in the street,” I said.

“I was,” Allie said. “I believe it helped.”

“Didn’t hurt,” I said.

She nodded and went back to looking out the window. Virgil never stirred. The conductor came into our car, and the loud rattle of the train came in with him as he opened the door and passed from the next car to ours. When he came to us I handed him three tickets. He punched them and looked at the eight-gauge leaning against the corner of the seat by the window.

“What the hell’s that thing?” he said.

“Eight-gauge shotgun,” I said.

“You planning on hunting locomotives?” the conductor said.

“Only if one attacks me,” I said.

“Be a fool if it did,” he said, looking at the eight-gauge. “Where you folks headed.”

“Next town, I guess,” I said.

“That’d be Greavy,” he said. “You got business in Greavy.”

“Looking for work,” I said.

The conductor looked at Virgil and at me and at the eight-gauge. From the corner of his eye, he took a quick look at Allie in her pathetic dress and ratty Mexican sandals. But he didn’t look long.

“I guess you’re not cowboys,” he said.

“No,” I said. “We ain’t.”

“Well, good luck with it,” the conductor said.

“How long to Greavy?” I said.

“Maybe another hour or so,” the conductor said.

“Got a place there to buy ladies’ clothes?” I said.

“Sure, up-and-coming little town, Greavy. Got a good general store. Sells most everything.”

“Thanks,” I said.

He gave his cap bill a little tug and headed back down the train.

Nobody said anything for a while. Virgil remained motionless.

Then Allie turned from the window and said, “Thank you for asking about the clothes, Everett.”

I was pretty sure that was for Virgil. I was pretty sure all of her conversation had been for Virgil. She knew he wasn’t sleeping.

“Pleasure,” I said.

9

GREAVY WAS AN IMPROVEMENT over Placido. It was neat. Several of the buildings were painted. There were two restaurants, a bank, a big general store, and a big livery stable. We got Allie some clothes, ate some boiled beef and pinto beans at Chez Barcelona, and strolled on down to the marshal’s office. Allie hung back as we went in, and stood outside near the door. The marshal was a square-built man named Sheehan. He was as tall as Virgil and a little shorter than me. He wasn’t wearing a gun, though a Winchester lay on the desk beside him as we talked.

“Nope, sorry, boys,” he said. “Got six deputies already. More than the town needs except when they bring cattle in. You boys been marshaling before?”

“We have,” Virgil said.

“Whereabouts?” Sheehan said.

“All over,” Virgil said. “Most recent, I guess, we was in Appaloosa.”

“Appaloosa?” Sheehan said. “How recent?”

“Couple years now, ain’t it, Everett?”

“ ’Bout,” I said.

“You ain’t Virgil Cole?” Sheehan said.

“I am,” Virgil said.

“Jesus Christ,” Sheehan said.

“Wasn’t you up in Resolution last year?”

“I was, but I weren’t marshaling,” Virgil said. “This here’s Everett Hitch.”

“Sure thing,” Sheehan said. “I know who you are. You boys are famous.”

“Know any gun work around here?” I said.

“Maybe,” Sheehan said. “I don’t think he’s pressed, but the railroad just expanded service to Brimstone, up north a ways. They’re building new stock pens, more cattle coming in. And Dave Morrissey was saying last time I saw him he might need to add a couple gun hands.”

“Who’s Morrissey?” Virgil said.

“Val Verde County sheriff,” Sheehan said. “Up there filling in right now, ’cause he had a deputy quit on him.”

“Why’d the deputy quit?” Virgil said.

“Got married; wife insisted it was too dangerous.”

“How far up north,” Virgil said.

“ ’Bout two days’ ride,” Sheehan said. “Virgil Cole! By God! What I’m gonna do is I’m gonna wire Dave, tell him you’re coming. Tell him not to hire no one else.”

“ ’Preciate it,” Virgil said.

Allie came into the office almost tiptoeing.

“ ’Scuse me, Marshal,” she said. “I’m Allie French. I’m with these gentlemen, and I just bought some clothes. Do you suppose I could go into one of your cells and change?”

“Cells?”

“Long as you promise not to peek,” she said.

Sheehan looked at Virgil. Virgil nodded faintly.

“Sure thing, ma’am,” Sheehan said. He opened the door to the cell row.

“We got no guests at the moment,” he said. “Use any cell.”

Sheehan looked at us for a moment and decided not to ask anything.

“Whyn’t you boys wait here for the lady,” Sheehan said. “And I’ll go over and send Dave a telegram. Time you get there, he’ll be waiting for you.”

10

WE BOUGHT A BUCKBOARD and a mule for about what we’d sold one of the horses for. And with me driving, and Allie between us on the seat, we set out the next morning for Brimstone. Allie’s new clothes were an improvement. She had a ribbon in her hair. And she was wearing a little makeup. She was still kind of skinny. But she was looking better.

We were quiet. The buckboard was easy enough through the low grasslands, for a buckboard. There’s a reason it’s called a buckboard, and an easy ride ain’t it. The mule plodded along a sort of wagon rut west toward the Paiute River. It was sunny and hot. We could hear the soft coo of doves, and occasionally we kicked up a flutter of them as we rode by. We passed cattle. Mostly shorthorns, but still now and then a longhorn bull.

Virgil was looking at the landscape.

“Wolves,” he said.

The mule must have caught scent of them. He tossed his head and shied and made a short snorting sound. I didn’t see them yet. Then I did, three gray shapes trotting in line, heading east, appearing and disappearing in the high grass.

“Following that cattle herd,” I said.

“Likely,” Virgil said.

“Are you going to shoot them?” Allie said.

“No reason,” Virgil said.

“But the cattle . . .” Allie said.

“Not my cattle,” Virgil said.

“But the poor cows,” Allie said.

“What you think them cows are for, Allie? Wolves eat ’em. People eat ’em. Don’t seem to me make much difference to the cow.”

Allie watched them until they were gone, and the mule settled back into his walk.

“How’d you see them so quick, Virgil,” Allie said.

“Eyesight’s good,” he said.

“But it’s more than that, isn’t it?” Allie said. “You always see everything.”

Virgil didn’t answer. We rode in silence for a while.

Then Allie said, “You know what I’d like to do again?”

Virgil didn’t say anything.

So I said, “What’s that, Allie.”

“I’d like to be Allie again.”

“Be nice,” I said.

“It would,” Allie said.

Virgil was looking at the landscape again.

“Virgil isn’t very talkative,” Allie said. “Is he, Everett.”

“Don’t seem so,” I said.

“Used to be a talker,” Allie said.

I nodded.

“How come you don’t talk to us, Virgil?” Allie said.

“Got nothing to say,” Virgil answered.

“When we were together in Appaloosa,” Allie said, “you used to talk a lot about nothing.”

“Lotta things happened since Appaloosa,” Virgil said.

“You thinking about all those things, Virgil?” Allie said.

“Yep.”

“Wasn’t easy on me, you know?” Allie said.

“I know.”

“You gonna stop thinking about all that, one of these days?” Allie said.

“Might,” Virgil said.

Nobody said anything else. I looked over at Allie once and saw that her lips were moving. Appeared she was praying again. Other than that, we bumped along in silence until we reached the Paiute River, where we made camp and slept under the buckboard.

11

WE HEADED NORTH ALONG the Paiute at sunrise, and by the middle of the afternoon we were in a hotel in Brimstone, Allie and Virgil in one room, me next door.

“Heard you was out of the law business,” Dave Morrissey said when we went to see him.

“Was,” Virgil said.

“What changed your mind?” Morrissey said.

Virgil was silent for a moment.

“Well, some things bothered me,” Virgil said. “But Everett and I talked some, and now they don’t bother me so much.”

I was startled. First time he’d ever admitted that I had any influence on him.

“Anything else?” Morrissey said.

Virgil grinned.

“Need the money,” he said.

Morrissey nodded.

“Ain’t quite commensurate with the risk,” he said. “But only a fool would do it for free.”

“How ’bout you, Hitch?” Morrissey said.

He looked like he might have been a cowboy once, sort of bowlegged and smallish. He had a big drooping mustache, and wore a long duster.

“Well,” I said, “I done law and not law for a long time. Don’t make a lot of difference to me. I’m not too scared, and I’m decent with the eight-gauge.”

“That’s what that thing is,” Morrissey said. “Thought it might be a cannon.”

“Two barrels,” I said.

Morrissey grinned.

“God’s truth,” he said. “I heard about you boys, and when Sheehan telegrammed me I was interested. I’m told you’ll stand, and your word is good.”

“It is,” Virgil said.

“And I hire you, you won’t sell me out for a higher offer.”

“We don’t promise to work for you forever,” Virgil said. “But we won’t work against you, ’less you force it.”

“Fair enough,” Morrissey said. “What I told Sheehan was true, we’re booming. Cattle mostly. Railroad’s expanding, bigger herds coming in. I come down from Del Rio every once in a while, and a Ranger comes by every month or so. But right now there ain’t no permanent law here, and the place is growing like a damn weed.”

“Town grows too fast,” Virgil said, “leaves an empty space; people fight to fill it.”

“You’ve worked a lot of towns,” Morrissey said.

“We have,” Virgil said.

“The situation in this one is a little peculiar,” Morrissey said. “We have a fella named Pike. I don’t even know his first name. Everyone calls him Pike. . . . Hell, maybe Pike is his first name.”

Virgil shrugged.

“Anyway,” Morrissey said, “he showed up here a few years ago with the remains of a gang that the Pinkertons chased into exhaustion.”

“They’ll do that,” I said.

“Sometimes,” Morrissey said. “He had a few of his boys with him and some money they probably stole from a railroad, and they bought a saloon at the north end of town. Never broke no law here. And they run a first-class operation. Booze is good, games are honest, girls are clean. They police themselves. No trouble. We’ve never even had to go up there since they been in town.”

“Model citizens,” I said.

“And then, ’bout a year ago, here come Brother Percival.”

“Percival,” Virgil murmured.

“What he calls himself,” Morrissey said. “Brother Percival.”

“Preacher?” I said.

“Yep,” Morrissey said. “Come to town with a tent show, preaching against sin like he was the first man to discover it. Nobody paid him much attention for a time. But he kept collecting people to his whatever it is, and then he built himself a church, brought in a damned organ from Kansas City. And him and some of the people come with him when he arrived, they decide to make a target of the biggest and best saloon in town.”

“Pike’s,” Virgil said.

“What’s Brother Percival want?” I said.

“Damned if I know. Maybe he is acting on behalf of the Kingdom of Heaven. Maybe he wants to take over Texas.”

“And Pike?” I said.

Morrissey smiled a little.

“He wants to take over Texas,” Morrissey said.

“Potential there for conflict,” Virgil said.

Morrissey nodded.

“You want the job?” he said.

“Sure,” Virgil said.

12

“COMMENSURATE?” Virgil said outside Morrissey’s office.

“Sort of like equal to,” I said.

“Might as well go right at ’em,” Virgil said. “See what we got.”

“Which one first?” I said.

“Start with Pike,” Virgil said.

“More our type,” I said.

“Ain’t so sure we got a type,” Virgil said.

Brimstone was about seven blocks wide and ten blocks long in a green bend of the Paiute River, which made it cooler than this part of Texas usually was. Pike’s Palace was halfway down Arrow Street, on the west corner of Fifth Street, putting it about in the center of the town. All around it, the town was busting out of its skin. Freight and lumber were being hauled through town. Buildings were going up, saloons and eating places were crowded, and there were two general stores, a bowling alley, two millinery shops, and two hotels already and a third one being built. The air was full of sounds: wagons creaking, men swearing, mules, oxen, carpentry, and black- smithing. At the north end of Arrow Street was a big town hall, almost finished. At the south end was a church with an imposing spire. There were boardwalks lining every street, and most of the buildings had roofed out over the boardwalk in front of them, so you could shelter from the sun in good weather and the rain in bad.

The saloon had a corner entrance and heavy oak doors, which were opened back in good weather and let you into a vestibule with swinging doors ornamented by stained-glass windows. Through the swinging doors was the saloon.

Wearing our new deputy stars, we stopped inside the doorway and looked around.

“Pike done himself proud,” Virgil said.

“Did,” I said.

Along the length of one wall, which seemed from inside to run nearly the whole block along Fifth Street, was an elaborate mahogany bar with a black mirrored wall behind it and bottles stacked in decorative pyramids. Along the other wall was a row of gaming tables, and in the open space between were tables and matching chairs. There was an ornate chandelier shedding light on the windowless room, and at the back a set of stairs that led to a second floor. The wide plank floors were polished. The bar top gleamed. The saloon whores were neat. And the glassware appeared clean. Four bartenders worked the bar, which was busy in the late afternoon, and a thin, dark, sharp-faced guy with a shotgun sat in the lookout chair near the far end of it. Virgil walked down the length of the bar to him.

“J.D.,” he said.

The lookout examined Virgil.

Then he said, “Wickenburg.”

“Yep.”

“Virgil Cole,” J.D. said.

“Yep.”

“You posted us out of town,” J.D. said.

“You was with Basgall,” Virgil said.

“Moved on,” J.D. said.

“And Basgall?”

“Got shot by two Texas Rangers in El Paso.”

“You with Pike now?” Virgil said.

“I work here,” J.D. said. “You?”

“Me and Hitch here signed on with the sheriff,” Virgil said.

“Seen the badges,” J.D. said.

“Like to talk with Pike,” Virgil said.

J.D. nodded.

“Spec,” he said to one of the bartenders, “go tell Pike new deputy wants to see him.”

“Name’s Virgil Cole,” Virgil said.

Spec nodded and walked to a door under the back stairs. In a moment he returned, and behind him was a big man with very little hair and a short beard.

“Virgil Cole,” he said, and put his hand out.

Virgil didn’t take it.

“This here’s Everett Hitch,” Virgil said.

Pike didn’t seem to mind not shaking hands.

“Good to meet you, Everett,” he said. “You fellas care for a drink?”

“Beer’d be good,” Virgil said.

Pike nodded at the bartender and led us to an empty table.

“Bartender says you and J.D. know each other,” Pike said.

“Wickenburg,” Virgil said.

The bartender arrived with three mugs of beer and placed them carefully before us.

“Thank you, Spec,” Pike said.

He raised his mug toward us. We drank.

“J.D. is a pretty good gun hand,” Pike said.

“Was,” Virgil said.

“Still is,” Pike said.

“Likely so,” Virgil said. “I just ain’t seen him lately.”

Pike was deceptive. When you first saw him you thought he was fat. But when he moved he seemed light on his feet, and quick. And when you sat with him, up close, and could look at him you realized that he was big and barrel-shaped, but not much of it was fat. I looked around the saloon.

“Done yourself proud here, Mr. Pike,” I said.

“Aw, just Pike. Nobody calls me Mister.”

“Well, you got a nice place here,” I said.

“Yeah, lotta work, but it makes me sorta proud to see how it’s come along,” Pike said.

Virgil was quiet. I knew he was studying Pike.

“Understand you used to run a gang,” I said.

“Yep, gotta say I did,” Pike said. “Done some pretty illegal things for a while until the damn Pinkertons wore me out. Had all that railroad money behind them . . .” He shook his head.

“So you came here,” I said.

“Yep, ain’t broke a law in Texas,” he said. “Had some money saved, brought a few of my boys, bought a damned shack of a place with no name, and we went to work.”

“J.D. one of the boys you brought?” Virgil said.

“Yep, J.D. is a good man, and I believe in loyalty.”

Virgil nodded.

“Other lookout, Kirby Harris, was with me, too.”

Pike nodded toward the bartender who’d brought us the beer.

“Spec,” he said. “Few other boys.”

“Whadda they do?” Virgil said.

“They help me with some of my other interests,” Pike said. “I’m expanding.”

“What else you do?” Virgil said.

“Oh, this and that,” Pike said. “Lemme get you boys another beer.”

He gestured at Spec. I noticed he’d drunk only a little of his.

Virgil didn’t push his question.

“Any trouble in town?” Virgil said.

“Why do you ask?” Pike said.

“Just trying to get the lay of the land,” Virgil said. “Who’s that German guy you studied at West Point?”

“Clausewitz,” I said.

“Yeah,” Virgil said, “him.”

He looked at Pike.

“Fella says you need to be prepared for what can happen, you know, not for what might.”

Pike nodded.

“You went to West Point, Mr. Hitch?”

“Everett,” I said. “And Virgil won’t mind if you call him Virgil.”

Pike smiled and nodded.

“You go to the Academy, Everett?”

“I did.”

“When?”

I told him.

“Why we didn’t meet,” Pike said. “I was there a little earlier.”

“You in the Army?” I said.

“Yep. Soldiered for ten years. Out here mostly,” Pike said.

“Indian wars?” I said.

Pike nodded.

“Southern Cheyenne. Apache, Kiowa, Comanche. Comanches were a bitch.”

“Still are,” I said.

“Got to be a captain,” Pike said. “But . . .”

He shook his head.

“Rules got to be too much,” he said.

“Yep,” I said.

“You too?” Pike said.

I nodded.

“Yep.”

“How you get along with Brother Percival?” Virgil said.

Pike looked as if he’d been brought back from a reverie.

“Brother Percival,” he said, and shook his head. “Brother Percival.”

“Understand he’s opposed to sin,” Virgil said.

“Appears so,” Pike said. “Which can be identified by seeing if people enjoy it.”

“And if they do?” Virgil said.

“It’s sin,” Pike said.

“You seem to be selling a lot of it here,” Virgil said.

“Much as I can,” Pike said.

“He bother you?” Virgil said.

“So far a lotta blah, blah,” Pike said.

“You think there might be more?” Virgil said.

There was no meaning in his voice, just aimless talk. Except, if you knew Virgil, you knew there was nothing aimless about him.

“He’s got a lot of hard-looking deacons,” Pike said.

“What do you think that means?” Virgil said.

“Might just mean he needs a lot of people to make the collections,” Pike said.

“Or?” Virgil said.

“Virgil,” Pike said. “I gotta tell you, I don’t know. I don’t understand Brother Percival. I don’t know if he’s a God-fearing Christian, or a lunatic, or a rogue. He might be running a church or a flimflam. His deacons may be prayerful or they may be troops. What I know is I don’t like him.”

“And you have a few troops of your own,” Virgil said.

Pike smiled.

“Some,” he said.

“Left over from the old days.”

“Some.”

“Doing this and that,” Virgil said.

“Exactly,” Pike said.

“So you’re prepared.”

“Me and Mr. Clausewitz,” Pike said.

He grinned at both of us.

“Plus,” he said, “I know you boys’ll protect me.”

“Sure thing,” Virgil said.

13

WE ATE DINNER at the hotel with Allie, and then the three of us sat outside on the front porch of the hotel and watched the evening action on Arrow Street. Virgil and Allie sat on a bench. I had my own chair. A lot of towns Virgil and I had worked were whores and drunks, teamsters and drovers and thugs. Brimstone was an actual town. Women walked along the street, some with children. Men who might work in banks strolled along with them. In the street among the horses and wagons were neat carriages, one- and two-horse rigs, with leather seats and canvas canopies to keep the rain off.

“I found a house for rent,” Allie said. “Other end of Seventh Street. They’re building a whole row of them.”

Virgil nodded.

“Got a kitchen, got a front room, bedroom, got a room for Everett,” Allie said. “Be cheaper than the hotel, and Everett could chip in.”

“Sounds fine, Allie,” Virgil said.

“I can cook for both of you. I can wash and iron your clothes, and clean up. Make you breakfast in the morning.”

“That’d be nice, Allie,” Virgil said.

“Can we do it?” Allie said. “I’ll take care of everything.”

“Sure,” Virgil said.

“Oh, Virgil,” Allie said, putting her arms around Virgil and pressing her face into his neck. Virgil didn’t move.

Allie straightened up and patted her hair.

“We’ll move in tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll do it. You want me to move your stuff, Everett.”

“Ain’t much to move,” I said. “I’ll take care of it when you tell me.”

“Oh, this is grand,” Allie said. “This will be grand.”

Virgil nodded. The sun was down, the street was darkening, and the air was warm and still. There were no streetlamps yet, but a lot of the merchants hung lanterns outside their doorways, and the soft light made Arrow Street look serene as the night came down.

Allie was looking at the lights.

“I’m going to make it up to you, Virgil. To both of you,” Allie said. “You too, Everett. I’ve been awful to both of you.”

She was including me to be polite, and I knew it.

“I want to change,” she said. “I don’t want to be that woman, that Allie, anymore. I want to be a good woman, take care of a man, sing in the church, keep a proper house.”

Neither Virgil nor I spoke. Allie was staring at the lights, in some sort of dream, and I wasn’t even sure she was talking to Virgil.

“I was in the bottom of the pit in Placido,” she said. “The bottom, no way to go down deeper. I was gonna die there.”

She looked at Virgil.

“And then you came, and you brought me out.”

“Everett and me,” Virgil said.

“Yes, Everett, too. And it was like you were from heaven come to save me, and you did; after all I done to drive you away, you found me and you saved me.”

“I ain’t one for giving up on things,” Virgil said.

“And you bore me away and brought me here,” Allie said.

“On a buckboard,” Virgil said.

“Oh, don’t tease me,” Allie said. “This is too much. . . . I got too much feeling. I’m gonna change, Virgil, I swear to God, I swear. . . . I’m changing now, I can feel it going on.”

“Good,” Virgil said. “You was looking a bit peaked when I found you.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about, Virgil.”

“I know it ain’t, Allie,” Virgil said.

They were both quiet. I was, too. I had my own views on Allie’s potential for change, but sharing them didn’t seem like a useful thing. So I stayed quiet.

“You ain’t touched me since you found me in Placido,” Allie said.

I concentrated hard on watching the people moving through the lantern light. I wasn’t sure Allie even remembered I was there. But whether she did or not, this wasn’t a conversation I wanted to join.

“Things take time,” Virgil said.

“Like finding me,” Allie said.

“Took a lotta time,” Virgil said.

“But you’re not one for giving up on things,” Allie said.

“I am not,” Virgil said.

“So maybe you’ll find me again,” Allie said.

“Expect I will,” Virgil said.

14

THE WHITE CLAPBOARD BUILDING looked like a Congregational church in some town in Vermont. Except it was at the south end of Arrow Street in Brimstone, beside the Paiute River, in the middle of the Texas prairie. A sign over the door read The Church of the Brotherhood. Brother Percival was giving his morning service when Virgil and I came in. We took off our hats and stood at the rear of the church while Brother Percival told us in unpleasant detail what hell was like and how easy it was to get there.

He was a big, strapping man, with blond hair to his shoulders. His eyes were big and the sort of hard bright blue you see in Navajo jewelry. He was dressed in a white robe and sandals. His voice was deep and reached without apparent effort to every corner of the big church.

“There is a long and slippery slope,” he said, “that all of us live on. It is called this world, and there are no handholds. And all those who live only in this world begin slowly to slide, slowly, slowly, to slide toward the pit.”

There was no religious ornamentation in the church. Merely a big crucifix on the wall behind Brother Percival, and a polished mahogany altar rail in front of him. As he preached he walked back and forth behind the rail.

“And the closer to the pit we get, the faster we slide, and we reach out, and we try to stop but there is nothing to stop us, this downsloping world has nothing to hang on to and we slide faster and faster, weighted down by all the things of this world, surely and ever more surely toward the pit.”

The interior of the church was painted white. The windows on either side of the church were the same pale glinting blue as the preacher’s eyes. Above us where we stood, in the back of the church, was a balcony. I couldn’t see from where I stood, but I assumed the Kansas City organ was up there.

“God alone is our handhold, and his kingdom is not of this world. We grasp frantically, trying to hang on to the things of this world, all the while turning our backs to our only hope for rescue, for salvation, for escaping the raging inferno of the eternal pit.”

The church was nearly full, men and women, maybe more women. Along the walls stood hatless men in black suits and white shirts.

“The main business of this community is whores and whiskey and gambling with cards. It is a community run by people who trade on human weakness, on lust, and thirst, and greed. It is a community of the godless.”

The audience was entirely still, motionless in their church pews, listening to the word of the Lord. The men along both walls nodded their heads silently. The morning sun shining through the pale blue windows gave a blue tone to everything.

“But we are not godless,” Brother Percival roared. “We are the godly, and we are growing, and as we grow, a new and ever more muscular love of righteousness will grow with us and spread through this community and drive out the pustulating corruption, and the Lord God Almighty will prevail here as He must everywhere, and we will prevail here in His name.”

Brother Percival was sweating. His face was shiny with sweat. His muscular neck was glistening with sweat, and as he turned in his pacing behind the altar rail, the sweat was darkening the back of his white robe between his shoulder blades.

“We will prevail,” he said softly.

He stood erect and spread his arms.

“We will prevail,” he said louder.

“In God’s name, and with his strength”—he was bellowing now—“we . . . will . . . prevail.”

Then he stopped and stood for a moment with his arms spread wide and his face raised to the ceiling. The room was dead still. Then he dropped his arms and buried his face in his hands and stood exhausted. Then the room erupted. Men and women were clapping. Many were screaming, “We will, we will.” Most rose to their feet. The clapping was sustained, and as it and the screaming went on, the men in the dark suits began to move down each of the aisles, passing collection baskets.

Virgil and I stayed where we were while the tempest and the collection ran their course, during which time Brother Percival stood motionless in the front of the church with his face in his hands.

I looked at Virgil.

“Fella knows an awful lot about hell,” I said.

Virgil nodded and smiled at me.

“So do we,” he said.

15

WHEN THE COLLECTION WAS TAKEN and the money stored, and the baskets put away, and the last of the churchgoers had left the church, the deacons went back to their positions along the walls. Only then did Brother Percival raise his face. He seemed to have collected himself during the interlude. He saw Virgil and me standing in the back and opened the altar-rail gate and walked down the center aisle of the church toward us. Up close, he was impressive. Bigger than I was, and muscular. He looked at us calmly for a moment.

Virgil introduced himself and me.

“New deputies,” Percival said.

“We are,” Virgil said.

“Here on the Lord’s business?” Percival said.

“Sort of all the Lord’s business, ain’t it?” Virgil said.

“Suppose it is,” Percival said. “But some of it is Satan’s business, too.”

“Well, we’re all opposed to that,” Virgil said.

“I hope so,” Percival said.

Virgil surveyed the church.

“Heard you had an organ,” he said.

“In the choir loft,” Percival said. “The Lord has yet to send us someone to play it.”

Virgil nodded.

“I’m sure,” Virgil said, “that he’ll send someone soon.”

“As am I,” Percival said.

There was a quality of ironic artificiality in his bearing that was hard to figure. It was like we all knew he was a fraud and it amused him to pretend he wasn’t. . . . Or maybe he wasn’t a fraud.

“Lotta deacons,” Virgil said.

“We are not lambs,” Percival said. “Ours is a leonine Christianity.”

Virgil looked at me.

“Leonine,” he said, as if he were tasting the word.

“Like a lion,” I said.

Virgil nodded.

“Leonine,” he said again. “I like it.”

He looked at the deacons some more, then he walked to the line up along the right-hand wall and stopped in front of the first deacon, and looked at him closely.

“Choctaw,” Virgil said. “Choctaw Brown.”

The deacon looked at him impassively.

“Lemme think,” Virgil said.

Nobody moved. The deacon remained impassive. He was about Virgil’s size, and flat-faced.

“Lambert, New Mexico,” Virgil said. “You was with Char-lie Dyer’s bunch.”

“You must have Deacon Brown confused,” Percival said,

“with someone else.”

“Pretty good gun hand,” Virgil said, “as I recall.”

“As I say, Brother Cole,” Percival said, “you must have Deacon Brown confused with another.”

Virgil nodded and walked back to Percival.

“So,” Virgil said. “Your lee-o-nine business causing any trouble for you with folks in town?”

“None that we cannot handle,” Percival said. “We are doing God’s work.”

Virgil smiled.

“I’m sure He’s pleased about that,” Virgil said.

“God exists in each of us,” Percival said.

“Sure,” Virgil said. “How you get along with the folks at Pike’s Palace.”

“Pike’s is a stew of corruption,” Percival said.

“Got a plan for that?” Virgil said.

“We are guided by the Lord,” Percival said.

“Damn,” Virgil said. “Makes me kind of envious, seeing as how me and Everett are mostly on our own.”

“You are both welcome at services,” Percival said.

“Thank you,” Virgil said.

“Ours is a militant Christianity,” Percival said.

“Me and Everett are kinda militant ourselves,” Virgil said.

“But despite our militancy,” Percival said, “we are brothers to every Christian person.”

Virgil looked at me.

“We like that, Everett?” he said.

“Not always,” I said.

And we left.

16

WE WALKED BACK to the sheriff’s office past the railroad station. Six new cattle pens were nearly finished, and there was enough lumber stacked to suggest that there’d be more.

“Be a lot of drovers,” I said. “All loose and looking for trouble.”

Virgil grinned at me.

“Wait’ll they get a look at us,” he said.

I nodded.

“Wait’ll,” I said.

Morrissey had gone back to Del Rio. And the sheriff’s office was ours. There was a cell block behind the office, with four cells, none of them at the moment occupied. There was a desk, at which Virgil sat, and a couple of straight chairs, and an odd-looking bow-backed couch with some faded red pillows on it against the left wall. I sat on the couch.

“Choctaw Brown,” I said.

“Yep,” Virgil said. “Quick, likes shooting. I killed his partner back in Lambert, a long time ago. ’Fore I met you.”

“J.D.,” I said.

“J.D. Sisko,” Virgil said. “He can shoot.”

“So they both got one,” I said.

“One?” Virgil said. “They both got about twenty, way I see it.”

“You don’t think the deacons are godly?” I said.

“ ’Bout as godly as you,” Virgil said.

“How you know I ain’t godly,” I said.

“Are you?”

“No,” I said.

“That’s how I know,” Virgil said. “I happen to know one of the shooters on each side. I’m betting they ain’t the only ones.”

“Probably not,” I said.

Allie came into the office carrying an iron pot of something. She looked well-scrubbed and neat. There was some color in her cheeks now, and she seemed to have put on a few pounds.

“Brought you boys some lunch,” Allie said. “Just made it this morning.”

She put the pot on the desk, went to a cupboard on the right wall, took out a couple of tin plates and two spoons, and set them out beside the pot on Virgil’s desk.

“Can’t stay and eat with you,” she said. “I got some errands to run. I’ll come back in a while, though, and clean up.”

“Thank you,” Virgil said.

“That’s very kind of you, Allie,” I said. “No need to come back, though. We can clean up.”

“No,” she said. “Won’t hear of it. You got your job and I got mine. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

She smiled, blew us both a kiss, and went.

Virgil and I sampled the stew. It was bad. Virgil made a face as he swallowed.

“Jesus,” he said.

I tried a small sample.

“I see what you mean,” I said.

“You want any more?” he said.

“No,” I said.

Virgil picked up the pot and went to the door and looked out. Allie was not in sight. He went out and around to the back of the cell block and dumped the stew, and came back in with the empty pot.

“You gonna tell her we ate it all?” I said.

“Sure,” Virgil said.

“Won’t that encourage her to make more?” I said.

“I suppose,” Virgil said. “But at least we’ll know what to expect.”

I nodded.

“Otherwise, she might try something else,” I said.

“She ain’t gonna quit,” Virgil said.

“At least she’s trying,” I said.

“Might be better if she weren’t,” Virgil said. “She’s been washing and ironing my shirts. Now half of them got a burn mark, where she gets the iron too hot or leaves it in the same place too long.”

“She’ll learn,” I said.

“Maybe. Maybe I don’t even want her to. Maybe I liked her better when she was singing in saloons.”

“Except when you didn’t,” I said.

“Don’t need to be delicate with me, Everett,” Virgil said. “I didn’t like it when she was fucking the patrons.”

“Most folks wouldn’t,” I said.

“Why you suppose she was like that?” Virgil said.

I shook my head.

“Don’t know,” I said. “I’d guess she was scared. Been on her own most of her life, and the only way she had to . . . you know . . . get anything . . . get anyone to do anything was to pull up her skirt.”

“I suppose,” Virgil said. “But when she was with me?”

I shrugged.

“She was with you,” I said.

“And when I wasn’t around?” Virgil said.

“She was with somebody else. Somebody to take care of her.”

“Like Ring Shelton,” he said.

“Like Ring,” I said.

“Would you stay with her?” Virgil said.

“No,” I said. “Probably wouldn’t.”

“I ain’t touched her since I got her back,” Virgil said.

“Not ready?” I said.

“Not yet,” he said.

“Why do you hang on to her?” I said.

“Don’t know,” Virgil said.

“Never seen you,” I said, “not know what you needed to know.”

“Except Allie,” he said.

“Must be scaring hell out of her,” I said. “Not having any sex with you.”

“She got hold of a Bible someplace,” Virgil said. “Been reading it a lot.”

“Anything that keeps her from cooking,” I said.

Virgil nodded.

“Lemme ask you something about the Bible,” he said.

“Don’t know much about the Bible,” I said. “Never got much past the ‘begets’ stuff.”

Virgil nodded.

“Adam and Eve were the first humans, right?” he said.

“I guess.”

“And they had two sons, Cain and Abel, right?”

“I guess,” I said again.

“And all the rest of us descended from them.”

“Far as I know,” I said.

“So who’d Cain and Abel mate with?”

“Check with Allie on that,” I said.

Virgil grinned.

“Or Br’er Percival,” he said.

“Even better,” I said. “Want to go get something to eat ’fore Allie comes back and catches us?”

“Be fools not to,” Virgil said.

17

A SHORT, THICK MAN with a big hat and a two-day growth of beard came into the sheriff’s office.

“Which of you boys is the sheriff,” he said.

“Both deputies,” Virgil said. “Sheriff’s in Del Rio.”

“Name’s Lester,” he said. “Abe Lester. I’m trail boss for an outfit with quite some number of cows milling around at the moment about a day outside of town.”

Virgil nodded.

“Virgil Cole,” he said. “This here’s Everett Hitch.”

“Pleased,” Lester said. “We’ll bring ’em in tomorrow, and I just wanted to give you boys a little notice.”

“How many cows?” Virgil said.

“ ’Bout four thousand,” Lester said. “Won’t know exact till we tally.”

“How many drovers?”

“Forty-eight,” Lester said. “Plus one wrangler, the cook, and me.”

“Can you control ’em?” Virgil said.

Lester smiled.

“Cattle? Sure,” Lester said.

“How ’bout the cowboys?” Virgil said.

“They’ll drive the cattle into town tomorrow and herd ’em into the pens,” Lester said. “That’s what they signed on for. When they’re done I pay ’em off.”

“You control them until you pay ’em?”

“Always have,” Lester said.

“And after?”

“Ain’t mine anymore,” Lester said.

“Guess they get to be mine,” Virgil said. “And Everett’s.”

“I’d say so,” Lester said.

“Why they pay us,” Virgil said.

“You the same Virgil Cole was in Abilene a while back?” Lester said.

“I was in Abilene.”

“So I guess you know how,” Lester said.

“We do,” Virgil said.

Lester looked at me and nodded.

“One other thing, I guess you should know,” Lester said. “Two, two and a half days ago, we run into a few Indians.”

“Comanche?”

“Probably,” Lester said. “They slaughtered a couple of cows.”

“You see ’em?”

“Nope.”

“How you know it was Indians.”

“One of the drovers is a breed,” Lester said. “Can read sign. Says the horses weren’t shod. Actually, said it might be only one horse.”

Virgil nodded.

“So it might be only one Indian,” he said.

“Maybe. Either way. Somebody left an arrow stuck into one of the dead steers,” Lester said. “Like some kind of sign.”

“Your breed know what?” Virgil said.

“Garr don’t know. Says it looks like a Comanche arrow, but he don’t know why it’s there.”

“Didn’t kill the steer with it?” Virgil said.

“Nope. Shot the steer with a rifle.”

“Everett?” Virgil said.

“Sounds like somebody wanted you to know something,” I said.

“Sign?” Virgil said.

“I was here,” I said.

“Why would somebody want us to know?” Virgil said.

“Don’t know,” I said. “Fella who left it wouldn’ta known you had a tracker. Maybe he wanted you to know it was Comanche that slaughtered your cows.”

“You go after them?” Virgil said.

“Nope, let ’em have the beef. Figured it would keep them from bothering us anymore.”

“And it did?”

Lester nodded.

“Guess so,” Lester said. “There wasn’t many of ’em, Garr says.”

“And there’s fifty-one of you,” Virgil said.

“Yep, all with Winchesters.”

“That mighta kept them from bothering you,” Virgil said.

“Coulda been a factor,” Lester said.

“You staying around after you pen the herd?” Virgil said.

“Nope. I’ll stay for the tally. Then I’m on a train to Fort Worth. Take a bath, get drunk, find a woman, and do all of it by myself.”

“Thanks for stopping by,” Virgil said.

18

“FELLAS BRINGING four thousand head a cattle into town tomorrow,” Virgil said.

Pike nodded. He was leaning his elbows on his big, elegant bar. The heel of one boot hooked over the brass rail. It wasn’t J.D. in the lookout chair today.

“Leave ’em at the station?” Pike said.

“Yep.”

“Pay off the drovers?” Pike said.

“Uh-huh.”

Pike looked over at the lookout.

“Looks like you and J.D. gonna be busy, Kirby.”

“Might be,” Kirby said.

Kirby was a big man with a thick, dark mustache and a bald head.

“Thought me ’n Everett would come by, let you know, see if you had a plan for dealing with any trouble might arise.”

“Kind of you,” Pike said. “You boys want a beer, or something with more muscle?”

“Beer’s good,” Virgil said.

“On the house,” Pike said, and nodded at one of the bartenders.

“Any plan?” Virgil said.

“I’m grateful for your concern, Virgil.”

“Well, there’s fifty-one of them and two of us, so I’m making a, whatcha call it, Everett, what we’re doing.”

“We’re making a tactical assessment,” I said.

Pike nodded.

“See who can protect themselves,” he said. “And who needs you two boys to do it.”

“There you have it,” Virgil said.

“ ’Course, there may not be any trouble,” Pike said.

“Maybe not,” Virgil said.

“Not a lot of cowboys gonna cross Virgil Cole,” Pike said.

Spec set beer on the bar in front of us.

“But I don’t want to take no chance that some drunken vaquero with cow shit on his heels comes in here and busts up my beautiful Palace.”

“Be a shame,” Virgil said.

“Well, we’ll have J.D. in the chair, and Kirby at the door. Spec here can do a little more than draw beer. I’ll be here. And some of my other associates’ll be draped around the room here, ready to, ah, intercede if the revelers get too lively.”

“Called away from their normal duties,” I said.

Pike grinned at me.

“Those are their normal duties,” he said.

“Left over from the old days,” I said.

“Some,” Pike said.

“Okay, Pike,” Virgil said. “You do what you need to do to protect yourself and your place.”

“Be my plan,” Pike said.

“And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t do more than you had to,” Virgil said.

“Don’t see no reason to,” Pike said.

19

ALL ALONG ARROW STREET it was pretty much the same. They’d had trail drives before.

“But nothing this size,” I said to the manager at a saloon called The Cheyenne Gentleman’s Bar.

“No,” he said. “That’s true. But we got Roy here.”

He nodded at a hugely fat bouncer near the door.

“And I hear tell you boys know how to keep order.”

We moved on.

“They don’t get it,” I said to Virgil. “They ain’t never experienced forty-eight or so soused cattle drivers with cash in their pockets, blowing in all at once, with a big thirst and a fearsome hard-on.”

“May not turn out to be so proud of all them extra cattle pens,” Virgil said.

At a woman’s clothing store, the owner spoke to Virgil.

“I believe I’ll be closing,” she said, “while those cowboys are loose in town. I don’t sell things cowboys want anyway.”

“Might have wives or girlfriends at home,” Virgil said.

“They won’t be buying things for the wife on their first night off the trail,” the woman said. “Maybe the night they leave.”

“Guilt?” I said.

“Guilt,” she said.

Aside from the dress-shop lady, most of the places along Arrow Street were thinking less about damage and more about profit. Virgil’s reputation probably accounted for a lot of that. None of them could imagine somebody standing up to him . . . assuming the standee knew his reputation.

We paused in front of The Church of the Brotherhood.

“Suppose Brother Percival got the same right to know as anybody else,” Virgil said.

“ ’Less God already told him,” I said.

We walked up the steps and in through the pen doors. Inside, it was dim in its flint-blue way, and the organ was playing. We walked forward toward the altar and turned and looked up into the choir loft. It was Allie.

“Thought it sounded pretty bad,” Virgil said.

“Loud, though,” I said.

Virgil nodded.

“Well, she ain’t singing,” I said.

“Hallelujah,” Virgil said.

Brother Percival strode gravely up the aisle.

“Isn’t she wonderful?” he said, nodding at Allie above.

“Wonderful,” Virgil said.

“She’s practicing now,” Percival said.

“Good,” Virgil said.

“Pretty little woman,” Percival said. “Been coming here every day for morning service. Last week she asked if she could try playing the organ. Now she plays every day.”

“Big trail herd being delivered here tomorrow,” Virgil said. “Town will be full of drunken cowboys.”

“Why is that my concern?”

“Might cause some trouble,” Virgil said.

“That should be your concern.”

“Is,” Virgil said. “Why I’m coming around . . . making a tactical assessment.”

“We can take care of ourselves,” Brother Percival said. “Ours is a muscular and militant Christianity.”

“Being as Choctaw is one of your deacons, made me kind of suspect that,” Virgil said.

“Deacon Brown is a fine church member,” Percival said.

“Sure,” Virgil said.

“And I can’t believe these cowboys would invade a church,” Percival said.

“Ain’t likely,” Virgil said.

“But if they should, we can and will defend ourselves.”

“Only thing is,” Virgil said, “if you got to defend yourself, I’d like to be sure that Choctaw don’t get too militant and muscular.”

“Deacon Brown, like all of us here in the congregation, will do what he must,” Percival said.

“Don’t we all,” Virgil said.

“It is God’s work,” Percival said.

Virgil nodded and looked up in the choir loft where Allie was still laboring over the organ. I didn’t recognize what she was playing.

“Hope so,” Virgil said.

20

ABE LESTER BROUGHT HIS HERD in from the south, right after sunrise. He trailed them along the river so he wouldn’t have to run them through town. At the pens they made a lot of noise and kicked up a lot of dust as the drovers herded them in. It took nearly all day to get them penned, and by midafternoon the dust was hanging over the town like smoke above a brush fire.

When Lester began to pay off the drovers, Virgil and I strolled down to observe.

“Every man taken care of his string, Spanish?” Lester said to a Mexican cowboy standing to the side.

“Sí,” the vaquero said. “All in the remuda pen, been rubbed down, got feed and water.”

We were in the tally shack at the pens. Lester was at a table with a big box in front of him. Virgil and I stood behind him. Both of us were wearing our badges. I was carrying the eight-gauge, which almost always got people’s attention.

Before the first man stepped up to be paid, Virgil spoke.

“My name’s Virgil Cole,” he said. “Fella with the eight-gauge is Everett Hitch. We want to welcome you to Brimstone. We want you to have a hell of a good time in Brimstone. And we want you to do it without hurting anybody or breaking anything.”

No one said anything.

Finally, Lester spoke.

“I pay you off,” he said, “and you don’t have no reason to do what I tell you anymore.”

From the back of the line somebody gave a soft rebel yell. A couple of the men laughed.

“On the other hand,” Lester said, “I got no obligation to help you out, you get in trouble. I assume some of you boys know who Virgil Cole is.”

Nobody spoke.

“Okay,” Lester said.

The drovers came up, one at a time, still sweating, with dust caked on their faces, and took their money. Several of them looked us over. None of them said anything. The Mexican wrangler was the last. With the money distributed and the box empty, Lester closed the lid and stood.

“Good luck with them,” he said.

Virgil nodded.

Lester put the box under his arm and walked out of the tally shed.

“Lotta cowboys,” I said to Virgil.

“Yep.”

“Don’t seem a bad lot,” I said.

“Yet,” Virgil said.

“Some of them were heeled,” I said. “Some weren’t.”

“Don’t matter if they’re heeled right now,” Virgil said.

“I know,” I said.

“Matter more tonight,” Virgil said.

“What’s your guess?” I said.

“ ’Bout tonight?” Virgil said.

“Yeah,” I said. “Think we’ll have to kill one?”

“Might,” Virgil said.

21

BY MIDNIGHT MOST OF THE drovers had settled in with a whore or passed out somewhere. Two of them were in our jail. Virgil and I walked along Arrow Street past The Church of the Brotherhood. It was dark and still.

“No cowboys,” I said.

“No deacons, either,” Virgil said.

“Guess the cowboys got other things to do,” I said.

“Don’t nobody seem much interested in the church,” Virgil said. “ ’Cept Allie.”

“She goes a lot?” I said.

“ ’Bout every day.”

“That bad?” I said.

“Hell, no,” Virgil said. “It’s good. Otherwise, she’d be home cooking and washing. She’s ruined half my shirts.”

“She’s trying,” I said.

“She is,” Virgil said.

“She’s had a rough go,” I said.

“Yep.”

“S’pose she brought most of it on herself,” I said.

“She did,” Virgil said.

“Maybe the church will help her,” I said.

“Hope so,” Virgil said.

Arrow Street was mostly dark now. The shops were closed, and the saloons that were still open were quiet. Ahead, at the corner of Fifth and Arrow, a group of drovers was standing in the street. In the quiet I heard their voices.

“You got no business treating us like that, Pike.”

As we got closer, I could see Pike standing on the boardwalk in front of the Palace.

“Ah, but I do, my friend,” Pike said.

J.D. and Kirby stood on the boardwalk with him. All three wore Colts.

“You broke Charlie’s arm,” the cowboy said.

“I did,” Pike said. “Keep yammering at me, I might break yours.”

The door to the Palace opened and a fourth man came out wearing a gun.

“Choctaw,” Virgil said to me.

He quickened his pace.

“He wasn’t doin’ anything,” the cowboy said.

“He was messing up my saloon,” Pike said. “I don’t tolerate anybody messing up my saloon.”

“Well,” the cowboy said, “we don’t tolerate nobody hurting our friend.”

The man’s voice had risen. I could hear the whiskey in it.

But we weren’t close enough.

“Well, then, my friend,” Pike said. “You best make your move.”

Virgil yelled, “Hold it.”

But it was too late. The cowboy fumbled at his gun and a couple of men beside him did the same. Pike shot three of them before they got anywhere near clearing their holsters. One bullet each. The rest of the cowboys froze. J.D. and Kirby and Choctaw had their guns out but didn’t shoot.

“Fast,” I said.

“And eager,” Virgil said.

Then he raised his voice.

“Everything stops,” he said.

We were close enough now. The men stood poised and motionless, as if posing for a photograph.

Then Pike smiled and said, “Virgil.”

I veered off across the street with the eight-gauge and stood behind the cowboys. Virgil stepped up onto the boardwalk.

“Seen you coming up the street,” Pike said. “Glad you’re here.”

“You can put it away now,” Virgil said.

Pike smiled some more.

“Glad to,” he said.

He opened the cylinder of his Colt, ejected the three spent shells, added three fresh ones from his coat pocket, closed the cylinder, and slid the Colt softly into its holster.

“You saw him pull on me,” Pike said.

“I did,” Virgil said.

“And those other boys,” Pike said.

“Yep.”

“They pulled on me, too,” Pike said cheerfully.

“And you shot three drunks,” Virgil said.

“That made it easier,” Pike said.

The cowboys had gathered silently around the three dead men. None of them knew what to do.

“They’re dead,” Virgil said to the cowboys. “There’s an undertaker down past the livery corral on Second Street. One of you go roust him out. Tell him I want him up here.”

The cowboys stared at Virgil and looked at the dead men in the street and at one another. Then they began, as a group, as if for mutual support, to drift on down toward the livery.

“Fella with the broken arm,” Virgil said. “There’s a doctor right next to the undertaker.”

Pike grinned.

“Convenient,” Pike said.

Virgil turned back to the men on the boardwalk.

“You all seen it the same way,” he said.

“We did,” J.D. said.

Kirby nodded. Virgil looked at Choctaw. Choctaw met his gaze silently.

“ ’ Course you did,” Virgil said.

The three men went back inside the Palace, leaving Virgil and Pike on the boardwalk. I came across the street and joined them.

“Good to see you, Everett,” Pike said.

I nodded. Everything was quiet. And except for us and the three dead men bleeding in the street, the town seemed empty.

“Pretty quiet night,” Pike said. “All things considered.”

“Pretty quick with that Colt,” I said.

“I am,” Pike said. “Good you come along when you done.”

“Yeah, you mighta shot ’em all,” I said.

“Mighta had to,” Pike said.

“Four gun hands against a bunch of drunks,” I said.

“Drunks with guns,” Pike said. “A lucky shot will kill you just as dead.”

I nodded.

“I got no problem killing people. No more than you fellas. Done it before. Probably do it again. But these boys pulled on me.”

“They did,” Virgil said. “You ain’t broke no law.”

“Good,” Pike said with a wide smile. “Musta been a long night for you boys. Have a drink on me?”

“No thanks,” Virgil said.

“Offer stands,” Pike said. “Good talking with you boys.” He turned and went back into the Palace.

“Don’t seem too upset,” I said to Virgil as we walked up toward the sheriff’s office.

“Nope,” Virgil said.

“Too bad we didn’t get here a little sooner,” I said.

“Too bad,” Virgil said.

We unlocked the sheriff’s office and went in. The two drunks were still asleep in their cells. I leaned the eight-gauge in the corner. Virgil sat and put his feet up on the desk.

“Choctaw,” Virgil said. “Wonder what Choctaw was doing there.”

22

THE SUN WAS SHINING. The streets were quiet. The town was back in rhythm. Brother Percival and his followers were holding forth outside of a saloon called The Silver Bullet. Virgil and I stood across the street watching. There were eight or ten of the faithful outside the saloon, and anytime someone wanted to go in or out, they had to push through the crowd of Percivalians and listen to warnings of eternal hellfire and lifelong shame. Leaning against the wall of the saloon, just behind the group, was Choctaw Brown.

“This is hell’s mouth,” Percival bellowed. “Inside this door, women give up their womanhood for money. Inside this door, men trade their manhood for whiskey. Inside this door begins the slippery, desperate slide to hell.”

The church members with him chanted, “Amen, brother.” And no one chanted it as loudly as Allie. Most of the men pushing in and out paid very little attention, looking at the ground as they eased through among the prayers of the vigilant. One man was jostled as he went through them, and, annoyed, shoved Brother Percival as he went past. Percival took hold of his shirt front and picked him up and threw him into the street.

“Do not put your hands on a man of God!” Brother Percival said.

It wasn’t a bellow. It was like the soft growl of a mountain lion. The man in the street gathered himself for a moment and then stood up and took a knife from his boot.

“You sonovabitch,” he said.

Virgil and I started across the street. Choctaw stepped away from the door and in front of Brother Percival. He didn’t draw his gun, but his hand hovered over it. He said nothing. The man with the knife looked at Choctaw, and past him at Percival.

“Choctaw,” Virgil said.

Choctaw nodded faintly.

“Hold the knife,” Virgil said.

The man with the knife stopped and looked back at Virgil.

“Aw,” the man with the knife said. “Fuck it.”

He turned and walked away down the street, with the knife still in his hand, dangling by his side as he went. Virgil was still looking at Choctaw. Choctaw had no expression as he looked back at Virgil.

“Virgil,” Allie said. “Everything’s fine now.”

She stepped away from the group and put her hands on Virgil’s chest and looked up at him.

“Everything’s fine,” she said. “Please.”

Virgil was looking past her at Choctaw. Then he nodded.

“Sure,” he said.

He turned away from her and walked down the street in the same direction that the man with the knife had gone.

“Keep your hands off the civilians,” I said to Brother Percival.

“I answer to God,” Percival said. “Not to you.”

“Long as you are in this town,” I said, “you answer to me and Virgil.”

Choctaw Brown grunted.

“Don’t blaspheme,” Brother Percival said.

“Please, Everett,” Allie said. “We’re only trying to help people save their souls. I’m trying to save my soul.”

I looked down at her. She had her hands flat on my chest now, looking up at me, just as she had looked up at Virgil.

“Perhaps you should consider your own soul,” Brother Percival said.

I grinned at him.

“Too late,” I said. “Right, Choctaw?”

Choctaw made a small derisive sound. No one else said anything. I patted Allie on the cheek and left. As I walked down Arrow Street I heard Allie leading her colleagues in singing a hymn I didn’t recognize. I didn’t know whether I failed to recognize it because it was not a hymn I knew or because they sang it so badly it was unrecognizable.

I walked a little faster.

23

THE DROVERS WERE GONE. The cattle had been shipped. There wasn’t all that much for me and Virgil to do except sit in a couple of chairs, tilted back against the wall, outside the office, and watch what passed before us. It was a hot morning, with a high sky and an occasional white cloud. Freight wagons moved slowly up Arrow Street. The railroad surrey shuttled between the hotel and the railroad station. Women and children went in and out of shops. A few men, starting early, went in and out of the saloons.

“What do you think ’bout Allie,” Virgil said.

“She’s looking good again,” I said. “Filled out nice.”

Virgil nodded, looking at the street.

“You see her at the house,” Virgil said. “Cooks our supper, serves it, won’t sit down herself.”

“Yep.”

“Cleans up afterwards,” Virgil said. “Don’t say nothing.”

“True,” I said.

“Does the wash, irons, cleans . . .”

“I know,” I said.

“Like last night, she’s serving supper, and I say to her, ‘Why don’t you sit down and join us, Allie?’ And she don’t.”

“I know,” I said. “I was there, too.”

“When she ain’t cleaning and sewing and fucking up my shirts, and cooking bad,” Virgil said, “she’s reading the Bible, or she’s in church, or she’s sashaying down to the saloons to save souls with Brother Percival.”

“I know.”

“She was outside the Paiute Club yesterday evening, telling everybody she had defilled herself for money.”

“Defiled,” I said.

“Defiled.”

“Virgil,” I said. “Why you telling me all this. I know all this.”

“I ain’t telling you nothing,” Virgil said. “I’m discussing it with you.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Why don’t she settle down,” Virgil said. “Be like she used to be.”

“Maybe she don’t want to be like she used to be,” I said.

“Well, no,” Virgil said. “Maybe not the bad parts. But . . .” He shook his head. “You know, she used to be a lotta fun.”

“Sometimes,” I said. “You and she doing anything in bed?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to,” Virgil said.

“Ever?”

“Don’t know ’bout ever,” Virgil said. “Don’t want to right now.”

“She mind that?” I said.

“Don’t know,” Virgil said. “She don’t say nothing ’bout it.”

“The Allie I know would mind,” I said.

Virgil shook his head slightly.

“So, what’s she trying to be now,” he said, “if she don’t want to be what she was?”

“Maybe she’s trying to be a good woman.”

“She thinks this is what a good woman’s like?” Virgil said.

“Don’t know what she thinks,” I said. “She ain’t had much experience with good women, maybe.”

“And you have?”

“Hell, no,” I said. “I don’t know no good women.”

“Me either,” Virgil said.

“How about the lady in Resolution?” I said.

“Beth Redmond,” he said. “She was really a good woman, she wouldn’t have cheated on her husband.”

“With you,” I said.

“That’s right.”

“Maybe the husband was a bad man,” I said.

“He weren’t much,” Virgil said.

“She was a pretty nice woman,” I said.

“Yeah,” Virgil said. “She was.”

“Went back to her husband,” I said.

“She did.”

“Stood by him.”

Virgil nodded, still looking at the movement of life on Arrow Street.

“Don’t explain Allie,” he said.

“Nope.”

Virgil grinned at me.

“Don’t explain me, neither,” he said.

“Not sure what would,” I said.

24

A TEAMSTER WITH HIS COLLAR up came into the sheriff’s office just as it started to rain. He told us there was a dead man two miles south of town, on the river road, and he thought it was Indians.

“We’ll take a look,” Virgil said.

“Ain’t you gonna get a posse?” he said.

“Me and Everett’ll go,” Virgil said, and got up and got a Winchester, put on his slicker, and put a box of bullets in the pocket.

I took the eight-gauge.

The horses were very lively from standing around too long at the livery. But after the first mile they settled down in the cool rain, which was now coming pretty steady. The river had cut deep into the land along here, with banks maybe twenty feet high. As we topped a rise we saw the wagon, and on the wagon seat was a man with an arrow in his stomach. We stopped the horses. Virgil scanned the area. It was flat at the bottom of the rise and went flat for a long distance along this side of the river. There was no one in sight. We rode on down.

There were no horses with the wagon, and no cargo. Just the dead man on the wagon seat with the arrow sticking out.

“Musta stole the horses,” Virgil said.

“Maybe why they killed him,” I said. “For the horses.”

We dismounted and took a look.

“Didn’t bleed much,” I said.

“Did in the back,” Virgil said.

I reached up and pulled the arrow out. It hadn’t gone in very deeply.

“No arrowhead,” I said.

“Think it pulled loose?”

“No,” I said. “It’s just a sharpened stick with some feathers on the shaft.”

Virgil jumped into the bed of the wagon and examined the man’s back.

“Didn’t need no arrowhead,” Virgil said. “Man’s been shot at least twice.”

“So, what’s the arrow for?” I said.

“Maybe somebody just stuck it in him after he was dead,” Virgil said.

“Like that steer that Lester found?” I said.

“You done a lot of Indian fighting,” Virgil said. “You tell what kind of arrow that is?”

“They make ’em out of what they can find,” I said. “So they ain’t all the same. Nothing to say it ain’t Comanche.”

“Most of ’em got rifles now, don’t they?” Virgil said.

“Yep. Bows and arrows are mostly sentimental,” I said. “Like a tradition.”

“Why no arrowhead?” Virgil said.

“They’re hard to make; nobody want to waste them,” I said.

“And he didn’t need to,” Virgil said. “ ’Cause he already shot the guy dead, ’fore the arrow went in.”

“I’d say it’s a kid’s arrow, I had to guess. They give them blunt arrows and small bows to play with. Can practice with them and don’t hurt themselves. I’d say this fella took a kid’s arrow and sharpened it up and stuck it in.”

Virgil nodded.

“So it may be a sign, like Abe Lester’s steer,” he said.

“Don’t know why else you’d do it,” I said.

He got down from the wagon and looked at the ground.

“You read sign better than I do,” Virgil said. “You make anything outta this?”

I looked at the muddy muddle around the wagon.

“All I can make out is that it’s raining hard,” I said.

“Hell,” Virgil said. “I figured that out.”

I straightened up. Virgil was standing stock-still, looking through the rain across the river, which was maybe two hundred yards wide here. I looked, too.

There was a big Indian sitting on a smallish paint horse, watching us. He appeared to be wearing buckskin leggings and moccasins, and a long black cloak and a big wide-brimmed black hat like the Quakers wear. The hat was pulled down low on his head. He had a rifle in a fringed rifle scabbard balanced across the horse’s shoulders in front of him. He didn’t move.

“Can’t get across,” I said. “ ’Less he’s willin’ to wait while we find a place to ford.”

Virgil didn’t say anything. He kept looking at the Indian.

“And a’course if he’s willing to wait for us,” I said, “who else is waiting behind the swale over there.”

Virgil and the Indian kept looking at each other. I wondered if the Indian knew that Virgil would know him twenty years from now if he saw him again. On the other hand, maybe the Indian would know Virgil, too.

“You could probably shoot him from here,” I said. “Bein’ as how you’re Virgil Cole and all.”

“He ain’t done nothing,” Virgil said.

“Might have,” I said.

“Can’t shoot a man for sitting on his horse.”

“Hell, Virgil, he’s an Indian,” I said. “Mighta killed this poor fella and stole his horses.”

“Can’t shoot a man for sitting on his horse,” Virgil said again.

“What are we gonna do about the dead gentleman,” I said.

“Wagon’s too heavy for our two horses,” Virgil said. “And he’s starting to smell. We’ll go get the undertaker.”

“And leave him here?” I said.

“He ain’t in no hurry,” Virgil said.

“I suppose he ain’t,” I said.

We mounted up and turned the horses back toward town with the river on our left. The Indian turned his horse and rode along with us.

“He stays with us to the edge of town, there’s a ford,” I said.

“He’ll be gone by the time we reach the ford,” Virgil said.

And he was.

25

THE UNDERTAKER REPAIRED the dead man enough for us to display him outside the undertaker’s shop. People came to look at him and before noon we knew who he’d been. His name was Peter Lussier. Worked on a spread ten miles down the Paiute. No wife. No kids. He’d been on his way into town to buy supplies for the cook shack.

“Wonder why that Indian spent so much time showing himself to us?” Virgil said.

“Don’t know,” I said.

“Them red beasties can be strange,” Virgil said.

“They ain’t as strange as we like to think they are,” I said. “They got reasons for what they do, just like us. Except sometimes they don’t.”

“Just like us,” Virgil said.

“Yep.”

Virgil drank some coffee.

“Every morning,” he said, “Allie comes down here and makes us coffee and leaves, and we throw it away and make some new coffee.”

I nodded.

“Whadda you think of that?” Virgil said.

“Better than drinking hers,” I said.

“A’course,” Virgil said. “But don’t you think there’s something wrong with it?”

“Sure,” I said.

“But she’s trying to translate herself,” Virgil said. “You know, make herself different?”

“Transform,” I said.

“That’s right,” Virgil said. “She’s trying to transform herself.”

“And you don’t want to tell her it ain’t working,” I said.

“Well, maybe it is,” Virgil said. “Except she can’t make coffee.”

“Or sew or iron or wash clothes,” I said. “Or cook.”

“Hell,” Virgil said. “She can’t sing and play the piano, either, but she been doing it for years.”

“I thought you liked her piano playing,” I said.

“God, no,” Virgil said. “You?”

“No,” I said. “Singing, neither.”

It was still raining, and the water ran down the windows in the front of the office, changing the shape of everything moving in the street. Virgil sipped his coffee and looked at the rain.

“She used to be fun,” Virgil said. “Now she working so hard to make it up to me, she ain’t fun anymore.”

“She is pretty drab,” I said.

“Drab,” Virgil said.

“Sorta no color,” I said. “Boring.”

He nodded.

“Drab,” he said. “That’s her. Drab.”

“Maybe if you was to say something to her.”

Virgil shook his head.

“Know the only thing she’s good at?” Virgil said.

“Not firsthand,” I said.

Virgil nodded.

“She’s good at it,” Virgil said.

I nodded.

“Built for it,” he said.

“I notice she’s filled back out, since we come here,” I said.

“She has,” Virgil said.

“But . . .” I said.

“Ain’t ready yet,” Virgil said.

“Why not?” I said.

“Got to think it through,” Virgil said.

“You love her?”

“That’s what I’m thinking through,” Virgil said.

“We come all the way down here looking for her,” I said. “And killed four men to get her out of Placido, and you don’t know if you love her.”

“Thought I did when we come down here,” Virgil said.

“But?”

“But I can’t seem to get past what she done yet,” Virgil said.

“The men or the running off, or both.”

“Understand the running off,” Virgil said. “She felt shamed. But the other men.”

“It didn’t work out for her,” I said. “You seen where we found her.”

“No,” Virgil said. “And I don’t have no problem with the whoring when she didn’t have no choice. Feel bad for her. But I don’t have no problem.”

“Bragg?” I said.

“Him, the other men, when she had a choice.”

“Maybe she thinks she didn’t,” I said.

“Then what she transforming for?” Virgil said.

“Please you?”

“It don’t please me.”

“And you ain’t talked about it,” I said.

“Can’t,” Virgil said.

I nodded.

“Neither one of us,” Virgil said.

I nodded again.

“Yet,” Virgil said.

26

WHEN ALLIE BROUGHT OUR LUNCH, Virgil and I were sitting outside the sheriff’s office watching the last of the whiskey get packed onto a wagon, in front of the Bluebell Saloon.

“Isn’t that good?” Allie said.

“The Bluebell?” Virgil said.

“Yes, it’s closing. They’re going away.”

“Some saloons left,” Virgil said.

“Not so many,” Allie said. “Brother Percival says we’ve driven four of them out already.”

“Pike’s Palace still doing well, though,” Virgil said.

I knew why he said it. He was still thinking about Choctaw Brown being with Pike the night Pike killed three men. Virgil never forgot anything, and he never let anything go.

“Brother Percival says Mr. Pike is running a much more Christian enterprise than the others.”

Virgil said, “Uh-huh.”

“I think they’re actually kind of friends,” Allie said. “I see them together sometimes.”

Virgil nodded.

“What’s Pike do that the others don’t?” Virgil said.

“I don’t really know,” Allie said. “But I know Brother Percival sends some of the deacons over there regularly.”

“How ’bout Deacon Brown?” Virgil said.

“Yes, he goes over.”

“And they go there to make sure,” I said, “that he’s running a Christian saloon.”

Allie’s face sort of squeezed in on itself.

She said, “Being Christian doesn’t mean being foolish, Everett. We know men have their needs.”

She looked at the floor.

“Women, too, I guess,” she said. “And we don’t expect everyone to be perfect. So we are working to get rid of the worst kind of vice dens, and try to maintain a better option.”

“Why not let them decide for themselves,” I said.

Allie didn’t look at either of us. She stared down the street and watched the wagon pull away from the 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.

“That your real name?” Virgil said.

Pony shook his head and said something in Apache. “Means what?” Virgil said.

There was a brief expression on Pony’s face that might have been amusement.

“Pony Running,” I said.

“Okay if we stick with Pony?” Virgil said to Flores.

“Okay.”

“Father’s Mexican,” Pike said.

“Can he talk for himself?” Virgil said.

Pike smiled.

“Try him,” Pike said.

“Live with your mother’s people?” I said.

“Some.”

“Track as good as Pike says?”

“Yes.”

“Speak English okay?” I said.

“Speak it good,” Pony said.

“Just not often,” Virgil said.

Pony looked like he might have smiled for a moment, but he didn’t say anything.

“Speak Spanish?”

“Sí.”

“Any Comanche?”

“A little bit,” Pony said.

“Shoot?” Virgil said.

“I can shoot,” Pony said.

“Will you?”

“Sure.”

“Why do you want to track for us?” I said.

“Two women,” Pony said.

“You know them?”

“No.”

“But you want to help us save them,” I said.

“Yes.”

Virgil and I looked at each other.

“He’s good,” Pike said. “Been with me a long time.”

“Good how?” Virgil said.

“Colt, Winchester, knife,” Pike said. “Best tracker I ever saw.”

“Keep his word?” Virgil said.

“I do,” Pony said.

Virgil looked at me.

“Everett?” he said.

“He can probably track better than I can,” I said. “What I learned I learned from Apache scouts.”

Virgil nodded.

“Okay,” he said. “I can pay you half a dollar a day. You supply your own horse and saddle, your own weapons and ammunition.”

“Yes,” Pony said.

29

WE SAID GOOD-BYE TO ALLIE on the front porch of the house we were renting. It was just after sunrise, and she was barefoot and in her nightgown. She and Virgil put their arms around each other. But they didn’t kiss, and when he stepped back and swung up onto his horse, she smiled at me and patted my cheek.

“Take care of each other,” she said.

I got up on my horse.

“Have somebody milk that cow every day,” Virgil said.

“I will,” she said.

None of us moved. Virgil looked down from the saddle at Allie.

“I’ll come back,” he said.

Then he wheeled the horse and I followed with the pack mule on a lead, and we rode up Third Street toward Arrow. Pony was mounted and waiting outside Pike’s Palace, and he swung in beside us as we rode south out of town. We stopped at the Ostermueller farm shack. Pony got down and spent maybe ten minutes looking at the ground, then mounted his horse and led us out toward the river where the tracks led.

Once we were into the open, I took the mule off the lead. He’d follow the horses, and if he didn’t, one of us could haze him back.

“You see more than one Indian?” I said.

“No,” Pony said.

“And two shod,” I said.

“Yes.”

“Tell if anyone’s riding the shod horses?”

“Need to see tracks when no one rides them, and tracks when someone does,” Pony said.

We rode south along the river most of the day. Pony rode quietly, looking at the tracks. Occasionally he would lean out of the saddle and study them, then he would resume.

“Don’t seem worried ’bout covering his tracks,” Virgil said.

“No,” Pony said. “But he don’t know I the one following.”

Virgil grinned.

“Figures we can’t track?” he said.

“Yes,” Pony said.

We came to a ford at the end of the day, and the tracks led into it. The sun was down, and it was hard to see the bank on the other side of the river.

“Might want to camp this side,” Virgil said. “Kinda hate to get caught in the middle of the river in the near dark by a man with a rifle.”

“We can cross in the morning,” Pony said.

We made a fire and cooked some bacon and beans. I took a jug from the pack, and we passed it around while the supper cooked.

“How long you work for Pike?” I said to Pony.

“Since wild times,” Pony said.

“Outlaw times,” I said.

“Yes.”

“Always the way he is now?”

“Sure,” Pony said.

“Big, friendly bear,” Virgil said. “Everybody’s friend.”

“Sure.”

“ ’Cept when he ain’t,” Virgil said.

Pony frowned for a moment, translating Virgil’s remark into whatever language he thought in.

“You mean when he kill people,” Pony said.

“Uh-huh.”

“He like to kill people,” Pony said.

“I know,” Virgil said.

Pony took a pull on the bottle.

“You no like that,” he said.

“Don’t mind it,” Virgil said.

Pony handed me the bottle.

“You ever fight with us when you was living Apache?” I said.

Pony smiled.

“Blue Dogs?” he said. “Sure, I fight.”

“I was a Blue Dog,” I said.

Pony nodded.

“Maybe we fought each other,” I said.

“Maybe,” Pony said.

“Does it matter?” I said.

“When I with Apache,” he said, “I tell them I fight for them, and I do. Now I with you. I tell you I fight for you. I will fight.”

“Even against another Indian?” I said.

“I am also Mexican,” Pony said, and almost smiled again. “And this man who has stolen the ladies. He not Chiricahua.”

“How do you know?” I said.

Virgil had the whiskey bottle. He took a drink and passed it on to Pony. Pony drank some and looked at me and might have smiled.

“No Chiricahua around here,” he said.

30

IN THE MORNING WE SAT our horses at the ford, looking across the river. There was nothing to see.

“I go,” Pony said.

“Why you?” I said.

“Tracker,” Pony said.

He turned his horse and went into the river. It was shallow. The horse never had to swim. On the other side, Pony rode up the little rise, bending over to study the tracks. He pulled up at the top of the rise and looked around. Then he gestured for us to come. Virgil went in and then me, hazing the mule ahead of me.

Pony pointed when we reached him.

“Go off there,” he said.

And he headed west. The tracks were still clear enough. I could follow them fine. But a mile or so from the river the land began to rise, and the footing became rockier. It was harder to see the tracks. But Pony stayed with it. He was maybe fifty yards ahead of us, near a cluster of boulders, when he stopped. Virgil pulled his horse to the right. I went left. The mule didn’t know who to follow, so he just stood. I had the eight-gauge across my saddle, with both hammers back. We walked the horses slowly around the boulders until we met on the other side of them and were looking at Pony. The mule saw us together and trotted toward us.

I let the hammers down.

“What?” Virgil said.

“More horses,” Pony said.

He pointed to the ground. There was a mingling of tracks, some of them leading behind the rocks.

“Nobody there,” Virgil said.

Pony nodded and got off his horse. He squatted and looked at the tracks for a while. Then he stood and walked along, looking at the ground, around the boulders, and up the hill behind them. Virgil and I waited.

“Shod horses,” I said.

“Yep.”

“Can’t say for sure how many.”

“Pony will know,” Virgil said.

“Could be white men,” I said.

“Could be white men’s horses that some Indians stole,” Virgil said.

“Could be,” I said.

“Maybe Pony can figure that out,” Virgil said.

“Maybe not,” I said.

We waited for maybe an hour while Pony looked at the ground.

“Five white men,” he said.

Virgil smiled.

“How you know they’re white?” he said.

“Boot prints,” Pony said. “Comanche not wear boots.”

“They have to be Comanche?” I said.

“Comanche land,” Pony said. “They Indians, they Comanche.”

“But they’re not Indians,” Virgil said.

“No,” Pony said. “White. Five of them come from south. Stay here, build a fire, cook something. Like they waiting. Our people come in here.”

He pointed to the tracks we’d been following.

“Get off horses,” Pony said. “Man in moccasins, two women. Small footprints. Shoes not like man.”

We followed. With Pony pointing it out, we could see what he saw. I wasn’t sure I’d have seen it without him.

“Then everybody get on horse. All go south, except Indian. He go up the hill and into a canyon. Very stony. Hard to track.”

“Could you?” Virgil said.

“Yes.”

Virgil nodded.

“Women went south with the white men,” he said.

“They were waiting here for him,” I said.

“He sold them,” Virgil said.

I nodded.

Virgil looked up the hill for a time.

Then he said, “We got to get them women back.”

“Yes,” I said.

“You sure they went with the white men,” Virgil said.

“Sure,” Pony said. “See horse tracks. They horses’ feet, much bigger.”

“Wagon horses,” I said.

Pony got back up on his horse, and we headed south.

31

FOR TWO DAYS WE RODE southwest, away from the river, into much rougher country. It made the tracking harder and slowed us down. But Pony kept the trail and told us it was getting fresher. We stopped at sundown on the third day on some high rocky ground at the edge of an arroyo and started to set up camp.

Pony had collected some brush for a fire, and as he set it down, he paused and raised his head, like a hunting dog with a scent. Virgil and I were still.

Then Virgil said, “Smoke.”

Pony nodded. I sniffed at the air and didn’t smell it, and didn’t smell it, and then I did.

“Be surprising if it weren’t them,” Virgil said.

There was grass growing on the slope of the arroyo, and the animals were busy with it. They weren’t likely to make any noise. It was dark, but there was moonlight and all the stars. Virgil picked up his Winchester, Pony took his, and I brought the eight-gauge, and we went very quietly along the arroyo to where the land sloped down. At the foot of the slope we could see a campfire and some people around it.

“Dumb place to camp,” I said softly.

“They been riding what, four days?” Virgil said. “Ain’t seen a soul. If they thought we was following, they figure we lost them when we left the river and the tracking got hard.”

“Almost Mexico,” Pony said.

“Probably where they’re headed,” Virgil said. “They think they’re home free.”

“And they ain’t,” I said.

“They’re in range from here, ’cept for the eight-gauge,” Virgil said.

“Can’t make out who’s who,” I said.

“Pony?” Virgil said.

“Too far,” Pony said.

“Be a hell of a thing,” Virgil said. “We come all this way to save them women, and shoot ’em by mistake.”

We were quiet, looking at the layout.

“We’re really careful,” Virgil said, “we can slither on down behind that outcropping and get a better look.”

“Still too long a shot for the eight-gauge,” I said. “Lemme get my rifle.”

“While you’re there,” Virgil said, “make sure them animals is tethered. Don’t want ’em running off soon’s we start shooting.”

I got my Winchester, checked the tethers, and walked softly back to where Virgil and Pony were lying on the ground, looking down at the camp.

“Jack a shell up into the chamber,” Virgil said. “Do it when we get closer and they might hear it.”

We did as he said, and eased the hammers off. Then, on our bellies, trying to be silent, we crawled and slithered our way downhill over the shale-littered ground to the rocks, halfway to the camp. All of us were scraped and bloody by the time we got there.

The five men looked to be Mexican. The two women sat close to each other, away from them to the left.

“Can’t ride in among ’em,” Virgil said. “Or walk in, for that matter. All them rocks underfoot, make too much noise going down the hill.”

Neither Pony nor I said anything. We both knew Virgil wasn’t talking to us. The men were passing a bottle around. The women were still.

“Okay,” Virgil said. “Pony, can you shoot one of those fellas from here without hitting the women?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, then we’ll shoot the first three, left to right from the women. I’ll take the closest one, fella in the hat. Everett takes the next one, with the striped shirt. Pony shoots the third one, buckskin shirt.”

Virgil was silent. Neither Pony nor I said anything.

“Then I’ll shoot the fella in the black vest,” Virgil said, “and Everett, you and Pony shoot the other one. Fella with the beard. Recognize each one of them. Even if they get up and move around before we start shooting, you fire at the one I said.”

Pony murmured, “Sí, jefe.”

I said, “Yep.”

“We don’t shoot if we lose sight of anybody,” Virgil said.

He cocked the Winchester. Pony and I did the same.

“You’re sure there’s only five,” Virgil said. “I don’t want there to be some fella out taking a leak to get ruckused up and shoot them women, ’fore we kill him.”

“There are five, jefe,” Pony said.

“Okay,” Virgil said. “Pick out your target, get him in your sights.”

All three of us took aim.

“Know who you’re going to shoot, and who you’re gonna shoot next,” Virgil said.

We waited. I had the middle button on the man’s striped shirt sitting on top of my sight.

“Ready?” Virgil whispered.

Pony said, “Ready.”

I took a deep breath and let it out.

I said, “Ready.”

Virgil said, “Fire!” and I squeezed the trigger. It all moved at the stately pace these things always seemed to. I barely heard the shots. I saw my man go down, and as I shifted to the man with the beard, I levered another round up into the chamber and settled on his chest. He was leaning forward, frozen maybe, by the shock of the surprise, looking for a place to hide. There was no place to hide. I shot him in the chest and saw his body jerk as Pony shot him, too. Beside me, Virgil was on his feet and slip-sliding down the slope toward the campsite. Pony and I followed him. The two women were flat on the ground, one on top of the other.

When we reached the campfire, Virgil took out his Colt and put a bullet through the head of the first man he passed.

“They’re dead,” he said, and walked to the women. “But make sure.”

Pony and I shot the other four men once each in the head. The smell of gunfire was strong when we finished.

Virgil was sitting on his heels beside the two women. They were still huddled, one on top of the other.

“We come to rescue you,” he said. “My name is Virgil Cole. I’m a deputy sheriff in Val Verde County, and the big fella is a deputy, too. His name is Everett Hitch. The slim gentleman is Pony Flores. He’s our tracker. He’s the one found you.”

The women didn’t move or speak. The one on top was older.

“I know you been through hell,” Virgil said. “We’ll take you up the hill to our camp, and feed you and let you sleep, and tomorrow we’ll take you home.”

The woman on top began to cry, harsh, ugly sounds that seemed to hurt as they came out. The woman underneath neither moved nor spoke. She still clung to the older woman.

“No rush,” Virgil said. “When you’re ready.”

She was still making the retching sobbing sound, but the woman looked at Virgil, and seemed to see him, and nodded her head.

“Everett,” Virgil said. “Whyn’t you boys saddle up a couple horses, so these ladies don’t have to walk up the hill.”

32

AT THE TOP OF THE HILL, they were both silent as we built up the campfire and gave them some blankets. Pony made fresh coffee. I got out some cups and the whiskey jug.

It was hard to tell what they might have looked like when they were living on the farm. What was left of them was pretty straggly. The older one had red hair, and some freckles. There was the hint of plumpness vanished about her. As if she had been full-figured and lost weight during her ordeal. The girl was blonde and smaller. Half developed. More than a girl, still less than a woman. They were dirty. Their clothes were barely clothes. And they were enveloped in a glaze of terror, which made them almost unrecognizable.

“Would you like some coffee?” I said to the older woman.

She nodded.

“Whiskey in it?” I said.

She nodded again.

“How ’bout the young lady?” I said.

The young lady had no reaction. The older woman nodded. I poured coffee and whiskey into both cups and handed one to each of them. The older woman blew on the surface of the coffee, and drank some. The young woman took a careful sip, and showed no reaction.

After her second cup, the older woman began to speak. Her voice was half swallowed, and she spoke very fast. They were mother and daughter. The mother’s name was Mary Beth. The kid was Laurel. Mary Beth was thirty-seven. Laurel was fifteen. They both looked a lot older.

“My husband walked out the front door and the Indian shot him,” Mary Beth said. “Didn’t say anything, just shot him and stuck that arrow in him, then he made Laurel and me get on our horses and go with him, never even looked at my husband again, just made us ride away with him. At night he made us . . . do things with him . . . both of us right in front of each other, and he said we should get used to it because he was going to sell us to some men who would take us to Mexico ....”

She stopped and drank from her cup. Laurel said nothing; she sipped at her coffee. The two women were wrapped in blankets. They sat close to the fire, more, I thought, for light than warmth. Virgil still sat on his heels beside them. Neither woman ever took her eyes off him.

“And then they came and took us and . . .”

She looked at her daughter. Her daughter’s face was blank, her eyes fixed on Virgil. She drank more.

“You don’t need to talk about it,” Virgil said.

She nodded.

“Anything you can tell me ’bout this Indian?” Virgil said.

“He . . .” She drank again. “English. He talked good English.”

Virgil nodded.

“And he was big; he was a very big Indian,” Mary Beth said.

“What did he wear,” Virgil said.

“Black coat,” Mary Beth said. “Long. And a funny hat.” Virgil nodded. Mary Beth was drunk. Laurel seemed unchanged.

“Buffalo Calf,” Mary Beth said.

“Buffalo Calf?” Virgil said.

“He said name Buffalo Calf.”

Virgil nodded again. He glanced at Pony; Pony shrugged and shook his head.

We were quiet for a time. Outside the circle of firelight, one of the horses stirred.

“Oh, God,” Mary Beth said.

“Just one of the horses,” Virgil said.

“But what if they come back?”

“Can’t,” Virgil said. “They’re all dead.”

“You kill them,” Mary Beth said.

“We did.”

“What if the Indian comes back?”

“He won’t.”

“But if he does?”

“We’ll kill him, too,” Virgil said.

“You don’t know what he’s like,” Mary Beth said.

“No,” Virgil said.

He smiled at her.

“But I know what I’m like,” Virgil said.

33

MARY BETH AND LAUREL SLEPT pressed together, with Laurel holding on to Virgil’s sleeve through the night as he slept next to them. Pony and I took turns staying awake. At sunup we had coffee and some cold biscuits, and started north. The women rode on two of the saddle horses whose owners we’d killed. We turned the rest of the horses loose.

“I want my horses,” Mary Beth said when we got her mounted.

“You’ll ride a lot more comfortable in a saddle.”

“Can’t we put the saddles on my horses?”

“Saddles ain’t big enough,” Virgil said. “Horses’ll trail along, just like the mule.”

And they did. Mary Beth kept looking back for them every few minutes. Laurel simply sat on her horse, with the reins wrapped around the saddle horn. She held on to the horn, and made no attempt to direct the horse. If he paused to graze, turned off the trail, Pony or I would ride up and nudge him back. She showed no sign that she was aware of us. She kept her eyes focused on Virgil, who was riding ahead of her with her mother.

At noon we stopped near a stream and let the horses graze on a long tether. There was some shade from a couple of cottonwoods.

“I want to wash myself,” Mary Beth said.

“Sure,” Virgil said.

“I want to wash myself all over,” she said. “Laurel, too.”

“We won’t look,” Virgil said.

“Will you come down and stand close while we go in the water?” Mary Beth said.

“Sure,” Virgil said.

He went with them, and when they got to the stream he turned his back. I made fire out of some dead cottonwood branches. Didn’t make a good fire. But it would be enough to cook. Pony was slicing salt pork into a fry pan. After I got the fire built I put some biscuits in a Dutch oven and put it next to the fire.

After a time, the women came up from the water, wearing a couple of blankets. Their clothes were draped in the warm wind over the lower branches of one of the cottonwoods. They sat close to Virgil while we ate lunch. By the time we were ready to move on, their clothes were dry enough to wear, and we looked away again while they dressed.

We rode northeast all the rest of the day. Laurel stayed close to her mother, and her mother stayed close to Virgil. As far as they were concerned, it was as if me and Pony were along to carry Virgil’s ammunition.

When it was dark, we made camp and sat around the fire with the whiskey jug.

“When we get to Brimstone,” Virgil said, “you gonna be able to handle the farm by yourselves?”

“Oh my God,” Mary Beth said. “My cow. She has to be milked. What happened to my cow?”

“She’s okay,” Virgil said. “Got somebody looking after her.”

Mary Beth nodded and looked at Laurel. Laurel looked blank. She had a little whiskey in a tin cup and sipped it now and then. Otherwise, she was still. Mary Beth drank some of her whiskey.

“You asked me something,” she said to Virgil.

“Can you work the farm by yourself?”

Mary Beth took another swallow of whiskey and let it rest in her mouth for a time before she swallowed.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I can cook and sew and milk the cow and grow vegetables. I don’t know about plowing and digging and hauling. My husband always did that.”

“Got any money to hire a hand?” I said.

She seemed startled that I was there. She looked at me long enough to say “No.” And then looked back at Virgil.

“Maybe Brother Percival would donate somebody,” I said to Virgil.

“But we can’t be alone,” Mary Beth said.

“Maybe we can arrange a hand,” I said.

“No,” Virgil said. “She means she can’t be alone.”

“Anywhere,” I said.

Mary Beth nodded. Laurel was still.

“Anywhere,” Virgil said.

“That makes it a little harder,” I said.

I handed the whiskey jug to Pony; he took a pull and passed it on to Mary Beth. She fastidiously wiped the mouth of the jug with the bottom of her skirt, and poured some whiskey into her cup.

“Can’t be alone,” she said.

34

THE NEXT DAY WE CAME to the Paiute, and a day later, riding up the low rise from the river, we saw the Ostermueller farm. The draught horses that had followed us all the way broke into a trot and went past us, heading for the stock shed. We paused. Virgil glanced at the women. As we sat, tears started down Mary Beth’s face.

“Want to stop off here?” Virgil said.

Mary Beth shook her head.

Laurel suddenly kicked her horse in the ribs and hung on to the saddle horn as he broke into a gallop. Pony went after her and caught her as her horse, getting no instructions from its rider, slowed to a walk. He caught the bridle and they stopped. Laurel stayed hunched over the saddle horn, her face turned away from the farmhouse. Pony looked back at Virgil. Virgil gestured toward town. Pony shrugged and let go of the harness, and rode beside her as they went toward Brimstone. As soon as we were past the farm, Laurel slowed her horse until Virgil came up.

“The horses,” Mary Beth said.

“Everett’ll take care of them, for now,” Virgil said. “Till we get you settled.”

Mary Beth nodded. They kept riding.

The horses were standing blankly in the stock shed. I tethered my horse, gave the draught horses more food than they needed, and filled the drinking trough. One of the horses paused while he was eating and put his head over into the empty stall where the milk cow had stood. He stood for a moment like that. Then he went back to eating. I put some fresh hay on the floor, hooked the stall gates, and rode after the others.

I caught up with them at the edge of town. We rode in before noon, tied the mule and the horses to the rail in front of the sheriff’s office, and went in. Virgil put two chairs out for the women. Then he went and sat at the desk. Laurel sat in the chair nearest Virgil. I took my usual chair, and leaned the eight-gauge against the wall next to me. Pony leaned on the wall by the door.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Virgil said. “We’re going to get you a nice room at the hotel. They . . .”

“No,” Mary Beth said. “No. Not alone. You can’t leave us. Don’t leave us. He’ll come back. He’ll come right into town.”

Virgil waited. Laurel sat stiff in her chair. Mary Beth started to cry.

“No, please, no . . .” And then the sobbing overcame her and she couldn’t talk.

“We won’t leave you alone,” Virgil said quietly.

She was too committed to crying to stop all at once. But she cried more gently.

“We get you a room,” Virgil said, “that looks out on the lobby. One of us, me, Everett, or Pony . . .”

He looked at Pony. Pony nodded.

Virgil continued.

“. . . be sitting right there in the lobby.”

“He’ll sneak in on us. He’ll come in while we’re sleeping,” Mary Beth said.

“Be on the second floor,” Virgil said. “You keep your window locked. And we’ll give you a bell.”

“Bell?”

“Cowbell,” Virgil said. “He ain’t gonna know what room you’re in. If he does, he ain’t gonna climb up the side of the wall. If he could, he’d have to break the window and you’d hear him and ring the bell and we come running.”

“What if he kills you?”

“We been doing this kind of work for a long time,” Virgil said. “Nobody’s killed us yet.”

Mary Beth was shaking her head.

“Won’t be for long, just while we arrange something for you,” Virgil said. “I’ll have my . . . I’ll have a woman I know come in and see to you. Bring you clothes, things like that. She been through some of what you been through.”

“She has? Can she be alone?”

Virgil and I looked at each other.

“She’s managing it,” Virgil said.

“Well, I can’t manage it,” she said. “And neither can Laurel.”

“Mary Beth,” I said. “No such thing as perfect safety. You are as safe now as you have ever been in your life. Or ever will be.”

Mary Beth looked at her daughter. Laurel was stiff, and her body was all angles. She registered nothing.

“Lady,” Pony said softly from the doorway. “He will not hurt you. I promise he will not.”

“What if they don’t have a room that you can see the lobby?” she said.

“They will,” Virgil said.

Mary Beth had stopped crying.

“This is as safe as I’m ever going to be,” she said.

“Or ever were,” I said.

“What Everett means,” Virgil said, “is safe is more how you feel than how things are. You’re safe. You just don’t feel it.”

Mary Beth nodded.

“Two weeks ago,” I said, “you felt safe in your house. And you weren’t. Now you don’t feel safe with us. And you are.”

“Safe and not safe is mostly in your head,” Virgil said.

He stood and put out one hand each to Mary Beth and Laurel. Mary Beth took it. Laurel didn’t. Virgil didn’t seem to notice, except that I knew he did, because Virgil notices everything.

“Here we go,” Virgil said.

The women hesitated.

“Bring the eight-gauge,” Virgil said to me. “Make everyone feel safer.”

“Including you?” I said.

Virgil grinned.

“ ’Specially me,” he said.

The women stood. Mary Beth first, then Laurel. And we went out of the sheriff’s office and walked down to the hotel, Laurel holding on to Virgil’s left sleeve. The chances of Buffalo Calf coming into town were very small. The chance that he even knew the women weren’t in Mexico was very small. But the women were so scared I found myself keeping an eye out.

Just in case.

35

“THESE WOMEN NEED OUR HELP,” Allie said to Brother Percival.

Mary Beth and Laurel sat in the front row of pews beside Allie, wearing some clothes that Allie had given them. Brother Percival stood in front of the altar rail, facing them in his white robe, with his long blond hair spilling onto his shoulders, and his thick arms folded across his chest.

“He thinks he’s Jesus,” I whispered.

“No beard,” Virgil said.

Pony stood in the back of the church, by the door. Choctaw Brown stood near him. Choctaw and Pony were studying each other. A couple of other deacons stood against the far wall. There was no one else in the church.

“What is your name?” Percival said.

“Mary Beth Ostermueller.”

“Tell me your story, Mary Beth,” Brother Percival said.

“An Indian killed my husband and took us,” Mary Beth said. “He sold us to some men who were taking us to Mexico when Mr. Cole came and saved us.”

“All by yourself,” I said.

Virgil ignored me. He was looking at Percival.

“What happened to the men?”

“Mr. Cole killed them.”

“Wish I coulda seen it,” I whispered.

Virgil shrugged.

“Were you despoiled?” Percival said.

“Despoiled?”

“Did these men do things to you.”

“Yes.”

“What?”

Mary Beth shook her head.

“We can’t talk about it,” she said.

“And the young lady?” Brother Percival said.

“My daughter, Laurel.”

Percival nodded and spoke to her.

“What do you have to say, Laurel?”

Laurel’s silence was like a boulder.

“Does she speak?” Percival said.

“Hasn’t spoke since this happened to her,” Allie said.

“That right?” Percival said to Mary Beth.

“Yessir,” Mary Beth said. “And when we passed our farm she tried to ride off.”

“Do you know why?” Percival said.

“It’s where her father got killed,” Mary Beth said. “Figured it was something about that.”

“You own that property?” Percival said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you work it without a man?” Percival said.

“No, sir,” Mary Beth said. “We can’t even live there.”

“They are afraid,” Allie said. “After what happened. They are frightened of being alone.”

Percival nodded.

“I understand,” he said.

“I thought perhaps that they could live in the single woman’s dormitory in the church compound,” Allie said rapidly. “I been seeing them every day, you know, and I been thinking about it a lot, and I thought maybe the church could work the farm for them. Sort of as a way for them to pay for their keep here.”

Percival stood silent for a while, then looked at Virgil.

“Do you have a thought, Deputy?”

“I believe it is your Christian duty,” Virgil said.

“Of course,” Percival said.

36

VIRGIL AND I SAT IN two straight chairs tilted back against the wall on the front porch of the sheriff’s office.

“Where’s Allie?” I said. “Ain’t seen her in a while.”

Virgil grinned.

“Miss those lunches?” Virgil said.

“God, no,” I said. “She ain’t doing your shirts no more, either.”

“Nope, taking them to the Chinaman again.”

“So she’s out closing down saloons?” I said.

“She’s at the church, mostly,” Virgil said. “I think she adopted them two women.”

“Mary Beth and Laurel?”

“Yep.”

“Laurel talk yet?” I said.

“Allie says no.”

“Seen a doctor?”

“Both of them. Nothing wrong with them but a few bruises.”

“He look at their, ah, private parts?” I said.

“Don’t know what he looked at, Everett,” Virgil said. “Didn’t ask.”

“Just thought, since they’d been misused . . .”

“Doctor says they are okay,” Virgil said.

“So why don’t the girl talk?” I said.

“Don’t know.”

There were some clouds so that the sky was a pretty even gray, and it looked like it could rain in a while. But it was warm, and the weather still was pleasant.

“How ’bout Mary Beth?” I said.

“She’s drinking a lot,” Virgil said.

“Can’t say I blame her.”

“Ain’t helping the kid,” Virgil said.

“Probably not,” I said.

“Allie says that the mother told her they can’t be mother and daughter no more,” Virgil said.

“So you and Allie are talking ’bout things,” I said.

“Yep.”

“They can’t be mother and daughter because of what happened?” I said.

“Allie said that Mary Beth said that she and the kid seen each other do things that no mother and daughter should ever see.”

I nodded.

“Wasn’t like they had a choice,” I said.

Virgil shrugged.

There was a lot of traffic on Arrow Street. Carriages, buck-boards, freight wagon, men on horseback. There were a lot of people walking along the boardwalks and going in and out of shops. From the blacksmith shop across the street and around the corner, I could hear the clang of his hammer.

“How they getting on with the Reverend Brother Percival?” I said.

Virgil grunted.

“He has them in for pastural counseling, every day,” Virgil said, “whatever that is.”

“Pastoral,” I said. “Like a pastor.”

“Sure,” Virgil said.

“Both of them together?”

“Nope, one at a time,” Virgil said.

“Must be an interesting time with the kid,” I said.

“Who don’t talk,” Virgil said.

“I don’t like Brother Percival,” I said.

“Me neither,” Virgil said.

“I think he’s got something going on we don’t know about,” I said.

“Me too.”

“How come Choctaw’s with him and with Pike?” I said.

“ ’Cause Percival’s got something going on with Pike.”

“Pike ought to love him,” I said. “Percival’s closing down all Pike’s competition.”

“Maybe that’s what they got going on,” Virgil said.

“Nice for Pike,” I said. “What’s Percival get?”

“Maybe money,” Virgil said. “Maybe the joy of doing God’s work. Maybe both.”

“Thing wrong with folks like the holy Brother Percival,” I said, “is that they think they got a right to do anything. Because they doing God’s work.”

Virgil let his chair tip forward a little and then bumped it back against the wall. He was so balanced, so exact in all his movements, that I figured he could probably balance in that chair if there wasn’t any wall.

“Kinda like to know what he’s telling those ladies in them pastoral sessions,” Virgil said.

“Probably telling ’em they’re going to hell,” Virgil said.

“For getting raped?” I said.

“Maybe Percival don’t see it that way,” Virgil said.

“No, maybe he don’t,” I said.

“Bet God would let that go,” Virgil said.

“Yeah, but you don’t know,” I said. “Percival knows.”

“Sure,” Virgil said. “Sure he does.”

37

I WAS UPSTAIRS IN PIKE’S PALACE, lying on a bed with a whore named Frisco. I never knew the rest of her name. But she was a nice girl, except for being a whore. She was clean, and sort of smart, and sort of pretty, and fun to talk to. When I could I’d been keeping company with her since I got to Brimstone.

“Chasing that Indian around didn’t wear you down none,” Frisco said.

“I’m a lively fella,” I said.

“Yes, you are,” she said. “I hear those women ain’t doing so well.”

“They had a rough time,” I said.

Frisco grinned.

“Fucking a bunch of men?” she said. “Hell, I do that pretty much every day.”

“One of them is fifteen,” I said.

“How old you think I was when I started?” Frisco said.

“Soon as you could,” I said.

“I wasn’t so willing the first few times, either,” she said.

“Hard to imagine,” I said.

“Well, it’s true, and I got over it. Didn’t turn into a drunk. Didn’t stop talking.”

“How you know so much about these women?” I said.

“Whores know a lot,” she said.

“You surely do,” I said.

“I mean we know a lot about what’s going on, lotta men visit with us. Lot of ’em get kind of drunk and kind of excited and they talk about things.”

“Why do they get excited?”

“You know damn well why,” Frisco said. “Some of the holy church deacons stop by.”

“No,” I said.

“They ain’t as holy as you might think,” Frisco said.

“Ain’t it a shame,” I said.

“Anyway, they tell me that Virgil Cole’s woman friend is taking a special interest in them.”

“Allie,” I said.

“Yep, and that even His Holiness the Reverend Brother Bullshit is talking to them.”

“So I hear,” I said.

“You like her?” Frisco said.

“Allie?”

“Yes.”

“Allie ain’t someone you just like or don’t like,” I said. “You kinda do both.”

“Virgil feel that way?”

“He probably likes her more than he don’t like her,” I said.

“I hear she’s had a little something with Brother Bullshit,” Frisco said.

“Percival?” I said.

“While you and Virgil was off after that Indian.”

“How do you know?”

Frisco smiled.

“I told you, whores know stuff.”

“You know if it’s true?” I said.

“No,” Frisco said. “Not really. Just heard it said.”

“Let us agree on something right now,” I said.

“I won’t say nothing to Virgil,” she said.

“Or anybody else,” I said.

“Promise.”

“I like you, Frisco,” I said. “I think you got a good heart. But you spread this story and I will hurt you.”

“I promised, Everett. What else you want?”

“I want you to know I’m serious,” I said.

“I know that, Everett. I know you’re serious.”

We lay on the bed for a bit, staring up at the ceiling of the narrow room. The window was open and the curtains stirred. Frisco sat half up and looked at me.

“Probably ain’t so, anyway,” she said.

“Probably not,” I said.

“Probably just a rumor,” Frisco said.

“Long as Virgil don’t hear it,” I said.

She was silent for another minute, looking at me.

“It always amazes me,” she said. “You got all them scars and you ain’t dead.”

“Sort of amazes me, too,” I said.

“Oh, look,” she said. “I see a sure sign of life right now.”

“Let’s not waste it,” I said.

38

WE WERE SITTING IN OUR CHAIRS in front of the sheriff’s office. The day was bright and not hot. The wind moved a little dust around on Arrow Street. We were drinking coffee.

“Big Bend Saloon closed,” I said.

“I know,” Virgil said.

“Last one,” I said.

“ ’Cept for Pike’s Palace,” Virgil said.

“Nice for Pike,” I said.

“ ’ Less Percival closes him down,” Virgil said.

“Think that’ll happen?” I said.

“Percival’s getting to be a pretty grand fella in town,” Virgil said.

“I hear people want him to run for councilman,” I said.

“Uh-huh.”

“On the other hand, there’s something going on between Pike and Percival,” I said.

“Uh-huh.”

Virgil was looking down Arrow Street. A man in a gray vest and striped pants was walking toward us.

“He shot my horse,” he said, when he got close enough.

“Who shot your horse?” Virgil said.

“The Indian.”

“Which Indian,” Virgil said.

“Big one, black coat and hat,” the man said. “Shot my horse right out from under me.”

“How come he didn’t shoot you?”

“Don’t know,” the man said. “Sat on his horse ten feet away and looked at me, then he took an arrow out of his boot and tossed it on the ground and rode off.”

“You armed?” Virgil said.

“No.”

“Where’d it happen?”

“Right outside town, just past the ford.”

“What’s your name?” Virgil said.

“Stroud.”

“Okay, Mr. Stroud,” Virgil said. “We’ll take a look.”

“I liked that horse,” Stroud said.

“See what we can do,” Virgil said. “Everett, try to find Pony.”

I took the eight-gauge and headed for Pike’s Palace.

An hour later the three of us were sitting on our horses, looking at Stroud’s dead horse. Pony climbed down and picked up the arrow that lay on the ground near the horse. He looked at it for a moment and handed it to Virgil.

“Same thing,” Virgil said, and handed it to me.

“No arrowhead,” I said.

Pony circled the dead horse in steadily widening circles. Twenty feet from the horse, he stopped and sat on his heels and studied the ground.

Then he pointed south, along the river.

“Gone this way,” Pony said. “Come this way same.”

“Okay,” Virgil said.

We rode south along the river. The hoofprints were plain enough. I could have followed them, too.

“Going fast,” Pony said after a while.

I could see that the prints were deeper and farther apart, with a little rim of dirt pushed up in back of each print.

“Why you suppose he didn’t kill that fella?” Virgil said.

“Stroud?” I said. “I’m guessing he wanted us to hear about it quick.”

“So we’d come out looking for him quick,” Virgil said.

“Maybe,” I said. “Why would he be in a hurry?”

“Mighta been a day, maybe longer, ’fore someone found the dead man and told us,” Virgil said.

We rode in silence, following Pony as he tracked.

“Probably took Stroud an hour to walk in from where his horse got shot,” Virgil said. “And it took us maybe another hour to find Pony and saddle up and get out here and look around.”

“So, say he’s got two hours on us,” I said.

“And he’s pushing his horse,” Virgil said.

“Can’t push him forever,” I said.

“Unless he got more than one,” Virgil said. “And even if he don’t, he can widen the gap between us.”

“So he isn’t trying to walk us into an ambush,” I said.

“Don’t seem so,” Virgil said. “He was doing that, he’d want us to catch up.”

“He wants us out of town,” I said.

“Seems so,” Virgil said.

“We could head back to town now,” I said.

“Yep.”

“But if we’re wrong,” I said, “we lose the chance to catch him.”

“Yep.”

Pony turned to the riverbank, which was probably twenty feet high at this point.

“Jefe,” Pony said.

Virgil and I moved up beside him. Pony pointed at the horse tracks.

“Into the river,” Pony said.

“From here?” I said.

Pony pointed again.

“Horse go down,” he said.

We looked at the gouges and drag marks in the riverbank. “Why not wait for the ford,” I said, “downriver?”

“It’s what he’s hoping we’ll do,” Virgil said.

Pony patted his horse’s neck.

“We go down,” Pony said, and kicked the horse toward the bank. The horse balked. Pony kicked him again, leaning over the horse’s neck. He was speaking to him in Apache, too fast and soft for me to make any of it out. The horse went over the edge, front legs stiff out ahead of him, back legs bunched, and began to slide and scramble down the near-vertical slope, with Pony crouched up over his neck. Pony let the reins drape over the saddle horn and held on to the horse’s mane, still talking to him in Apache.

And then they were down and into the river. It was deep here, so the horse had to swim. Pony slid out of the saddle as they went in and they swam together, with Pony’s hand on the saddle horn to the other side. When they reached the other side, I saw why the Indian had gone in here. There was a short strip of dry land at the foot of the far bank, and a narrow arroyo, cut by spring rains, that Pony was able to lead his horse into. We lost sight of them for a little while, and then they appeared at the top of the bank on the other side.

“That would have been the place for the ambush,” I said.

Virgil nodded.

Holding his horse’s reins, Pony crouched again and looked at the sign. Then he swung up into his wet saddle and pointed north, back the way we’d come, and began to follow the tracks.

I looked at the riverbank.

“Nothing says we have to go across here,” I said.

“Nope,” Virgil said. “But I’m thinking that one of the reasons he went across is if you went after him, you couldn’t get back.”

“So you’d get back to town at least two hours after he did,” I said. “No shortcuts.”

“Yep.”

“But,” I said, “we ain’t over there, and if we head straight northeast, and don’t stay with the river, we can probably close that by an hour.”

“And if we ain’t got it figured right,” Virgil said, “we’re leaving Pony to go up against this fella by himself.”

“Pony ain’t no bank clerk,” I said. “ ’Sides, what would we do for him over here.”

“You’re thinking ’bout the eight-gauge,” Virgil said. “With a Winchester I could hit a jackrabbit from here, never mind a big Indian in a black coat.”

“So, which is it?” I said. “The town, or Pony?”

“We get back to town quick as we can, we’re still an hour after him,” Virgil said.

“And it don’t figure that whatever he’s doing, he’ll spend an hour doing it,” I said.

Virgil nodded.

“So, it’s Pony,” I said.

“It is,” Virgil said.

“Good,” I said.

We rode north along the river, with Pony on the other side. At the ford near town, Pony stopped beside a riderless horse. The horse wore no saddle or bridle. Pony got down and looked at his hooves. Then he looked at the ground for a moment and got back up on his horse. He came across the river.

“Other horse,” he said.

“Hid him near the ford,” Virgil said.

Pony was looking at the ground.

“Ride him to town,” Pony said.

“So he’s got a fresh mount,” I said.

Virgil nodded.

“Let’s see what he did,” Virgil said.

And we rode into town, following the fresh tracks of the new horse straight down Arrow Street.

39

THERE WERE A LOT OF PEOPLE standing around on Arrow Street as we rode into town. There was a crowd in front of Pike’s Palace, looking at the shattered front windows in the swinging doors.

Pike came out of the saloon and stood on the porch.

“Pony,” he said. “Where the fuck were you?”

Pony grinned and made a big circular motion with his hand.

“Round and round,” he said.

“And you fucking deputies,” Pike said. “Where the fuck you been?”

With no expression on his face, Virgil looked at Pike for a long silent moment.

Then he said, “Round and round.”

“Fucking Indian rode in here, dozen people saw him, big as life,” Pike said. “Like he’s the fucking mayor or something. Rides right up Arrow Street. Hauls out a shotgun and unloads both barrels through my windows. You know how much those cocksuckers cost me? They come all the way from fucking Saint Louis, and that fucking red nigger blows them apart and rides out.”

“Anybody hurt?” I said.

“Couple of drunks got nicked,” Pike said. “They’ll live.”

Virgil was looking at the street in front of the saloon.

“Left him an arrow,” Virgil said.

I nodded.

“I don’t give a fuck what he left. What are you gonna do about it.”

“We’ll probably chase him again,” Virgil said.

“Don’t bother,” Pike said. “I sent Kirby and J.D. after him.”

“Anybody else?” Virgil said.

“J.D. and Kirby’s usually enough,” Pike said.

Virgil nodded.

“You know why this fella shot up your saloon,” he said.

“ ’Cause he’s a fucking prairie coon, and he don’t know what else to do,” Pike said.

Virgil nodded.

“Figured there’d be a reason,” he said. “Pony, come on down to the office with us.”

“I want Pony here,” Pike said.

“None of us cares much what you want, at this here moment,” Virgil said. “Me and Everett are deputy sheriffs, and we’re planning to question Pony.”

Pike looked at Virgil. Virgil looked back. The crowd began to open up a little. I stepped away from Virgil and rested the eight-gauge barrel up on my shoulder, and thumbed both hammers back. It was so quiet that I could hear the sound of cicadas singing.

They sang for a while.

Then Pike said, “Pony, when you’re through with the deputies, come on back here, if you would.”

Pony nodded, and turned and walked down to the office with me and Virgil. Behind us, Pike went back into his saloon, and the crowd began to thin out.

40

“WHADDYA THINK?” Virgil said to Pony as we sat out front of the sheriff’s office and looked at things.

“J.D. and Kirby town men,” Pony said. “Good with guns, but . . .” He shook his head.

“Not so good on the prairie?” Virgil said.

“No,” Pony said.

“Not as good as the Indian,” Virgil said.

“No.”

“You as good as the Indian?” Virgil said.

Pony nodded.

“Better,” he said.

The stage from Barrow went past, heading for the St. Louis Hotel, the big draft horses walking easily. The driver held the reins loosely. They’d made the run so often that the horses knew when to slow down and where to go.

“This whole thing was supposed to get someone to ride out after the Indian,” I said.

“Seems so,” Virgil said.

“He didn’t go to all this trouble to get us out of town so he could ride in and shoot out Pike’s windows,” I said.

“Think he wanted J.D. and Kirby?” Virgil said.

“I think he wanted Pike,” I said.

“Makes more sense,” Virgil said. “Don’t it.”

“Certainly gotta be some reason he’s hanging around here,” I said. “ ’Stead of someplace else.”

“Same reason,” Pony said, “coyotes around dead buffalo.”

“Just that?” I said. “ ’Cause the killing is easy?”

Pony shrugged.

“Maybe,” he said.

“Any reason he might have for killing people round here?” Virgil said.

“Indian people always have reason to kill white people,” Pony said.

Virgil nodded.

“Indian always happy to kill white,” Pony said. “So this Indian come here and he kill cow and not much happen. Except he get some beef. Then he kill a man and steal his horses. He get to do something he like, and he get to take horses, and he get to look at you.”

“Us,” Virgil said.

“Yes, he get to see what you are like.”

“Same with the women?”

Pony nodded.

“Kill white man, take white women, have white women, sell white women, see what you do.”

“And now this,” Virgil said.

Pony nodded again.

“You think it’s about Pike?” Virgil said.

“Maybe,” Pony said. “Maybe about you.”

Virgil was sitting with his chair tilted back. He let it slowly come forward until it was flat.

“He’s thinking we’ll come after him,” Virgil said.

“Maybe,” Pony said.

“So maybe it ain’t about Pike,” Virgil said.

“Maybe about all,” Pony said.

“Pike and Everett and me.”

“Might,” Pony said.

“You been with Pike a long time,” Virgil said.

“Scouted for him in Army,” Pony said.

“He done anything,” Virgil said, “you know about, might rile this Indian?”

“Pike killed a lot of Indians,” Pony said.

“But you work for him,” I said.

“Half Mexican,” Pony said.

“And half Indian,” I said.

“Half Chiricahua,” Pony said. “Pike didn’t kill no Chiricahua.”

“Who’d he kill most?” Virgil said.

“Comanche,” Pony said. “Hell, I kill Comanche, too.”

“Think this Indian’s Comanche?” Virgil said.

“Don’t know,” Pony said. “It’s Comanche land. Arrow could be Comanche.”

“But you don’t know,” I said.

“Indian make arrow out of what he can find,” Pony said. “ ’Specially toy arrow he going to leave behind.”

“Name’s Buffalo Calf,” I said.

Pony shrugged.

“Speaks English good,” Virgil said.

“Me too,” Pony said.

“Sometimes,” I said, “some Indians’ camp would get wiped out and they’d take a couple kids that survived and send them to Indian school. Teach them to be good Americans.”

Virgil nodded. He sat silently for a while, then tilted his chair back again and looked at the street.

“So maybe he’s after Pike because Pike killed some Comanches when he was in the Army,” Virgil said.

“Not in battle, though,” I said. “Comanches see death in battle as honorable. Part of how things are. No reason to revenge such a death.”

“So it would be something else, then,” Virgil said.

“Maybe women, children, something like that,” I said.

“Pony?” Virgil said.

“Sí, jefe,” Pony said. “Comanche people, Chiricahua people, most Indian people, death between warriors honrosco.”

“And maybe Buffalo Calf got scooped up and sent to school,” Virgil said. “And now he’s grown up and wants revenge?”

Pony shrugged. I shrugged.

“Could be,” I said.

“So, if he’s after Pike, why all the rigmarole,” Virgil said.

“Maybe he wants Pike to know it’s him,” I said. “And to think about it. Maybe it’s got some private meaning to him.”

“And maybe we got it all wrong,” Virgil said.

“And maybe we’ll never know, even when it’s over,” I said.

“Sometimes you don’t,” Virgil said.

“Even if you went to West Point?” I said.

“Maybe even then,” Virgil said.

“Disappointing,” I said.

“Sometimes it’s just about shooting,” Virgil said.

“Least we’re good at that,” I said.

“And if it ain’t Pike?” Virgil said. “Why us?”

“Power?” I said, and looked at Pony.

Pony nodded.

“He see you come look at first dead man,” Pony said. “He see you come take women back. See you have power. He kill you. He take your power.”

“And Pike?” Virgil said.

“He kills Pike,” I said, “we still have power.”

Virgil nodded.

“Complexicated,” he said.

“Very,” I said.

Virgil looked at Pony, who was looking at nothing and seeing everything, the way Virgil did.

“Maybe J.D. and Kirby will get him,” Virgil said.

Pony shook his head.

“You with us on this?” Virgil said. “If they don’t?”

“Yes,” Pony said.

Virgil grinned at him.

“You after his power?” Virgil said.

Pony didn’t grin, but he looked like he might have.

“Sí, jefe,” he said.

41

MARY BETH CAME INTO the sheriff’s office after lunchtime, mush-mouth drunk and weaving as she walked.

“Wanna report a man fuckin’ a child,” she mumbled.

Virgil stood and went around his desk and eased her onto a chair. Then he sat on the edge of his desk right in front of her.

“A man fucking a child,” Virgil said.

“Used to fuck me, now he fuckin’ her.”

Virgil nodded.

“You thinking about what happened to you and Laurel, ’fore we found you?”

“Naw,” Mary Beth said. “Brother Percival fucking us.”

“You let him?” Virgil said.

“I don’ . . .”

Mary Beth slid suddenly off the chair. Quick as he was, Virgil got a hold of her as she went and broke her fall. He eased her the rest of the way down and she sat on the floor with her legs splayed.

“Everett,” Virgil said. “Whyn’t you go see if you can find Allie.”

I nodded and left.

I found her in The Church of the Brotherhood, practicing on the organ. To me it sounded like a cow in labor, but I was never musical.

“What’s wrong?” she said when she saw me.

“Nothing bad,” I said. “Mary Beth Ostermueller is drunk and falling down in Virgil’s office.”

Allie stood up.

“Oh, God,” she said.

As we walked down to the office, Allie said, “What is she doing there. What is she telling you?”

“She was telling us that Brother Percival was fucking Laurel,” I said. “ ’Fore she fell off the chair and Virgil caught her.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Allie said.

“Said he’d been doing it to both of them,” I said.

“Brother Percival is a man of God.”

“I’ve heard even they do it, sometimes,” I said.

“Not if they are holy men like Brother Percival,” Allie said.

“He ever show any interest in you?” I said.

“Of course he shows interest. He cares about my soul. He shows interest in everyone.”

“Care about any of your other parts?” I said.

“Everett!”

When we were at the office, I opened the door and ushered her in. Virgil was at his desk, his feet up, his white shirt gleaming from the laundry.

“Where’s Mary Beth?” Allie said.

“Sleeping in a cell,” Virgil said.

“What did she tell you?” Allie said.

“Not much,” Virgil said.

“Everett says she’s been accusing Brother Percival.”

“She said he was poking Laurel,” Virgil said.

“Everett says she was drunk.”

“Seemed so,” Virgil said.

“She’s drunk all the time,” Allie said.

“Don’t mean she’s lying,” Virgil said.

“Not on purpose,” Allie said. “I know that she had a bad time when the Indian took her. Laurel, too. And it made her crazy, and when she’s drunk she’s crazier. I been trying to help her, and help Laurel, and so has Brother Percival.”

“Girl talking yet?” Virgil said.

“No,” Allie said. “And Mary Beth’s crawled into her bottle and given up being a mother.”

“So who looks out for the daughter?” Virgil said.

“I do. I’ve become the closest thing she has to a mother.”

“And she ain’t, ah, indicated nothing to you about Brother Percival’s intentions.”

“No, of course not. You think I would stand by and let that happen? She’s like a daughter to me.”

Virgil nodded. I poured myself a cup of coffee.

“Well,” Virgil said. “Me and Everett are deputy sheriffs here. I guess we got to go talk with Brother Percy.”

“He doesn’t like to be called Percy,” Allie said.

Virgil nodded.

“I’ll keep it in mind,” he said. “You mind sticking here and looking after her if she wakes up?”

“I’ve done it before,” Allie said.

“Good,” Virgil said. “ ’Preciate it.”

“And you’re really going to talk with Brother Percival?” Allie said.

“Just doing my duty,” Virgil said.

“She’ll say anything,” Allie said.

“I know,” Virgil said.

“You can’t believe anything she says.”

“I know.”

“She didn’t tell you anything about me?” Allie said.

“Anything to tell?” Virgil said.

“Virgil, you shouldn’t ask me a thing like that,” Allie said. “Of course there isn’t anything. What do you think I am?”

“Just asking,” Virgil said.

“You know how drunks are,” Allie said. “They don’t remember things that happened. They remember things that didn’t happen. They make up stories. They’ll say anything.”

“Keep that in mind, too,” Virgil said.

He stood. I put down my coffee cup, and we went out into the street.

“Mary Beth tell you anything you haven’t mentioned?” I said to Virgil as we walked toward the church.

Virgil didn’t answer. When Virgil doesn’t answer, it isn’t because he didn’t hear the question.

I didn’t press it.

42

WE TALKED TO BROTHER PERCIVAL in the front room of his house in the compound in back of the church.

“Where’s my organist?” Brother Percival said, and smiled.

He was in his official church clothes: white robe, sandals, long hair.

“Allie’s looking out for a drunk down at the jail,” Virgil said. “Woman named Mary Beth Ostermueller.”

“Poor Mary Beth,” Percival said. “We’re all trying to help her, but . . .”

“She says you’re fucking her daughter,” Virgil said.

Percival looked like he might burst into prayer.

“Oh, dear Lord,” he said.

“Said you was fucking her, and now you’re fucking Laurel.”

“Must you speak so coarsely, Deputy?” Percival said.

“Just quoting Mary Beth, Reverend,” Virgil said.

“She was drunk.”

“She was.”

“The charge is, as you must know, entirely untrue,” Brother Percival said.

The front room of Brother Percival’s house wasn’t much: a table and chair, an uncomfortable-looking round-backed blue couch, a large Bible on a stand near the door. A big photograph of Brother Percival hung in an oval frame on the wall. In the picture he was wearing a dark suit with a vest and a white shirt with a dark tie. In the picture, his hair was short.

“I’m sure it is, Reverend,” Virgil said. “But me ’n Everett, here, bein’ law officers, we have to ask.”

“Of course you do,” Percival said. “I understand perfectly.”

“Got any idea why she might be thinking these things about you?” Virgil said.

“Aside from drunkenness?” Percival said.

“ ’Side from that,” Virgil said.

“Perhaps my attempts to share my religion with them, to help them, somehow became distorted in her degenerated mind. What happened to her and all. The poor woman clearly isn’t right.”

“Something’s wrong,” Virgil said. “Tell me a little ’bout your religion.”

“My religion is the presence of God in me.”

“How’s God feel about sex?” Virgil said.

“Do not blaspheme,” Percival said.

“Sorry,” Virgil said. “Tell me a little ’bout how you been trying to help these two ladies we brought you.”

“I counsel them every day,” Percival said.

“Meanin’ you take them someplace and talk to them,” Virgil said.

“Yes,” Percival said. “I talk with them here. Though it is, of course, a bit more than that.”

“Girl talk any?”

“Not yet,” Percival said. “Poor child.”

“Well, she probably don’t argue much,” Virgil said.

“No, she surely doesn’t,” Percival said. “I’m not sure she understands what I’m saying. I’m not sure she is at all in her right mind.”

“What are you saying?” I said.

“I explain to them that His eye is on the fall of a sparrow,” Percival said. “That He never sends you a burden too great for you to bear.”

“Ain’t found that to be the case myself, Reverend,” Virgil said. “But you probably know more than I do ’bout all that.”

“I know that the Lord resides in me,” Percival said. “I know what the Lord shares with me.”

“Lord always been there?” Virgil said.

“He is always there in all of us,” Percival said. “But many of us deny him.”

He looked sort of pointedly, I thought, at me and Virgil.

“Didn’t realize he was there,” I said.

“I denied him, at first,” Percival said. “There was a time when I denied God, when I lived a life of the physical self, when I drank, when I committed fornication, when I relied on violence. But God would not be denied. He battered my defenses. He forced himself upon me until we have become one.”

“You and God?” I said.

“Yes.”

“One thing?” I said.

“Yes.”

“You and God being one thing,” I said. “Must be pretty hard to think anything you do is wrong.”

“The Lord governs me in all things,” Percival said.

“He tell you to keep Choctaw Brown on the payroll?” Virgil said.

“As you must know, there is no payroll,” Percival said. “Choctaw came to me, as I had been. He came from a life of dissipation and cruelty. He said he wanted to be saved. We welcomed him to the brotherhood.”

“He saved?” I said.

“He is.”

“Still wearing a Colt,” Virgil said.

“I told you we are militant Christians,” Percival said. “We will not allow those who have not been saved to do us harm.”

“I guess probably I ain’t been saved yet,” Virgil said. “But I don’t want you touching that girl.”

“To accuse me is to accuse the Lord, who abides in me.”

“Seems to be the case,” Virgil said.

Percival seemed to get taller as he stood in front of us. He folded his big arms across his wide chest.

“You can’t accuse me,” Percival said.

His voice was firm but not very loud.

“Because of the Lord?” I said.

“We are one,” Percival said. “You cannot accuse us.”

Virgil looked at Percival for a while, the way you’d look at an odd insect you’d found. Percival stood with his arms still folded like he was going to give the Sermon on the Mount. Then he turned and stalked out of the room.

As we walked back to the sheriff’s office, Virgil said, “You believe any of that?”

“Sure,” I said. “Like I believe the world’s flat.”

“Looks flat,” Virgil said.

“But it ain’t.”

“Can’t prove it ain’t,” Virgil said.

“You believe what Percival’s saying?”

Virgil shook his head.

“I think he’d fuck a snake if you held it for him,” Virgil said.

“You think he believes what he’s saying?” I said.

“He might,” Virgil said.

“Think he’s been bothering the women?” I said.

“Something you mentioned,” Virgil said. “You mentioned that if he thought God was in him and he was, you know, part of God, and God was part of him, then he’d feel pretty good about doing anything he wanted.”

“Anything God does is the right thing to do,” I said.

“You think he thinks he’s God?”

“Might,” I said.

“That’s disappointing,” Virgil said.

“ ’Cause you thought you were?”

“Still do,” Virgil said. “Just don’t like it that Percival thinks different.”

“So we know it,” I said.

“Can’t prove it,” Virgil said.

“Mary Beth saying so ain’t enough?”

“Nope,” Virgil said. “Too drunk.”

“We could shoot him anyway, just to be safe,” I said.

“Can’t do that,” Virgil said. “Got to know.”

“How you gonna know?” I said.

“Gotta ask the girl,” he said.

43

ALLIE BROUGHT LAUREL down to the office.

“She got anything to say about Percival,” Virgil said, “better to ask her here.”

Allie sat with Laurel on the couch. I leaned on the doorjamb. Virgil moved his chair to the couch and sat down in front of Laurel.

“You remember me, Virgil,” he said.

She might have nodded.

“I need to ask you some questions about Brother Percival. And I need you to tell me the answers.”

She stared at him as if he hadn’t spoken.

“I can whisper to you,” Virgil said. “And you can whisper back to me if you want to, but I need you to help me with this.”

“Go ahead, honey,” Allie said. “You can do it. It’s important.”

Laurel showed no sign that she heard.

Virgil sat quietly for a time. No one can be as quiet as Virgil Cole, when he wanted to be quiet.

After a little time, he said, “Allie, you and Everett wait outside.”

Allie looked at Laurel.

“You all right with that, honey,” she said.

“We’ll be okay,” Virgil said.

Again, Laurel might have nodded. I opened the office door and stood aside. Allie didn’t seem pleased. But she stood and went out. I followed her and closed the door. We stood near the front window and watched. Virgil took off his hat and put it on the desk behind him. Then he leaned forward and put his face next to Laurel’s and whispered something. He waited. She was motionless. He leaned forward again and whispered and then put his ear next to her lips. The two of them sat that way, with their heads together, Virgil’s hands folded in his lap. I could see that he was whispering.

“What is he doing?” Allie said.

“Whispering,” I said.

“I don’t know if she should be left alone with a man after what happened to her,” Allie said.

“Don’t seem to mind,” I said.

“And Virgil did rescue her,” Allie said.

“All by himself,” I said.

“No, you know what I mean.”

“Virgil was in charge,” I said.

“Virgil’s always in charge,” Allie said.

“True,” I said.

“How’s he know to whisper to her?” Allie said.

“Virgil knows things,” I said.

“How’s he know it’s the right thing to do?”

“Virgil always knows what he’s doing is the right thing to do,” I said. “ ’Cept when it ain’t, and he knows that, too.”

“I guess I still don’t understand him,” Allie said.

“Nothing to understand,” I said. “Virgil don’t never pretend.”

We watched the whispered pantomime through the office window. Laurel was still motionless, her head and Virgil’s close together. I couldn’t tell if she was making any response. But she hadn’t pulled away. I realized that while their heads were close together, Virgil was not touching Laurel.

“I don’t know anyone like him,” Allie said. “Do you?”

“You don’t get to be Virgil Cole,” I said, “being like other folks.”

In the office I saw Virgil nod his head. Then Laurel nodded hers. They still had their heads close to each other.

“Jesus,” I said. “I think they’re talking.”

“My God,” Allie said.

Virgil nodded again. And waited. And nodded again. And whispered. Laurel nodded. Virgil nodded slowly and kept it up, as if Laurel was saying things he agreed with. Then she leaned forward and put her face against his neck and cried. Virgil sat quietly. He didn’t make any move to touch her.

“I better get in there,” Allie said.

“No,” I said.

“She’s crying,” Allie said.

I blocked the doorway.

“No,” I said.

She couldn’t get by me, and she knew it. So we turned back to the window. Inside, Virgil sat quietly while Laurel cried. After a time she stopped and raised her head and sat back. Virgil sat back, too. He reached behind him to the desk and picked up his hat. He put it on and adjusted it, and nodded once at Laurel.

She smiled at him.

“Did she smile?” Allie said.

“Yes,” I said.

He stood and came to the door and opened it.

“We’re done in here,” Virgil said.

“She spoke?” Allie said.

“Yes.”

“What did she say?” Allie said.

“I promised I wouldn’t tell,” Virgil said.

Allie looked like she wanted to argue, but she didn’t. Laurel stood.

Virgil said, “I’ll come by. We’ll take a walk.”

Laurel nodded.

“Maybe tomorrow,” Virgil said.

Laurel nodded.

He looked at Allie.

“Stay with her,” he said.

“I will,” Allie said. “I do.”

She put her arm around Laurel and they went out of the office.

I looked at Virgil. He shrugged slightly. I didn’t ask him what she’d said. I knew he wouldn’t tell me.

44

TWO SADDLE HORSES plodded up Arrow Street, each dragging something. Sitting on the front porch, Virgil and I watched them come. As they got closer we could see that what they were dragging were the bodies of two men.

I stood.

Virgil said, “Let’s see where they’re going.”

We went out to the street as the horses passed and followed them up Arrow Street. The dead men were covered with dirt, and their heads were black with dried blood.

“Scalped,” Virgil said.

I nodded.

“You recognize them?” I said.

“Kinda hard, them being such a mess,” Virgil said.

“Want to guess?” I said.

“J.D. and Kirby,” Virgil said.

“What I’m guessing,” I said.

At Fifth Street, the horses stopped in front of Pike’s Palace and stood at the hitching rail, and drank from the trough. Virgil went and looked at one of the dead men.

“J.D.,” he said.

He looked at the second man.

“Kirby,” he said.

“They were good,” I said.

“Not as good as the Indian,” Virgil said.

“Guess the Indian’s got their power,” I said.

“Guess,” Virgil said.

“No arrow,” I said. “Probably figured it would fall out while they were dragging into town.”

“Scalping sends the same message,” Virgil said.

“Don’t look like they been dragged far,” I said.

“I’d guess edge of town,” Virgil said.

“So he kills them,” I said, “brings them to the edge of town, hitches them up, and lets the horses drag ’em in.”

“Knows they’ll head for home.”

“Which they did,” I said.

Virgil nodded.

“So Pike’d see them,” Virgil said.

“And we would, too,” I said.

Virgil nodded again, looking at the dead men.

“They’re too dirty to make out how he killed them,” I said.

Virgil continued to nod.

“Guess we got to go get him,” Virgil said.

“Yep.”

“Got stuff to do in town,” Virgil said.

“I know.”

Virgil stared at the dead men.

“Got to go get him,” he said again.

Pike came out of the front door of the Palace and looked down at the dead men. Pony came out behind him.

“That fucking Indian,” he said.

“Which one?” Virgil said.

“Buffalo Calf,” Pike said.

“You know it’s him?” Virgil said.

“I know it’s him,” Pike said. “It’s always him, the fuck.”

“Always?” Virgil said.

“I know it’s him,” Pike said. “And I’m through with it. I’m going after him.”

“We’ll do that,” Virgil said.

“The hell you will,” Pike said. “The fucker didn’t kill two of your people.”

“We’ll go after him,” Virgil said.

“You can go with me, you want to,” Pike said, “or not, but I’m riding out of here in an hour with twenty men. And we’re going to bring him back in pieces. Nobody does that to me.”

“Do what you gotta do,” Virgil said. “Me and Everett are gonna need Pony.”

“Pony goes with me,” Pike said.

Virgil looked at Pony.

“I go with Virgil and Everett,” Pony said.

“You work for me, you half-breed cocksucker,” Pike said.

“No more,” Pony said.

“Fuck you, then,” Pike said. “I’ll track him myself.”

He turned and walked back into the Palace.

“Pike ain’t his usual jolly self,” I said.

“Twenty men,” Pony said. “Stampede. Be lucky he don’t kill them all.”

Virgil nodded, looking at the empty doorway where Pike had gone.

“Be lucky,” Virgil said.

45

WE SAT OUR HORSES on the other side of the ford and looked at the muddle of hoofprints that Pike and his posse had left. The pack mule took the opportunity to graze.

“Don’t make tracking the Indian so easy,” Virgil said.

“I find him,” Pony said.

“Pike will assume he’s running,” I said.

“Not running,” Pony said.

“He’ll shadow Pike,” Virgil said.

“If we’re right about him,” I said.

“So, we shadow Pike, we might come across him.”

“Might shadow us,” Pony said.

“He and Pike got a history,” Virgil said. “I ain’t saying he got no interest in us. But they got something between them.”

“Maybe get everybody,” Pony said.

“Might be his plan,” I said.

Virgil was looking at the tracks of twenty horses.

“Pike much of an Indian fighter, when you was with him?”

“Very good soldier,” Pony said. “Kill everybody.”

“And if Buffalo Calf wants to be tracked, Pike won’t have much trouble.”

“No track like me,” Pony said. “But can track. I teach him.”

“When you was soldiering, Everett, what you do with a troop of soldiers like this?”

“They’d be in squads,” I said. “Non com for each. I’d have scouts ahead, maybe some outriders to each flank.”

“Let’s follow along, see if he does that.”

“Think you can track them, Pony?”

“Little girl we save?” Pony said. “She could track them.”

“If we’re right,” Virgil said, “the Indian’s trying to lead Pike into a trap. Be better if we didn’t ride right into it behind them.”

“They rode out at sunup,” I said.

Virgil glanced at the sun.

“Got ’bout two hours on us,” he said.

He looked at the horizon in all directions.

“Land’s flat for a ways,” he said. “Don’t see no place he could hide and watch.”

“So Buffalo Calf has got to trust Pike to follow him,” I said, “until they get into country where Buffalo Calf can spy.”

“You know this country, Pony?” Virgil said.

“Some,” Pony said. “Northwest, maybe two days’ ride, country get rougher.”

“That where you’d go,” Virgil said, “you was gonna ambush somebody?”

“Yes,” Pony said.

Virgil looked at the sun again.

“We’ll follow them,” he said. “See if they turn that way.”

“And if they do?” I said.

“Maybe strike out on our own,” Virgil said.

He clucked to his horse. The mule heard him and pricked his ears forward and stopped grazing. We rode out after Pike, and the mule trotted on behind us. We all had .45 Winchesters, in the saddle boot, and we all wore .45 Colts. Made carrying cartridges easier. I had the eight-gauge. We all rode together. The mule could have followed Pike’s trail.

About midday we came to the place where they’d stopped and reorganized. We sat our horses while Pony rode around the area, looking at tracks.

“Okay,” Pony said. “He send scouts.”

He pointed out the tracks of two individual horses.

He rode around the area some more.

“Outriders,” he said, pointing.

“Okay,” I said. “He’s getting organized.”

“Good soldier,” Pony said. “Know how to fight.”

“Probably got them broken into squads now,” I said.

“No way to tell,” Pony said. “Horses all walk over each other tracks in troop.”

“He actually got twenty men?” Virgil said.

“Cannot tell,” Pony said. “Too many.”

“Let’s assume twenty,” I said. “He sent two scouts out front, and two flankers. Leaves sixteen. So he breaks the rest of them into three squads of five. And he makes sixteen.”

“All he needs is a damned guidon,” Virgil said.

“It’s the way he’s learned to fight,” I said.

“There’s enough of them to be stupid,” Virgil said.

“They figure Buffalo Calf won’t turn and fight them?” I said.

“Yep.”

“So they could ride right on into an ambush,” I said.

“Could,” Virgil said

“Maybe Buffalo Calf has some friends,” I said.

“None before,” Pony said.

“Any Comanche villages around?” Virgil said.

Pony shook his head.

“Mostly reservation Indians now,” Pony said.

“Don’t mean they always stay on the reservation,” Virgil said.

“Nope,” Pony said.

“You think he knows we’re out here?” I said to Pony.

“Probably think we with Pike,” Pony said. “Even mission-school Indian don’t understand white people much.”

“You understand white people?” I said.

“No,” Pony said.

His face was blank. I grinned at him.

“Well,” I said. “We ain’t typical, anyway.”

“Typical?” Pony said.

“Like everybody else,” I said.

“No,” Pony said. “You not like everybody.”

46

WE HAD A COLD CAMP that night, no fire, beef jerky and hard biscuits for supper, some whiskey to wash it down. In the morning, more biscuits and jerky, and some water from the canteen. Not long after sunrise, the tracks turned northwest.

“How far to this high ground you talking about,” Virgil said.

“Half day,” Pony said. “Less, if push horse.”

“Okay,” Virgil said. “Take a look, see how far he sends his outriders.”

Pony nodded and turned his horse and rode in a widening circle around the main tracks until he found the outriders. We sat our horses and waited.

“Both side,” Pony said, when he came back. “Maybe far as you shoot Colt.”

Virgil nodded.

“Want to get beyond the outriders,” he said.

Pony nodded.

“Tell me ’bout this high ground,” Virgil said.

“Start like short hill,” Pony said. “Go up.”

Pony made a steep gesture with his hand.

“Get to be like short mountain,” he said. “Many rocks. Many arroyo.”

“It’s straight northwest,” Virgil said, pointing in the direction the tracks took.

“Sí, jefe.”

“So we go straight north awhile,” Virgil said, “and turn straight left, we might come in behind the Indian.”

Pony nodded.

“What you think, Everett,” Virgil said.

“This is a smart Indian,” I said.

“We’re all smart,” Virgil said. “See who’s smarter.”

We turned north. We weren’t tracking now, so we could go hard.

“You know what we’re trying to do, Pony,” Virgil said. “Tell us when to turn west.”

We crossed the outriders’ tracks as we rode north, and went several miles beyond them. Then Pony turned his horse west, and we followed. In the late afternoon we saw the high ground in the distance stretching north. The flat land from which it rose was well to our south.

“Pretty good,” I said to Pony.

“Sí,” he said.

The going became harder as we went up the eastern slope of the hill. It was as Pony had said, full of rock outcroppings, laced with shale-sided arroyos. We went on up with Pony in the lead. He was leaning out of his saddle now, looking at the ground. I took the eight-gauge out of its scabbard and held it across my saddle. It was dark when we reached the top of the rise. There was no moon or stars. If there was anything to look at, it would have to wait until morning. Pony dismounted and walked ahead, leading his horse. We followed him, also leading the animals. In a while we came to the place Pony was looking for. A stream emerged from between two boulders and ran off downhill into the darkness.

“No fire,” Virgil said.

We let the animals drink. There wasn’t enough forage here, so we fed them some corn from a sack that the mule carried. We fed ourselves more jerky and biscuits. We drank a little whiskey, and decided who would take the first watch. It was Pony. Virgil and I wrapped ourselves in saddle blankets and went to sleep on the ground. About the time Pony woke me for my watch it had begun to rain. We wrapped ourselves in our slickers and hunched against the rock.

47

IT WAS STILL RAINING AND overcast in the morning, and much cooler than it had been. But in the gray light we could see the flat land to our southeast, and on it, in the distance, Pike’s posse. Virgil got a brass telescope from his saddlebag and gazed through it for a while.

“Christ, he brought everybody but the whores,” Virgil said.

He handed it to me.

“I count twenty,” I said.

Virgil nodded.

“You see the Indian?” he said to Pony.

Pony shook his head.

“This stream the only water around?” Virgil said.

“Yes,” Pony said.

“Horse got to drink,” Virgil said. “Him, too.”

“So if he’s camped here,” I said, “he’s probably beside the stream.”

Below us on the plain, Pike’s posse set out toward the hills. Virgil watched them for a little while. Then he put down the glass and glanced up at the dark sky and shrugged.

“Take ’em a while,” he said. “What’s down below.”

“Pass down there,” Pony said. “Halfway up hill, maybe. All rock. Hoofprints stop in there.”

“You think he’ll lead them in there?”

“He know Pike,” Pony said. “He know Pike not go in there.”

“Nobody would go in there,” I said.

“What’s he do if the trail leads in there, Captain?” Virgil said.

“He splits his troops,” I said. “And stays on the high ground, on each side.”

“And looks for the ambush,” Virgil said.

“Yep.”

“Indian know that?” Virgil said to Pony.

“If he ever fight soldiers,” Pony said.

“If he leads him in there,” Virgil said, “he gets Pike to split his posse, and half of them are on the wrong side of the canyon when the fight starts.”

Pony nodded.

“He that smart?” Virgil said.

“Smart Indian,” Pony said.

“Can anybody get across the pass?” Virgil said.

“Too wide to jump,” Pony said. “Too much straight up to climb.”

“So they can’t?”

“Nope.”

“I figure he wants Pike,” Virgil said. “What if Pike’s on the wrong side from him?”

“Not too wide for rifle,” Pony said.

Virgil nodded.

“So he holes up in the right spot and shoots Pike whichever side Pike’s on,” he said.

“He’ll hole up on this side of the pass,” I said.

“So he can get away into the hills,” Virgil said.

“Otherwise, he got to run down onto the open land,” I said.

“Agree?” Virgil said to Pony.

“Many places to hide uphill,” Pony said. “Indian know the land. Ride light, just him and rifle. White men don’t know land. Many equipment to carry.”

“So that’s where he’ll run,” Virgil said.

“If he run,” Pony said.

“You think he won’t?”

“I him, I won’t,” Pony said.

“Whadda you do?” Virgil said.

“Shoot many, then hide. They come after me. I shoot some more and hide another place. Keep doing that. They run away, I go after them, shoot some more, until they get to flat land.”

“You think they’ll run?” I said.

“White man scared of Indians,” Pony said. “Run away sometimes.”

“ ’Specially if the Indian gets Pike first,” Virgil said.

“Indian want you, too, jefe,” Pony said. “He stay till he get you.”

“You think so?” Virgil said.

“He needs to kill you,” Pony said. “You and Pike.”

“Because?” Virgil said.

“You the ones,” Pony said.

“How ’bout Everett?” Virgil said. “Or you?”

“You the ones,” Pony said. “Pike and you.”

“How do you know?” I said.

“Half Indian,” Pony said. “Know how Indian people think.”

Virgil nodded. He watched through his long glass as the posse plodded toward the hills. Then he collapsed the telescope and put it in his saddlebag.

“We may be all wrong,” Virgil said.

“True,” I said.

“But we might be right,” Virgil said.

“True,” I said.

“Let’s mosey on down along this stream,” he said. “See if we are.”

48

WE WENT AS QUIETLY as we could downhill along the stream. The stream gurgled softly, but maybe enough to mask our footsteps. Pony was out front a little; his moccasins made no sound at all. The rain added some sound, too. In front of us were two boulders, tilted against each other, glistening in the rain. Pony stopped behind them. We stopped. Pony pointed to his nose and sniffed at the air. We sniffed, too. Virgil began to nod. He put his mouth to my ear and said, “Horse shit.” I smelled it, too. We moved up beside Pony.

“I’ll go around the rocks left,” Virgil said. “Pony goes around right. Everett, stay here with the eight-gauge.”

I slid on my belly up onto the more slanted of the two boulders, took off my hat, and edged a look over the rim of the rock. Below there was a sort of hollow with some grass near the stream, then more rocks. The same smallish paint I’d seen before was tethered in the hollow, cropping the grass. There was no sign of the Indian. The horse wasn’t big, but lying there a little above him I could see the thick muscles in his haunches and shoulders. He was strong. He’d go up this hill well. He had a conventional bridle on but no saddle.

Beyond the hollow were more rocks, and beyond them I could see the near rim of the pass. To my left, through the rain, I could see the posse coming closer. Below me the horse raised his head and looked at me. Probably smelled me. He stared at me, and I at him. He blew his breath out softly, then dropped his head and went back to eating the wet grass.

Then I saw the Indian.

He stepped out from the rocks with his rifle, looking around the hollow. He wore his black coat and hat. His face was painted black and I could see where the coat was open red stripes painted on his naked chest. I cocked the shotgun. He heard it and looked up at me, and Virgil stepped out from behind the rocks. He had his Colt but not his Winchester.

“Buffalo Calf,” he said.

The Indian turned slowly and looked steadily at Virgil.

“You,” he said.

“Me,” Virgil said.

“You know my name,” the Indian said.

“I do,” Virgil said.

“What’s your name,” the Indian said.

“Virgil Cole.”

“You are not with Pike,” the Indian said.

“Nope.”

“How many are you?”

“Everett up in the rocks,” Virgil said. “Pony Flores over to your left.”

The Indian nodded.

“Everett has a shotgun,” the Indian said. “I heard both hammers cock.”

“Eight-gauge,” Virgil said.

The Indian nodded.

“I had planned to kill you,” he said. “You and Pike.”

Virgil nodded.

“Now, maybe, you will kill me,” the Indian said.

“Maybe,” Virgil said.

“I would wish to have killed Pike first,” the Indian said.

“Why?” Virgil said.

“Things from our past,” the Indian said.

“Put down the Winchester and we’ll take you back to Brimstone,” Virgil said.

“To a white-face jail,” the Indian said.

“Yes.”

“To be hanged by a white-face judge,” the Indian said.

“Probably,” Virgil said.

The Indian nodded.

“Virgil Cole,” he said.

Virgil said nothing. The Indian bent over slowly and laid the rifle on the ground. Then he straightened and there was a big bowie knife in his hand. He came straight at Virgil. Virgil never moved, until, with no apparent hurry, he drew and fired and hit the Indian in the chest. The Indian kept coming. Virgil shot him twice more before he went down, the knife still in the Indian’s hand. He crawled forward a little farther, then stopped. His whole body seemed to convulse with effort, and then it was still. He was dead at Virgil’s feet. Virgil opened the cylinder, ejected the spent cartridges, and reloaded the Colt. Then he put the gun back in his holster and squatted on his heels and looked at Buffalo Calf.

49

WE LAID THE INDIAN SIDEWAYS over the back of his horse, and tied him in place. We got our own animals and went down the slope, leading the paint horse with Buffalo Calf’s body. We rode for maybe half an hour on the flat plain before we came up to the posse. Pike was riding in the lead. When he saw us he stopped the posse and sat waiting for us, peering at us through the rain, until we got close enough for him to make everything out.

“You got to him first,” Pike said to Virgil.

“We did,” Virgil said.

Pike swung off his horse and walked to the dead Indian. He took hold of the Indian’s hair and raised his head and looked at his face.

“Buffalo Calf,” Pike said.

“Buffalo Calf,” Virgil said.

Still holding the Indian’s head up, Pike reached behind him and took a knife from his belt.

“No,” Virgil said.

I never did understand how Virgil got that sound in his voice. But when he said “No,” it was like the closing of an iron valve. Everything stopped.

“I want his scalp,” Pike said.

“No,” Virgil said.

Pike stepped back away from Virgil. I eased my eight-gauge out of its scabbard and rested it across my thigh. On Virgil’s left, Pony looped his reins over the horn of his saddle. Pike looked at Virgil and then looked back at his posse.

“Virgil,” he said. “There’s twenty of us.”

Virgil said, “Anybody puts a hand on a weapon, Pike, and I’ll kill you.”

“For a dead fucking red nigger,” Pike said, “stole two women, killed three men, we know of?”

“Four,” Virgil said.

“You’d fight all of us for that?”

“Be my plan,” Virgil said.

Pike looked at me.

“Everett?” he said.

“I’m with Virgil,” I said.

He looked to Virgil’s left.

“You, Pony?” he said.

“Virgil,” Pony said.

Pike backed off another step.

“You think you’re good enough to kill me?” he said.

“Yes,” Virgil said.

The rain was still coming down. Not hard but steady. The horses all had their heads down so it wouldn’t get in their eyes and nostrils.

“You think you can kill us all?” Pike said.

“Be some of you left when we go down,” Virgil said. “But you won’t be one of ’em.”

Virgil scanned the posse.

“Rest of you can try to figure which ones’ll be left,” he said.

We all sat our horses, except Pike, who still stood in front of Virgil. He took off his hat and held it at his side. The rain began to bead on his bald head. It might have been kind of a pleasant rain if I hadn’t been wet since yesterday. Then, very deliberately, Pike put the knife back in his belt. He shook the water off his hat and put it back on. He grinned.

“Just a damn Comanche buck,” Pike said. “No need for white men to die over him.”

Virgil didn’t speak.

“Hell, Virgil,” Pike said. “We’ll all ride back together.”

“We’ll trail along behind you,” Virgil said.

“You don’t trust me, Virgil?”

“Never did,” Virgil said. “You’re too damned jolly for me.”

Pike laughed.

“I don’t think you can beat me anyway,” he said.

“Never know till we’ve tried it,” Virgil said.

Pike laughed again and swung his bulk up onto his horse.

I put the eight-gauge back in its scabbard. Pike turned the posse. We fell in behind it.

And we headed back to Brimstone.

50

IT WAS HARD TO SAY if the Ostermueller girls, mother and daughter, had a reaction to Buffalo Calf’s death. Mary Beth was drunk now, nearly all the time. And Laurel still didn’t speak, except, now and then, in a whisper, to Virgil. Virgil didn’t report what she said.

Laurel did, however, take to hanging around the sheriff’s office, first only when Virgil was there, but after a time, when either of us was there. She’d come in and sweep up, and make fresh coffee, and sit quietly on the old couch and look out the window. She never spoke. But when Virgil was there, she watched him nearly all the time.

Mary Beth, when she was sober enough, was making a living on her back in Pike’s Palace. It wasn’t much of a living because she wasn’t taking very good care of herself, so she was the whore of last resort most of the time. She was often too drunk to perform. What little money she did make went for booze.

Virgil and I were sitting on the front porch in the bright morning, drinking some of Laurel’s fresh coffee, while she swept up inside. The sun was warm after days of rain, and the town was full of energy.

“What’d you do with the Indian’s horse?” I said.

“Gave him to Pony,” Virgil said.

“What’d Pony do with him?” I said. “Damn thing was barely broke.”

“Pony shot him,” Virgil said. “So Buffalo Calf would have something to ride in the spirit world.”

“Pony believe that?”

“Don’t know,” Virgil said.

“But Buffalo Calf probably did,” I said.

“I guess,” Virgil said.

“Pony ain’t so far from the wickiup himself,” I said.

“ ’Pears not,” Virgil said.

We were quiet while we watched a team of red-and-white Ayrshire oxen pull a big freight wagon up Arrow Street.

“Nice-looking team,” I said.

“Me and Allie been talking ’bout Laurel,” Virgil said.

I nodded.

“She ain’t getting no mothering that’s worth anything,” Virgil said. “ ’Cept what she gets from Allie.”

I nodded.

“We want to take her in with us,” he said.

“And put her in my room,” I said.

“Figure you can bunk in one of the cells,” Virgil said.

“Fine with me,” I said. “You talk to Laurel about it yet?”

“No. Thought I better clear it with you first.”

“Girl that age shouldn’t be on her own,” I said. “ ’Specially after the things happened to her.”

“Allie can sort of look after her,” Virgil said. “Might be good for Allie, too.”

“Kid makes good coffee,” I said. “Maybe she can cook.”

“Be like finding gold, if she can,” Virgil said.

“Percival been bothering her?” I said.

Virgil didn’t say anything.

“You promised her you wouldn’t tell nobody what she told you,” I said.

“Yep.”

“You promise anything else?”

“Yep.”

“You promised her you wouldn’t do nothing,” I said.

Virgil shrugged.

“So, if Percival’s been poking her, and she told you about it, you can’t say nothing about it, and you can’t shoot him.”

Virgil shrugged.

“I didn’t make no promise,” I said.

“You give your word,” Virgil said, “you don’t weasel on it.”

“You mean you can’t let me do nothing.”

“I don’t want no one bothering Brother Percival,” Virgil said.

“Okay.”

“Time comes to bother him,” Virgil said, “I’ll do it.”

“You can bother hell out of someone, you really set your mind to it,” I said.

“I know,” Virgil said, and went into the office to talk with Laurel.

51

WE DEVELOPED A ROUTINE. Every morning Allie would drop Laurel off at the office, leave me some biscuits for breakfast, and then hustle away on God’s business. Or Brother Percival’s. Or one and the same. The biscuits would have stopped a bullet. Laurel would make coffee, sweep up the office, and sit on the couch. I would soak the biscuits in the coffee until they had softened up enough to eat. When the weather was good, I took my breakfast outside. Virgil usually saddled up and did a sweep of the town to start the day, so for a while it was just me and Laurel.

The third week we did this, Laurel brought some corn cakes for breakfast. They were still warm. It was worth sleeping in the jail.

“Allie make this?” I said.

She shook her head.

“Virgil?”

She shook her head. She didn’t smile, but I thought for a moment she might. I picked up the corn cakes and a cup of coffee and went out onto the porch. It was early, and the streets were still empty. I sat down. A coyote came out of the alley between the sheriff’s office and the bank next door. He paused in the middle of Arrow Street and looked at me. I looked back. Then he turned and trotted on across the street and into the alley across the street. Always good forage in a growing town. I sipped some coffee. There was a lot of sugar in it. Behind me the office door opened and Laurel came out and sat in the chair beside me.

“Want a corn cake?” I said.

She nodded. I held the plate toward her. She broke off a piece of one cake and held it in her hand. I took a piece and set the plate on the floor of the porch beside my chair. She took a very small bite. I ate some of mine.

“You cook better than Allie,” I said.

She chewed her corn cake.

“ ’Course, so do I,” I said.

She took another small bite. She sat straight in the chair with her feet flat on the floor and her knees together.

“Your mother teach you to cook?” I said.

I wasn’t looking at her, so I didn’t know if she nodded. I proceeded as if she had.

“Did a good job,” I said. “Taught you how to sit like a lady, too.”

I glanced at her. She was looking straight ahead.

“Hard now,” I said. “That she’s having so much trouble. Hard for you. Hard for her.”

Laurel was silent. Up the street a wagon pulled up outside of Pike’s Palace. The driver jumped down and tied up at the rail outside. There was a piano and a piano bench on the back of the wagon. In a minute Brother Percival came around the corner with Allie. Behind them came Choctaw Brown. Percival helped Allie into the wagon and she began to play loudly, some sort of unrecognizable church music. He climbed in beside her and rested his elbow on the piano. A few early drunks wandered out of the Palace and stared at the wagon. Virgil rode around the corner of Sixth Street and came down behind them and stopped and sat his horse to listen.

“Pike’s Palace,” Percival bellowed. “A palace of debauchery, a stench of whores and poisonous whiskey, a stench of sin, like rotting flesh, odious to God and to all who love Him.”

Allie played some more. Choctaw leaned against the wall next to the door of Pike’s Palace and looked faintly amused. Pike made no appearance. After a while, Percival stopped shouting. Allie stopped playing. They climbed down from the wagon and headed up Fifth Street with Choctaw trailing behind them. The wagon driver untied from the rail and climbed up on his wagon and drove back down Fifth Street. Virgil turned his horse and walked him down the street toward us.

I looked at Laurel.

“Allie don’t play the piano so good, either,” I said.

Laurel nodded almost vigorously.

When Virgil arrived and dismounted, Laurel jumped up and went in and got him some coffee.

“Thank you,” Virgil said. “You sit in the chair, Laurel.”

She shook her head. Virgil nodded as if to himself.

“There’s a chair beside my desk,” he said to Laurel. “Would you go get it and bring it out here?”

She nodded.

When she came out with it, Virgil said, “Put it there, between my chair and Everett.”

She did.

Virgil sat in the chair she’d vacated for him. He looked at Laurel and pointed at the chair she’d just brought out.

“Now sit in it,” he said to her.

She stared at him. Then she sat down between us.

52

“BIG DOINGS up at the Palace,” Virgil said.

I nodded.

“Surprising,” I said.

“Uh-huh,” Virgil said. “Kinda thought there was something going on between Percival and Pike.”

“Looks like there is, but it ain’t what we thought,” I said.

“Or it was what we thought, and now it ain’t,” Virgil said.

“Choctaw’s still trailing along,” I said.

“Yep.”

I watched a cluster of sparrows fluttering around the dried horse manure in the street. Virgil drank his coffee. A fancy little carriage went down the street past us, pulled by a sorrel horse with a black mane and tail. The sparrows flew up as it went by and settled directly back to breakfast when it was gone.

Laurel leaned over and pulled at Virgil’s sleeve. He put his head down, and she whispered to him. He nodded. She whispered some more. He nodded again and whispered to her. She looked at me for a moment. Then she nodded.

“Laurel says Pike and Percival had a big argument. I asked her if I could tell you about it, and she said yes.”

“Thank you, Laurel,” I said.

“Percival and Pike got together pretty often, Laurel says. Pike would come over to the compound, and he and Percival would have a drink together in Percival’s office, and they’d talk awhile. . . .”

Virgil looked at Laurel.

“Can I tell the next part?” he said.

Laurel looked at me silently for a moment, then nodded her head.

“Then Pike would visit with Mary Beth.”

Laurel was watching me. There wasn’t anything to say. I nodded and looked at her and smiled. She kept looking at me.

“Just before Laurel moved in with Allie and me,” Virgil said, “Pike came over, they went to the office, and after a while there was a lot of yelling and the door yanked open and Pike came out. He said a bad word to Percival, and Percival says, ‘My kingdom is not of this earth.’ ”

He looked at Laurel again.

“That right, Laurel?”

She nodded.

“ ‘ My kingdom is not of this earth,’ ” Virgil said.

I shrugged.

“Taking this God thing pretty serious,” I said.

“Probably more than Pike does,” Virgil said.

“Probably,” I said.

“And Pike speaks another bad word,” Virgil said. “And walks off without visiting Mary Beth.”

“And now Percival is outside his place preaching against him,” I said.

“Worked on the other saloons,” Virgil said.

“I kinda thought that was the deal,” I said. “Percival closes down all the other saloons. Pike gets all the business.”

“I kinda thought that, too,” Virgil said.

“And Choctaw?” I said.

“Kinda thought he was Pike’s man,” Virgil said. “Keeping an eye on Percival.”

“Or keeping somebody from killing him while he put them out of business for Pike,” I said.

“Job might be changing,” Virgil said.

“Might.”

“Guess we’ll see,” Virgil said.

“We got a side in this?” I said.

“Depends on what this is,” Virgil said.

“Say this is some sort of battle between Pike and Percival,” I said.

“Well,” Virgil said. “We the law.”

“Yeah, and one law knows a lot more about this than the other law,” I said. “Why I’m asking.”

“Let’s await developments,” Virgil said.

He stood.

“Can’t sit here all day,” he said.

He took his coffee cup and walked into the office. Laurel stood up at once and walked in behind him. I looked after them and smiled.

I was good enough only when Virgil wasn’t around . . . sorta like with Allie.

53

THE PIANO MOUNTED on the wagon expanded Allie’s horizon. She’d taken to driving it herself and parking at every hitching post in town. She’d climb back, sit on the piano bench, and play hymns and sing by herself, without Percival. Today she was doing it right across from the sheriff’s office.

“That’s a painful noise,” Virgil said.

“Can’t you do something ’bout it?” I said to Virgil.

“Keeps her from cooking,” Virgil said.

We were sitting on the porch, Virgil, Laurel, and me.

“Yes,” I said. “I s’pose it does.”

I looked at Laurel and put my fingers in my ears. She dropped her head, and in a moment, put her fingers in her ears, and looked cautiously up to see if I was looking. I smiled at her. She didn’t smile back, but she didn’t look away.

People stopped as they passed her and listened. I suspected it was in disbelief. Between hymns she climbed down with a collection plate and passed it among them. If they gave her anything she would say, “God bless you.” Then she climbed back up on the wagon and played some more and sang some more. I couldn’t tell if it was the same hymns or new ones. They were loud but unvaried. After a while, when no more people came to the wagon, she loosed the team from its hitching post, got back in the wagon seat, waved at us across the street, and drove to a new location.

“You think she believes all this stuff?” I said to Virgil.

“I never quite understood Allie,” Virgil said.

“And now you do?” I said.

“I been thinking ’bout it ever since we took her out of Placido,” Virgil said.

Laurel was sitting very still and very erect, watching Virgil’s face as he talked.

“Always loved her, even when she cheated on me, which, certain sure, she’s done a lot of,” Virgil said. “Still love her. Don’t know why. What I read, I guess that’s how it is. You love somebody, you love ’em.”

Laurel was staring at him.

“ ’Course, I was mad at her a lot,” he said. “You know anything ’bout that, Everett?”

“Never been in love,” I said. “Liked a lot of women. Never loved one.”

“That’s too bad,” Virgil said. “When it’s right, it feels real good.”

“Feel right often?” I said.

“Not too often with Allie,” Virgil said. “But . . .”

Laurel had probably never heard a man talk about such things in her whole life. Virgil didn’t talk about feelings much, because I’m not so sure he had many. But when he cared to, he would talk about anything he felt like talking about. Laurel seemed immobilized, listening to him.

“One of the things I come to see,” Virgil said, “is that Allie believes whatever she needs to believe. And when she don’t need to, she believes something else.”

I nodded.

“She needs a man taking care of her,” I said.

“Yep.”

“You ain’t it,” I said.

“I’m taking care of her,” Virgil said. “Just not . . .”

He looked at Laurel.

“You know,” he said.

“Which means she can’t trust you to take care of her.”

“Sure she can.”

“But she don’t know it, ’less you and she are, ah, taking care of business, she don’t feel like she got any control.”

“Maybe so,” Virgil said.

“Ain’t you, it may as well be God, I guess.”

“Yep.”

Laurel leaned close to Virgil and whispered to him. He listened and nodded. Then he looked at me.

“Laurel told me she understands what we’re talking about, and she don’t mind if we say fuck when we need to.” Virgil’s face showed nothing as he spoke.

I nodded.

“Thank you, Laurel,” I said.

54

IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON. I came back from my turn walking the town and found Allie in the office with Virgil. Laurel sat on the couch silently. Virgil sat at his desk. Allie was on the couch next to Laurel, leaning forward, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

“Want me to come back?” I said.

Virgil shook his head and pointed at a chair. I sat.

“I wanted to tell her here, with you,” Allie said to Virgil.

Virgil nodded.

“I just found out,” Allie said.

Virgil nodded.

“Laurel’s mother killed herself last night,” Allie said.

She put her hand on Laurel’s knee. Laurel didn’t move. She was looking hard at Virgil. Virgil stood and walked to the couch. He gestured for Allie to sit at his desk, and when she stood he took her place beside Laurel. Laurel edged slightly toward him and let her shoulder touch his.

“I’m sorry,” Virgil said to her.

She nodded.

“But your life ain’t gonna change much,” Virgil said. “You been with us, and you’ll be with us. We’ll take care of you.”

She nodded. Her face had not changed. She remained motionless. Then she leaned toward Virgil and whispered to him. He listened. Then he nodded.

“Probably is,” he said.

“I got something else I got to do, Virgil,” Allie said.

Virgil nodded.

“I got to tell you things,” Allie said.

Virgil nodded again.

“If we going to take care of this child, I got to start clean for her,” Allie said.

Virgil waited.

“Brother Percival is in cahoots with Pike,” Allie said.

Virgil nodded.

“Pike agreed to let him have his crusade if he closed down the other saloons and not Pike’s,” Allie said.

Virgil nodded.

“Then Pike gets all the saloon profit in town,” Allie said. “And Brother Percival’s church gets to be bigger and bigger.”

“Kinda figured a lot of that,” Virgil said.

“But it’s changed,” Allie said. “Percival is going to close down Pike.”

All of us were silent for a time.

Then Virgil said, “How do you know?”

“That’s the shameful part, Virgil,” Allie said. “I been with him. Even after he bothered this child, I been with him.”

“I kinda knew that, too, Allie,” Virgil said.

“How’d you know that?” Allie said.

Virgil didn’t answer.

“Percival would be with me and he would drink and he would tell me things,” Allie said. “He’s crazy, Virgil. I think he actually thinks he’s God.”

“Probably ain’t,” Virgil said.

Allie went on, in a kind of rush.

“He says he gets Pike outta the way . . . and you and Everett . . . says he will turn the town into a new Bethlehem.”

“He think Pike’s going to go along with this?” Virgil said.

“No,” Allie said. “He knows there’ll be a fight. He sent Choctaw Brown out to hire more deacons.”

“He thinks Choctaw’s with him on this?”

“Yes.”

“Choctaw’s with Pike,” Virgil said.

“How do you know?” Allie said.

Virgil shook his head and didn’t answer.

“I had to tell you,” Allie said. “I knew I’d have to say I was with Percival, but you had to know. He said he was going to get rid of you, too. I couldn’t let that happen.”

“No,” Virgil said.

He looked at Laurel.

“I am hard to get rid of,” he said. “You shouldn’t worry about it.”

She whispered in his ear.

“Me ’n Everett,” Virgil said. “Like always.”

She whispered to him again. He listened and nodded slowly.

“Good idea,” he said. “Everett, see if you can find Pony Flores, if you would.”

Which I did.

55

“GOT REASON TO THINK there’ll be trouble between Percival and Pike,” Virgil said to Pony.

“Sí,” Pony said.

“I think Pike will chew Percival up and spit him out,” Virgil said.

“Sí,” Pony said.

“But before he does,” Virgil said, “Everett and me may be in the middle of it.”

Pony nodded.

“Where do you stand?” Virgil said.

Pony pointed at Virgil.

“Okay,” Virgil said. “Ball goes up, somebody gotta be looking out for Laurel.”

Pony nodded and pointed at his chest.

“You all right with Pony?” Virgil said to Laurel.

She nodded slowly.

“Might keep an eye on Allie, too,” Virgil said.

“Like mother chicken,” Pony said.

“How come you’re not sticking with Pike?” I said.

Pony nodded at Laurel.

“Chiquita,” he said.

I nodded.

“You know anything ’bout all this?” Virgil said.

“Pike know ’bout Percival,” Pony said.

“Choctaw?” I said.

“Everybody know Choctaw work for Pike,” Pony said.

“ ’Cept Percival,” Virgil said.

“Percival crazy,” Pony said.

“Pike knows that, too?” Virgil said.

“Everybody know that, too.”

“ ’Cept Percival,” Virgil said.

“Pike say he don’t mind if you boys get killed, either,” Pony said.

“Be his town then,” I said. “You think Pike got the outfit to do the job?”

“Percival? Sure,” Pony said. “You boys and me?” He grinned and shook his head.

“ ’ Less he’s hiring some new boys,” I said. “Choctaw’s the best he’s got.”

“Choctaw’s good,” Virgil said.

“Good as you?” I said.

Virgil said, “Subject to proof.”

“Pike the best,” Pony said.

“Might be,” Virgil said.

“Is,” Pony said. “Seen him.”

“Maybe we’ll find out,” Virgil said.

“Pike said he was gonna kill you,” Allie said.

Her voice seemed hoarse and small, as if she were forcing it out through a narrow opening.

We all looked at her.

“Who’d he say that to?” Virgil asked her.

“Me,” she said. “Men tend to brag when . . . you know.”

Virgil stared at her as if he were startled. Which wasn’t possible, because Virgil Cole was never startled.

“Allie,” he said. “ ’Stead of telling me who you been with, be easier if you gave me a short list of men you haven’t.”

“Wasn’t with him often,” Allie said. “Percival used to give me to him once in a while when he’d come over, and they’d be drinking.”

Virgil stood and walked to the office door and looked out at the street for a while. Laurel watched him closely.

Without taking his eyes off the street, Virgil said, “We got to go over this, Allie, all of it, you, me, Laurel. But now ain’t the time.”

He turned slowly from the door and looked at Allie.

“Right now you got one thing to do. You look out for Laurel. You and Pony. You do what Pony says and you don’t ask questions and you don’t think. You do what he says.”

“I am trying to help, Virgil, honest to God. I’m a different woman. I only want to help.”

“You hear what I told you,” Virgil said.

“Yes.”

Virgil walked back and sat beside Laurel again.

“You too, Laurel,” he said. “When it all starts, you do what Pony says, just like it was me.”

She nodded.

“Can you talk with him?” Virgil said.

She shook her head.

“Okay,” Virgil said. “Pony ain’t much of a talker, anyway.”

56

VIRGIL WAS A BEAR on exercising the horses. Most days we’d ride at least one town patrol on them, and every couple of days we’d take them out and breeze them along the river. This day, as we rode back toward town, Virgil reined in for a moment and sat looking across the river where we’d first seen the Indian.

“Wonder what it was,” Virgil said. “ ’Tween that Indian and Pike.”

“Something that mattered,” I said. “He wanted to do more than just kill him.”

Virgil nodded.

“Thinking about it,” Virgil said, “I figure them arrows was all for Pike.”

“Yep.”

“Means Pike knew who it was all the time,” Virgil said. “Since they found that steer.”

“Yep.”

“Mighta helped if he told us,” Virgil said.

“Would,” I said.

We moved the horses forward, letting them walk now, taking our time.

“Think it’ll go like Allie told us?” I said.

“You know Pike,” Virgil said. “You know Percival. Whadda you think?”

“It’ll go like Allie told us.”

Virgil nodded.

“Be nice if they wiped each other out,” I said.

“Be nice,” Virgil said.

“How we going to play it?” I said.

“Stay out of the way,” Virgil said. “Contain it. When one side wins, we deal with them.”

“What you gonna do about Allie?” I said.

“Don’t know about Allie,” Virgil said.

“Hell,” I said. “Allie don’t know about Allie.”

“Probably not,” Virgil said. “But I know we can’t raise no fifteen-year-old girl without a woman.”

“Don’t have to be Allie,” I said.

“Got no better choice at the moment,” Virgil said.

“No,” I said. “We don’t.”

The horses took us slowly back into town, and on down Arrow Street toward the livery stable. The town seemed like it always did. Busy. Lotta people on the street. Kinda prosperous. The Church of the Brotherhood was closed and silent. No organ music. Allie wasn’t playing there anymore. At Pike’s Palace, several of his associates were lingering outside on the porch, wearing sidearms.

We left the horses at the stable and walked to the office. We dipped some water from the barrel, and drank, and sat on the front porch and looked at things.

“So we sit and await developments?” I said.

“Nope,” Virgil said. “I think we go right at ’em.”

“Good,” I said. “I hate awaiting developments.”

57

THERE WAS A NEW LOOKOUT at Pike’s Palace, a tall, thin guy with striped pants and a shotgun on his lap. I went and stood against the wall near him with the eight-gauge while Virgil went to talk with Pike at the bar. The lookout wasn’t happy about me standing there. He looked at Pike. Pike shrugged faintly, and the lookout settled back.

“Why the heavy ordnance, Virgil,” Pike said.

“Oh, Everett’s forgetful,” Virgil said. “Afraid if he lays that thing down, he’ll forget where he put it.”

“Beer?” Pike said.

“Sure thing,” Virgil said.

Pike looked at me. I shook my head. The bartender set a beer in front of Virgil, and one for Pike.

“This a social call?” Pike said.

Virgil sipped his beer and put it down.

“Chance for a free beer, mostly,” Virgil said.

“Anytime, Virgil,” Pike said.

He was wearing a dark suit and a red tie, and carried a Colt.

“Who’s the new lookout,” Virgil said.

“Abner Noonan,” Pike said. “Was with me in the Army.”

“Hearda him,” Virgil said. “Was in Laredo for a while.”

“Good memory,” Pike said. “Yep, that’s Abner.”

“Replacing Kirby and J.D.,” Virgil said.

“Yes,” Pike said.

Virgil looked absently around the room.

“Got some other new faces,” Virgil said.

Pike grinned.

“Just keeping the staff up to level,” he said.

“Too bad ’bout Kirby and J.D.,” Virgil said.

“Was,” Pike said.

“You know, Pike,” Virgil said. “I was thinking ’bout that Indian killed them.”

I smiled to myself. Virgil could be as direct as anyone alive, or he could, for his own reasons, go around the Gulf of Mexico and come in the back way when he felt like it. This was going to be the back way.

“What were you thinking?” Pike said.

“What was that boy’s name,” Virgil said. “Buffalo Calf.”

“They all got names,” Pike said.

“Well, you know, it don’t matter,” Virgil said. “But there musta been something between you two.”

“Me and the Indian?” Pike said. “Why do you care?”

“Just a curious fella,” Virgil said. “Hate to know half a thing. I know it don’t matter, and it ain’t official or anything, and Buffalo Calf been disposed of. But . . . I keep thinking on it.”

Pike grinned.

“Like an itch you can’t scratch,” Pike said.

“That’s what it’s like,” Virgil said.

He sipped some more beer.

“Oh, hell, Virgil,” Pike said. “I was a lieutenant trying to make captain. Everett over there probably knows what that’s like.”

“I do,” I said. “One reason I quit.”

“I had a patrol out, me, a sergeant, and twelve troopers. Caught some Apaches out in the open. They were moving camp, had stuff on travois, mostly women and children, a few bucks, and we cleaned them out. We were still using the breech loaders, and it was slow, so I told the troopers to use their sabers. It was a bloody mess, but it went faster and we killed them all.”

Pike drank some beer.

“So I’m surveying the mess.” Pike grinned. “And thinking about my second bar, and something hits me on the shoulder and falls to the ground. I look and it’s a toy arrow, and another one hits me, and I see this little Indian kid, maybe nine, ten, covered with blood, kneeling behind some dead squaw, shooting at me with his toy bow and arrow. One of the troopers goes and grabs him and is gonna cut his throat, and the little bastard was so mean and so brave, I say, ‘Don’t kill him.’ Sergeant looks at me like I’m crazy, but we drag him along with us back to Tucson, and I put him into the Indian school there. All the ride back to Tucson, he looks at me, and when I checked on him every once in a while at the school, he don’t say nothing, just looks at me. Does good at the school. Speaks English good, read, write, all that shit. And the day he’s eighteen he’s gone and no one sees him again. Then ten years later, that steer shows up dead with the toy arrow.”

“That why you gave us Pony to track?”

“Felt bad ’bout them women,” Pike said. “Sorta felt a little responsible, I suppose.”

“Sure,” Virgil said.

“Last break I ever gave anybody,” Pike said. “And that was one too many.”

“Thank you, Pike,” Virgil said. “I’ll sleep better.”

“Sure thing,” Pike said.

“You expecting trouble with Percival?” Virgil said.

“Nothing we can’t handle,” Pike said.

“But you’re expecting some.”

“Percival’s crazy,” Pike said. “I won’t let him close me down.”

“Hey, Everett,” Virgil said. “What’s that thing where you attack first to stop somebody from attacking you.”

“Preemptive strike,” I said.

“You ain’t thinking ’bout any preemptive strikes,” Virgil said.

“He tries to close me down,” Pike said. “And I’ll do what’s needed.”

“Probably can’t prevent the trouble,” Virgil said. “But I’d like to contain it.”

“How you gonna contain it?” Pike said.

“Just don’t do more than is needed,” Virgil said.

“Who’s going to decide that?” Pike said.

“That would be me,” Virgil said. “And Everett.”

58

“WORKED A TOWN in Oklahoma once,” Virgil said as we walked along Arrow Street toward The Church of the Brotherhood. “Had one of them Indian schools. Everybody working their ass off to teach these kids to be what they weren’t.”

“Buffalo Calf wasn’t a quitter,” I said. “Musta taken him ten years to find Pike.”

“Yep.”

“Then he wanted to stretch it out,” I said. “So it wouldn’t be over too quick.”

“All he had,” Virgil said.

He paused and looked at a dress hanging in the window of a shop.

“You a pretty smart fella, Everett.”

“Sure,” I said.

“Went to the Academy and all.”

“Yep.”

“Think she’ll ever change?” he said.

I knew he meant Allie.

“Folks generally don’t,” I said.

“No,” Virgil said.

He kept looking at the dress.

“You?” I said.

“Change?” he said. “ ’Bout Allie?”

“Yep.”

“Maybe,” he said. “This time I think I could haze her off.”

“But,” I said.

“Got that girl to take care of.”

“There’s other women in the world,” I said.

“Not right at the moment,” Virgil said.

“You love Allie?” I said.

“I might.”

“And maybe Laurel’s a good excuse,” I said.

“Maybe,” Virgil said.

He turned from the window and looked at me. “And maybe I’m glad I got an excuse,” he said. “Either way, we gonna keep her for now.”

“Take care of Laurel,” I said.

“Yes.”

I nodded.

“Wasn’t planning on no daughter,” I said.

“Nope.”

We walked on toward the church. It was a warm day, with some wind that kicked up the dust in the street in little swirls and bothered the parasols that some of the ladies carried.

“Laurel might change her,” Virgil said.

“Maybe,” I said.

“I think she will,” Virgil said.

I didn’t say anything.

“I’ll only say this to you, Everett,” Virgil said. “ ’Cause I don’t mind so much looking like a fool to you. But I believe her this time.”

“And them other men?” I said.

“Got nothing to do with me,” Virgil said.

I nodded. We walked on. We could see The Church of the Brotherhood ahead of us. There were several deacons standing around outside wearing Colts.

“ ’ Less it keeps happening,” Virgil said. “Can’t take that no more.”

“Good,” I said.

Virgil nodded and stopped outside the church.

“Howdy, boys,” he said. “We come to see Brother Percival.”

59

WE SAT WITH PERCIVAL IN A PEW near the back of the church.

“I’ve not seen Allie lately,” Percival said. “Is she well?”

“She’s busy with Laurel Ostermueller,” Virgil said.

“Ah, yes, how tragic, the abduction, then her mother killing herself.”

“You fucking them,” Virgil said.

“If you came to be abusive,” Percival said, “then this conversation is over.”

“Believe you fucked Allie some, too.”

Percival rose to his feet.

“You’re appalling,” he said to Virgil.

“I am, for a fact,” Virgil said. “You got any plans to close Pike down?”

It was moving a little fast for Brother Percival. He shook his head slightly as if to clear it.

“Pike?” he said.

“Yeah. You planning on running him out like you done all the other saloon owners?” Virgil said.

“ ‘ Saloon owners,’ ” Percival said. “You say it as if it were ordinary. Every one of the sins that accumulated in those hell-holes that I closed has re-formed and erupted in Pike’s Palace. It is the ultimate cesspool of corruption, and it is poisoning the town.”

“That sound like yes to you, Everett?” Virgil said.

“Seems so to me,” I said.

“You think Pike gonna let you close him down?” Virgil said.

“An armed and muscular Christianity cannot be defeated,” Percival answered.

He always sounded to me like he was recycling his own sermons, which he probably was.

“I wouldn’t count too much on Choctaw,” Virgil said.

“I rely on my Father in heaven,” Percival said.

“Probably better than Choctaw,” Virgil said.

Percival looked down at us with contempt, dirtied as we were with mortality.

“Is there a purpose to this visit?” Percival said.

“Ain’t planning to prevent you doing what you going to do,” Virgil said. “Nor Pike from answering you back. You both got the right. But these things have a way of spillin’ over, and I don’t want that to happen.”

“What you want, Deputy,” Percival said, “what either of you wants, doesn’t matter, I am not governed by you and your laws. My allegiance is to a far greater power, and what He and I will do is not open to debate.”

“Well, Brother P.,” Virgil said. “What me and Everett want matters to us, and when it matters enough, we are pretty good at making it matter to other people. I want you to keep this thing between you and Pike between you and Pike.”

Percival stared down at Virgil without speaking.

“And,” Virgil said, “if things get outta hand, I’m gonna shoot you. Everett might shoot you, too.”

Percival continued to stare down at us. Then without a word he turned and stormed away down the center aisle of the church. Virgil and I watched him go.

“Think we scared him?” I said.

“ ’Fraid not,” Virgil said.

“Him or the Heavenly Father,” I said.

“Neither,” Virgil said.

60

IT WAS LIKE A SUMMER STORM approaching. The atmosphere tightened; I could feel the tension crackling. There was no thunder yet, or lightning, but I could feel it lurking. I knew it was coming. So did everyone else. There were more men with guns standing around. There were fewer people on the streets. The people who were on the streets walked faster. The dogs seemed to slink a little. The horses seemed edgy. Everyone seemed somehow wound a little tighter. Except Virgil. As always, he remained entirely Virgil Cole, regardless of what was going on around him.

“Gonna be one hell a deluge,” I said, as we walked in the evening back to Allie’s house.

“Deluge?” Virgil said. “Like rain?”

“Just thinking out loud,” I said.

Virgil shook his head.

“You’re kinda strange sometimes, Everett,” Virgil said.

“Yeah,” I said. “I know.”

Pony was sitting in a rocker on Allie’s front porch with a Winchester in his lap. Laurel sat on a straight chair next to him.

“Where’s Allie?” Virgil said.

“Cook supper,” Pony said.

“Uh-oh,” Virgil said.

Pony shrugged.

“We’ll be here for a while,” I said to Pony, “you want to go up to Pike’s or whatever.”

“Good,” Pony said. “Maybe eat.”

I grinned.

“Better hurry,” I said. “I think she’s coming.”

Pony stood and leaned the Winchester against the doorjamb.

“Watch the rifle for me,” he said.

Virgil nodded.

“Don’t go too far,” Virgil said.

Pony nodded and walked off toward Arrow Street. Virgil sat next to Laurel.

“You know something?” I said to Virgil.

“Just a feeling,” Virgil said. “Air’s kinda tight.”

I didn’t say anything. Allie came out in an apron. It wasn’t much of an apron, as far as keeping gravy off your dress. But it was cute-looking, and she looked cute in it.

“Supper’s ready,” she said.

She was making progress. The food wasn’t good. But nothing was burned, and we ate as much of it as we could so as not to hurt her feelings. We were back on the porch letting it digest when Pony came silently out of the darkness. Virgil had heard him, I could tell, because he had shifted forward slightly in his chair to clear his gun hand.

“Percival,” he said. “At Pike’s. All lined up. Singing church music.”

“Sounds like it’s gonna start,” I said.

Virgil nodded. He looked at Pony and jerked his head at the women. Pony nodded and picked up his Winchester and sat down beside Laurel. Virgil stood and went into the house. In a moment he came out with another Colt. One with a shorter barrel. A banker’s gun. He gave it to Allie.

“Showed you how to shoot,” Virgil said. “You need to, shoot.”

Allie didn’t say anything. But she nodded and took the gun. Virgil picked up his Winchester. I picked up the eight-gauge.

Virgil looked at the women.

“Be back soon,” he said.

They both nodded. And we started up toward Arrow Street.

61

THERE WAS LOW CLOUD COVER preventing the moon and stars from being visible. On Arrow Street there were some coal-oil lamps. But the clouds made the side streets very black. I could barely see Virgil beside me. We could hear singing ahead, and when we reached Arrow Street, we could see the singers, Percival and his people, lined up opposite Pike’s Palace, holding torches, singing “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

Mine eyes have seen the glory . . .

“Jesus,” Virgil said.

. . . of the coming of the Lord . . .

At the center of the line and a little forward was Brother Percival, with Choctaw Brown beside him. Brother Percival was singing at full throat. Choctaw was silent.

. . . trampling out the vintage . . .

On the front porch of Pike’s Palace stood maybe a dozen men, all armed. Pike was there, and Abner Noonan, the new shotgun lookout, was beside Pike. I recognized most of the rest from seeing them in the Palace. There were people I didn’t see. I knew Pike had at least twenty.

. . . where the grapes of wrath are stored . . .

“Where’s the rest of Pike’s people,” I said.

Virgil nodded at the photographer’s shop across the way. There was an alley on each side of the shop, leading to Market Street. In both alley mouths I could see men.

“If the ball goes up,” I said, “Pike’ll cut them to pieces.”

“Yep.”

“We gonna do anything ’bout that?” I said.

“Nope.”

“Why not.”

“What we gain ain’t commensurate with what we might lose,” Virgil said.

He’d waited all this time to use his new word.

“So we lie back here in the weeds and watch,” I said.

“We do,” Virgil said.

“And if they start shooting, when it’s over, we’ll have that many fewer people to deal with.”

“Exactly right,” Virgil said.

. . . loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword . . .

Percival’s people plodded on through the “Battle Hymn,” with the torches dancing in the night air, and Pike and his men motionless and silent on the porch before them.

. . . glory, glory, hallelujah . . .

When they finished, everything was quiet. I could hear the torches burning. Then Percival stepped forward and up onto the porch. He stood directly in front of Pike.

“I am here to do my Father’s will,” he said. “I am here to close this pestilence and drive you from this town.”

“I’m not going to fuck with this, Percival,” Pike said. “You people bother me and a lot of you will get hurt.”

“You think we fear you?” Percival said.

“I think you should,” Pike said.

“Because we are godly does not mean we are weak,” Percival said.

He raised his fists in some sort of boxing stance. Pike looked at him in mock amazement.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he said.

Percival punched him on the chin. It took Pike by surprise and made him rock back on his heels for a moment. Then he exploded. He lunged his mass into Percival’s, and half turned and clubbed Percival across the side of the head. It turned Percival and sent him staggering backward and off the porch, where he landed facedown in the dirt. A low sound came from the assembled torchbearers. Percival rolled around in the dirt for a moment in some sort of frenzy, then turned and, sitting in the street, faced Pike. He was covered with dirt. He leveled his arm at Pike, pointing with his forefinger.

“Choctaw,” he screamed. “Kill him.”

Choctaw looked down at Percival for a minute with a half-smile and shook his head. Then he stepped up onto the porch and stood beside Pike and Abner. Percival was on his hands and knees in the street now, staring up at the men on the porch.

“Judas,” he said.

Then he scrambled around and screamed at his deacons.

“Kill them. Kill all of them.”

The deacons didn’t have a chance. Abner killed two. Choctaw killed two. Pike killed three, and a half-dozen others went down, caught in the crossfire from both sides of the street, before the rest broke and ran. When it was over, Percival was still crouched in the street. The abandoned torches flickered and guttered out. The darkness closed in a little.

Pike looked down at him without speaking. Percival didn’t move. He stayed on his hands and knees, his head hanging. Pike climbed down from the porch and walked over to him and kicked him. Percival fell on his side and doubled over.

“You be outta this town before the sun comes up tomorrow,” Pike said. “Or I’ll kill you.”

Pike turned and walked back up onto the porch and across it and into his saloon. Percival remained curled up in the street.

On the porch Choctaw said in a voice meant to sound like Percival, “Choctaw, kill him.” Then he laughed and followed Pike inside.

Percival stayed lying in the street for a while, with his knees drawn up. Then he got to his hands and knees for a time, his head hanging. Then slowly he got to his feet, and stood and looked around. The street was empty except for me and Virgil and the dead bodies of Percival’s supporters. It must have looked even emp tier to Percival. If he saw us, he didn’t care. After a time he turned and began to trudge like a man exhausted down Arrow Street toward his church. Nothing else moved in the silent darkness.

“That it for the night?” I said to Virgil.

“Let’s watch a little longer,” Virgil said.

“For what?” I said.

Virgil shrugged.

“Percival’s crazy,” Virgil said.

“And we want to see how crazy,” I said.

“Don’t hurt to see,” Virgil said.

I nodded. We stood. Percival went into the church and closed the doors behind him. A coyote trotted out from one of the alleys and sniffed the corpses. Virgil shooed him away. The coyote slunk back into the alley, looking resentful. Time passes slowly when you are doing nothing in the dark. We stood for a long time, I think. But finally, there was a kind of explosion from the church, and flames burst out of the front door. By the time we got there the building was fully burning. We had to stop maybe twenty feet away, as the heat made a barrier we couldn’t penetrate. We heard a single gunshot from somewhere in the fire, and then nothing, except the sound of the fire as it consumed The Church of the Brotherhood and, probably, the dead body of its pastor.

62

THE DAY AFTER WAS BRIGHT and still. The volunteer fire brigade hadn’t been able to save the church, which Percival appeared to have soaked with coal oil, but there had been no wind, and they had managed to keep it from spreading. By the time Virgil and I had slept late and eaten breakfast, and had gone to survey things, Arrow Street had been cleaned up. The undertaker had done his job. The corpses were gone and there was nothing to see but the charred ruins of the church, from which, here and there, some smoke still rose. The remnants of Brother Percival were probably in there somewhere, but no one seemed interested in looking.

“Well,” Virgil said, “let’s go visit Pike. See how part two is going to play.”

“No reason to wait,” I said.

“None,” Virgil said.

We walked up to the Palace and went in. Choctaw was in the lookout chair, and Pike was having a later breakfast than we had, sitting near the bar. I stood against the wall with the eight-gauge where I could look at Choctaw and he could look at me. Virgil walked over to Pike.

“Virgil,” Pike said. “Pull up a chair, my friend.”

Virgil sat.

“Coffee?” Pike said

“Sure.”

Pike gestured, and one of the bartenders brought coffee.

“You saw it all last night,” Pike said.

“I did,” Virgil said. “Me ’n Everett.”

“So you know they attacked us,” Pike said.

“Yep.”

“Got a right to defend myself,” Pike said.

Virgil nodded.

“Ain’t mourning Percival,” Virgil said.

Pike nodded and ate half a biscuit.

“Glad he done it himself,” Pike said. “Otherwise, sooner or later, I was gonna have to do it.”

“Worked out for you,” Virgil said. “You pretty much got the town now.”

Pike nodded and leaned back and sipped some coffee.

“Pretty much,” he said after he swallowed.

“ ’Cept for me ’n Everett,” Virgil said.

“ ’Cept for that,” Pike said.

Virgil smiled. Pike smiled back. Choctaw was trying to keep an eye on me, and one on Virgil, which was hard because we were spread out. Which was why we were spread out.

“Wasn’t gonna talk with you ’bout that quite so soon,” Pike said. “But since it’s come up . . . ?”

He shrugged.

Virgil shrugged back.

“I like you, Virgil,” Pike said. “I really do.”

“Everybody does,” Virgil said.

Pike looked into his coffee cup for a while. Then he raised his eyes and looked at Virgil.

“I don’t see how it’s gonna work between us here,” Pike said. “I don’t see how you gonna let me run the town the way I want to.”

“Don’t see that myself,” Virgil said.

“We ain’t broke no law,” Pike said.

“Might be able to find one,” Virgil said.

“There’s two of you,” Pike said. “And there’s twenty-five of us.”

“ ’Course, none of you is Virgil Cole,” Virgil said. “Or Everett Hitch.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Pike said. “But it’s still twenty-five to two. And you got them women to think about.”

“Good point,” Virgil said. “You got a suggestion?”

“You could stop being deputies and work for me.”

“Nope.”

Pike nodded.

“Okay,” he said. “I figured that you wouldn’t. But you still got them women to think about. How about I give you some money? Enough to take care of them for a good while? I ain’t even giving it to you. I’m giving it to you for them.”

“What’s the other option?” Virgil said.

“We gonna have to kill you and probably them,” Pike said.

“Or at least try,” Virgil said.

“I like our odds,” Pike said. “And, God’s honest truth, I think I can beat you.”

Virgil was quiet, thinking about things. I knew Virgil didn’t care if Pike thought he could beat him. Virgil paid no mind to talk.

After a time, he said, “Makes sense. I’ll take the money . . . long as it is commensurate.”

“And leave town?”

“And leave town,” Virgil said.

“Your word?” Pike said.

“Yep.”

Pike looked at me.

“Everett?” he said.

“I’m with Virgil,” I said.

“Wait right there,” Pike said.

He stood and went into the back of the saloon. He was gone for maybe ten minutes, and when he returned he had a leather-bound canvas satchel.

“One thousand dollars,” he said. “Legal tender notes.”

“Done,” Virgil said.

He picked up the satchel and nodded at me, and we walked out of Pike’s Palace.

63

“VIRGIL,” I said, as we walked up Arrow Street, “what the fuck are we doing?”

“We’re being tricky,” Virgil said.

“We never took a bribe in our life,” I said.

“Nor run away,” Virgil said.

“So . . . ?” I said.

“We ain’t going,” Virgil said.

“We’re not?”

“Nope.”

“We’re going to double-cross Pike?”

“We are,” Virgil said.

“What about the bribe?”

“Laurel needs money,” Virgil said. “Pike don’t.”

“You think Pike will see it that way?” I said.

“No.”

“We gonna pretend to go?” I said.

“Yep.”

“What about the women,” I said.

“It was only Allie,” Virgil said. “Maybe I say she’s a grown woman. She cast her lot with me. She knows what I do. . . . But the kid didn’t get to cast her lot at all. It got cast for her. . . . And she ain’t got no one else.”

“And Pike would use them against us.”

“ ’Course he would,” Virgil said. “You heard him.”

I nodded.

“As I recall,” I said, “Pike told us, ‘You got them women to worry about.’ ”

“What I recall, too,” Virgil said. “We stay, we’ll be spending all our time protecting them. He needs to think they gone.”

“So where we going to hide them,” I said.

“Ain’t figured that part out yet,” Virgil said.

“What happens to them if we get killed?” I said.

“I thought ’bout that,” Virgil said.

“And?”

“I can’t worry ’bout that,” he said. “I can’t not be Virgil Cole.”

“No,” I said. “You can’t.”

Virgil grinned at me.

“ ’ Sides, we ain’t never been killed yet,” he said.

“Commensurate,” I said, “with who we are.”

“Commensurate,” Virgil said.

“What about Pony?” I said.

“I’d guess he’ll be with us,” Virgil said.

“Maybe he could take the ladies someplace,” I said.

Virgil nodded. We turned off of Arrow Street and walked toward where we’d been staying. Pony was on a bench on the front porch with Laurel beside him, and Allie was in a rocker, trying to sew a button on one of Virgil’s shirts.

Virgil set the canvas satchel down and took a seat. I remained standing, leaning against one of the porch pillars. Virgil opened the satchel.

“Best thing I got to tell you is we got some money,” he said.

64

EVERYONE WAS QUIET while Virgil explained the situation.

When he was through, Allie said, “So why don’t we all go? Find another town? Start over?”

“Can’t do that,” Virgil said.

“Why not? Not even you and Everett can fight Pike by yourselves. I mean, my God, he must have fifty men.”

“Twenty-five,” Virgil said.

“You want to stay and fight twenty-five men by yourself?”

“Me and Everett,” Virgil said.

“Why? I mean, I know that you’re Virgil Cole and all that. But why risk all our lives for it.”

Virgil shook his head and didn’t say anything.

“He run away,” Pony said. “He man who run away.”

Allie frowned, staring at Pony, then at Virgil, as if she were working on a puzzle. Then she nodded slowly.

“Yes,” she said.

“Here’s what I been thinking,” Virgil said. “We go down to the station in the morning. The four of us, and get on the train to Del Rio. We get out from town maybe five miles, that straight patch of the river where the train runs right along the bank. Pony’s there with an extra horse. I get the train to stop. Me and Everett get off. Pony gets on. We ride back into town, sorta light-footed. Pony goes on to Del Rio. I’ll write you a letter to give to Dave Morrissey down there, help you get settled. Then me and Everett will take care of business and come on down to join you.”

“No,” Allie said.

Virgil looked startled, which was an amazing thing to see, because Virgil never looked startled.

“No?” he said.

“Absolutely not,” Allie said. “I won’t leave you, and neither will Laurel.”

Virgil looked at Laurel.

Laurel shook her head.

“Why not?” Virgil said.

“I won’t,” Allie said.

“Why not?” Virgil said.

“I’m a mess,” Allie said. “I been a mess long as you’ve known me. But I got this child to think ’bout now, and I can’t keep being a mess.”

Virgil looked at her and didn’t answer. Virgil never looked puzzled, any more than he ever looked startled, but if he had he would have looked puzzled now.

“What kind of woman would leave her man at a time like this, to go hide, while he risked his life?”

Virgil shrugged and looked at me. I shrugged.

“That’s right,” she said, as if we had answered. “And I will not be that kind of woman anymore, not ever, anymore. I cannot be that kind of woman and be with this child . . . or you.”

Virgil looked at me again.

“Sounds right to me,” I said.

Virgil nodded.

“And I don’t want Pony taking care of us,” Allie said. “I want Pony to be with you.”

“Who looks out for you and Laurel?” Virgil said.

“Me,” Allie said.

“You?”

“I have a gun; I know how to shoot,” Allie said. “You taught me.”

Laurel stepped to Virgil’s chair and whispered to him. He listened. He nodded.

“Okay,” he said. “We don’t go to Del Rio.”

“We can pretend to,” I said.

“And where do Allie and Laurel go?” Virgil said. “Ain’t good tactics to leave them out for Pike.”

“No,” I said. “We need to hide them.”

“Where?” Virgil said.

No one spoke for a moment, and then I said, “Lemme go talk to my friend Frisco.”

“The whore?”

“Yes,” I said.

“In Pike’s Palace?” Virgil said.

“Where would he be less likely to look?” I said.

“I’ll be back in an hour or so,” I said.

“Take you that long?” Virgil said.

“No,” I said. “But I might have to wait my turn.”

Allie smiled at me.

“Not if I was Frisco,” she said.

I said, “Thank you, Allie.”

And I stood and walked back up toward Pike’s Palace.

65

FRISCO’S ROOM AND PLACE of employment was on the second floor at Pike’s. But I went boldly in. I had till morning to leave town.

“Come for a good-bye poke,” Frisco said when she let me in.

“Good-bye?” I said.

Frisco closed the door and locked it. We sat on her bed together.

“Heard you was leaving town tomorrow,” she said.

“Word gets around,” I said.

“Pike’s telling everybody he run you and Virgil Cole out of town,” she said.

“Proud of himself,” I said.

“Yes,” Frisco said.

She was wearing a short, thin nightgown and not much else.

“Before we get into farewells,” I said, “I need a favor.”

“You know me, Everett,” Frisco said. “I only do the regular things. I don’t do no specialties.”

“None needed,” I said. “I need to hide two women here, in this room, for a few hours tomorrow.”

“Two women?”

“Yep.”

“The ones with you and Virgil?” she said. “Allie and the kid, the one the Indian took?”

“Yes,” I said.

I had no problem lying to her, but who else would it be?

“Her mother, what was her name?”

“Mary Beth,” I said. “Mary Beth Ostermueller.”

“Yeah, her,” Frisco said. “Killed herself two rooms down from here. Drunk, put a forty-five in her mouth and blew the top of her head off.”

“I know,” I said.

“Awful mess,” Frisco said. “Pike was furious, but she was already dead, you know, so he couldn’t kill her. Took a couple days to get that room cleaned up.”

“Forty-five can make a big exit hole,” I said.

“I guess,” Frisco said. “Why’d she do that, anyway?”

“Life was too hard, I guess.”

“That hard?”

“She and her daughter had a bad time of it, ’fore we got them back.”

“Daughter didn’t kill herself.”

“No,” I said. “I think having her daughter watch what happened to her, and her having to watch while it happened to her daughter, right in front of her . . .”

Frisco nodded.

“Woman needed to be tougher,” Frisco said.

“She did,” I said. “And she wasn’t.”

“I take these two women in here,” Frisco said, “and Pike finds out, what happens?”

“He’ll kill them,” I said. “And you.”

“So why should I take the chance?” Frisco said.

“ ’Cause we plan to kill him,” I said. “ ’Fore he finds out.”

Frisco nodded.

“They can stay here; I’ll move down with Big Red,” she said. “You don’t kill him, I’ll claim I don’t know how they got in here, but I come back and found the door locked and figured one of the other girls was using the room for business.”

“Might work,” I said.

“When they coming?”

“Tomorrow morning,” I said. “You know Pony Flores?”

“No.”

“Breed,” I said. “Dark, kind of tall, works some for Pike.”

“Tall as you?”

“Nope,” I said. “More like Virgil.”

“High moccasins, knife in the top?” Frisco said.

“That’s him,” I said. “He’ll bring them in the morning.”

“Ain’t normally very busy in the morning. They come in; I go out.”

“Thank you,” I said.

Frisco leaned her head against my shoulder.

“I’ll miss you,” she said. “You’re a good guy.”

“You too,” I said.

“Want to do it ’fore you go?” she said.

“I would,” I said.

Frisco grinned and patted my crotch.

“I could tell,” she said.

66

IN THE MORNING, Virgil and I walked with Allie and Laurel down to the train station and got aboard the nine-o’clock train to Del Rio. Allie carried a carpetbag. Virgil and I just had weapons and ammunition. The train left the station on time, and when we were under way, Virgil got up and spoke with the conductor. The conductor shook his head and Virgil tapped the deputy star on his shirt and spoke again. The conductor looked at us and paused, then nodded, and moved on, toward the front of the train.

Virgil came back and sat, on the aisle, with his right hand free, where he could look at the door at the front of the car. I sat opposite, with the eight-gauge beside me, where I could look at the back door, same as we always did. We didn’t speak of it, we did it automatically, the way we always spread apart approaching a fight or entering a strange place. We’d been doing what we did for so long that sometimes we seemed to me like two parts of the same apparatus.

As the train came in close to the river, I could feel it begin to slow, and about a half-mile into the straightaway, it braked and came to a sort of muttering halt the way trains do. We stood and got off the train. Pony was there, with four saddle horses. The horses were grazing comfortably on tether. We walked to the horses, and the train started up and moved south with slowly increasing speed.

We got the women mounted without saying anything.

“You know how you’re going to get them into Frisco’s room,” Virgil said.

Pony nodded.

“Know all parts of Pike’s Palace,” Pony said.

“Including the whores’ quarters,” Virgil said.

“Them ’specially, jefe,” he said.

“You got the gun I gave you,” Virgil said to Allie.

“In my bag,” she said.

“And bullets,” Virgil said.

Allie nodded and patted the carpetbag that hung on her saddle horn.

“And you’ll stay in there and be quiet no matter what,” Virgil said.

“Yes.”

Pony pulled his horse up next to Laurel. He took a .45 derringer out of his coat pocket, broke it open. Took out the two bullets, closed it again.

“Chiquita,” Pony said.

He held the gun out and cocked it.

“Click,” Pony said.

He pulled the trigger.

“Bang,” he said.

He cocked it again and pulled the trigger again.

“Click,” he said. “Bang.”

Laurel nodded.

“Do that?” Pony said, and handed her the gun.

She cocked it.

Pony nodded and said, “Click.”

She pulled the trigger.

Pony said, “Bang.”

She nodded and dry-fired it again. Then she gave the gun back to Pony. He loaded it.

“Now,” Pony said. “Click-bang only when you mean it.”

He pointed to the middle of his body.

“Shoot here,” he said.

Laurel nodded.

“Shoot only to protect yourself,” I said.

She nodded and put the gun in her coat pocket.

Virgil said, “You get them settled, Pony.”

“Sí.”

“Nobody sees them.”

“Sí.”

“We’ll be along in the afternoon. We see you in the saloon, we know it’s all gone right.”

Pony nodded and turned his horse and rode a little way toward town, and paused and waited for the women.

Allie paused and looked at Virgil.

“I love you,” she said.

Virgil nodded.

Laurel pulled her horse close to him and bent down from the saddle and whispered to him.

He nodded.

“Me ’n Everett been doing this most of our lives,” Virgil said. “We know how.”

We all sat silently for a moment.

“You come back to us,” Allie said.

“We will,” Virgil said.

Then he pointed toward Pony and gave Allie’s horse a slap on the flank. The horse moved forward and Laurel’s followed, and they rode away from us, toward town.

67

VIRGIL AND I SAT ON the riverbank and waited for Pony to do what he needed to.

“I don’t know if we’re really smart or really dumb,” I said, “hiding the women upstairs at Pike’s.”

“Nobody goes up there but whores and customers,” Virgil said. “Pony told me employees ain’t allowed.”

“Pike sure as hell wouldn’t look for them there.”

“No,” Virgil said.

A fish splashed in the river and left a series of concentric ripples. Bass probably, snapping up a dragonfly.

“Why is it exactly that we’re going to kill him?” I said.

“That what we going to do?” Virgil said.

“ ’Course it is,” I said. “ ’ Less he kills us.”

“Just want to talk with Pike,” Virgil said.

“Horseshit,” I said. “You took his money and double-crossed him, and now you’re gonna go and shove it in his face. You know he is gonna have to pull on you.”

Virgil smiled.

“I do,” Virgil said.

“Maybe what we doing ain’t quite exactly law-officer business anyway,” I said.

“Must be,” Virgil said. “We’re law officers.”

“Some folks might say we should have stepped in between Percival and Pike,” I said.

“You miss Percival?”

“Nope.”

“He was a fraud,” Virgil said. “He was in cahoots with Pike to drive out all of Pike’s competition. He messed with Laurel. He messed with Allie. He give Allie to Pike.”

“At least that’s how she saw it,” I said.

Virgil looked at me for a time.

“Allie is Allie,” he said. “You gonna miss Pike?”

“Might have saved a lot of trouble if he’d told us all he knew ’bout Buffalo Calf,” I said.

“Might have,” Virgil said.

“So, is it tactics?” I said. “Let the vermin fight to the death and then pick off the winner?”

“Sure,” Virgil said.

“Or is it personal?” I said. “ ’Cause of Laurel and Allie . . . maybe Mary Beth?”

“Sure,” Virgil said.

“So you’re feeling all right ’bout this business,” I said.

“We not gonna back-shoot anybody,” Virgil said. “We risk our lives to do what we think, the right thing to do. Somebody told me once that was pretty much all you could ask for.”

“Who was that?” I said.

“A smart fella,” Virgil said, and sipped some coffee. “Went to West Point.”

“Oh,” I said. “Him.”

The resident bass, or whatever it was, jumped for another dragonfly, or whatever it was, and left the circles of his jump on the surface of the water. We both watched the ripples as they widened slowly out until they disappeared against the riverbank.

“When we’re finished with Pike,” I said, “what you gonna do with Allie?”

“Gonna keep her,” Virgil said.

“You think she’s changed?” I said.

“I think she has,” Virgil said.

I didn’t say anything.

“You think she has?” Virgil said.

“Don’t know,” I said.

“It’s the girl,” Virgil said. “I see her with the girl and I see a different Allie.”

“Maybe,” I said.

“People change,” Virgil said.

“Not a lot of them,” I said.

Virgil was silent for a moment.

Then he said, “No, not a lot of them.

“Somebody got to take care of Laurel,” Virgil said.

“That would be Allie,” I said.

“That would be Allie,” Virgil said.

“Guess the question’s settled for the moment,” I said.

“I guess,” Virgil said.

68

VIRGIL AND I WALKED UP Arrow Street toward Pike’s Palace in the early afternoon. The day was bright. There was a pleasant breeze off the river. Virgil was wearing his Colt and carrying a Winchester in his left hand. I had my Colt and the eight-gauge.

“You got a plan?” I said.

“I do,” Virgil said. “I figure we’ll walk into Pike’s and see what happens.”

“That’s a plan?” I said.

“Sure,” Virgil said.

“Walk in cold against twenty-five men?” I said.

“We get Pike early, there won’t be twenty-five. They’ll fade like a spring blossom. Probably won’t be that many in there this hour of the day, anyway.”

I paused in front of a sign nailed to one of the overhang supports on the boardwalk in front of a hardware shop.

“No guns to be carried in Brimstone without permission,” the sign read. It was signed “Chauncey Brown, Town Marshal.”

“Chauncey Brown?” I said.

“That’d be Choctaw,” Virgil said.

“So quick,” I said.

“Pike’s like me,” Virgil said. “Needs to be done, may as well get to it.”

We arrived in front of Pike’s Palace. There was another one of Choctaw’s signs outside the door. We stood for a minute. I cocked the eight-gauge.

Then I said, “Here we go.”

Virgil winked at me, and we went in. I went to the corner to the right of the door where I could see the whole room. Virgil went past me and walked around the bar so he was away from me.

“Afternoon,” Virgil said to the bartender. “Could you tell Pike that Virgil Cole would like to see him.”

The bartender jerked his head up when Virgil spoke, and stared at him.

Then he said, “Yes sir,” and walked fast toward the back of the room. Across the room I could see Pony Flores having a meal alone at a table. When he saw us he stood and leaned against the wall. No one paid any attention. Nothing happened for a while. Then Abner came out of the back of the saloon carrying his lookout sawed-off. Some of Pike’s other gun hands appeared and began to spread out around the room. I stayed where I was. Pony stood against the far wall, and Virgil seemed comfortable and at peace, standing by the bar.

It was maybe twenty more minutes before Pike appeared, walking easily from the back, wearing a Colt.

“Virgil Cole,” he said pleasantly, “you cocksucker, why are you here?”

“Val Verde County deputy sheriffs,” Virgil said.

“For what?”

“Being a really bad asshole,” Virgil said.

“You think those badges mean you can take my money and double-cross me?” Pike said. “I bought them badges, and you. And you took the money and double-crossed me.”

“We left town like we promised,” Virgil said. “We didn’t say nothing about not coming back.”

“Virgil,” Pike said, as if he was tired, “don’t fuck with me. You know and I know that I’m gonna have to kill the both of you.”

“Sorry you feel that way, Pike,” Virgil said.

I wondered where Choctaw was. He’d been hired for this kind of moment. But I couldn’t look for him. If the ball went up, I needed to be focused. I had to kill Abner with one barrel, and maybe clean out a couple more with the other barrel. If the dance started, Choctaw would announce himself.

Virgil was silent, waiting. In the saloon, people began to scramble for cover. It was helpful in sorting out who were shooters and who were not. Pike continued to look at Virgil. They were maybe six feet apart. I didn’t know if Pike was cranking up his courage or savoring his moment. Virgil was simply waiting. The saloon wasn’t crowded this time of day. The spectators’ scrambling stopped as all of them got out of the way. The room was quiet. The tension in the room was like a physical pressure.

Then Pike said very clearly, “I believe I can beat you,” and moved a step away from Virgil.

Upstairs somebody fired some shots, maybe three, and the tension exploded. Abner half turned at the sound and I shot him with one barrel, and the two gunmen to his right with the other barrel. Pony shot two men from the far side of the room. Something tumbled from the upstairs balcony. And Pike found he couldn’t beat Virgil.

Pike was good. He had his gun in his hand. He’d cleared leather. But the gun was pointing at the floor and Pike was taking a step backward, then another. Then he suddenly went down and lay on his back on the floor with his mouth open and blood soaking into his shirt front.

When Pike went down, everything stopped.

Virgil stood still by the bar with his Colt in his hand. I was flattened against the wall with my Colt out, and Pony stood across in a crouch, with his weapon out and another Colt stuck in his waistband. The room buzzed with silence.

“We got you from three corners,” Virgil said. “And we can shoot. You want to stay with this, we’ll kill you. And with Pike gone, what is there to die for?”

The remainder of Pike’s crew stood uncertainly. They had their hands near their guns, but none of them had drawn.

“You leave them weapons in the holsters,” Virgil said. “And get out of here and keep going, you gonna live. I see you again and I’ll kill you.”

One of the men said, “I’m leaving,” and with his gun holstered walked out of the room. In a moment three others went after him. Virgil watched them go, then walked slowly around the room.

“Since Marshal Choctaw said nobody can wear guns, the only ones who’d be wearing one now,” Virgil said, “would be Pike’s people.”

He moved from person to person. Pony and I held position.

“So I figure you got a gun, you’re with Pike, and you want to use it,” Virgil said.

Two men sitting in the back stood suddenly. Virgil turned easily toward them. One of the men put his hands up.

“We was with Pike,” he said. “But we don’t want no trouble.”

Virgil nodded and pointed toward the door. Both men walked out. There were no other guns in the room. When he got through looking, Virgil went and glanced at what had fallen from the balcony. It was a Winchester. He looked up and Choctaw was there, head down, half over the balcony railing. Virgil studied him for a moment.

Then he said, “Allie?”

There was a sudden tumble of footsteps from the balcony, and Allie came running down the stairs with Laurel behind her. Allie was carrying the short Colt that Virgil had given her. She kept on coming when she reached the saloon and lunged against Virgil, with Laurel right behind her.

Very gracefully, Virgil took the gun from her hand as she embraced him. He handed the gun to me, as Laurel embraced him, too. Virgil, looking a little embarrassed, put an arm around each of them. I looked up at the balcony. Frisco was standing there, looking down. She smiled and nodded. I nodded back.

Pony reloaded and holstered his weapon. I reloaded the eight-gauge and the short Colt that Allie had used. Despite an arm around each woman, Virgil was putting a fresh shell into his Colt, working carefully behind their heads. I smiled to myself.

Pony walked over to me.

“Just ’cause you can shoot,” I said, “don’t mean I want to hug you.”

“No hug?” he said.

“No,” I said.

Pony grinned.

“Good,” he said.

69

THE SIGN OUTSIDE OUR OFFICE read CHAUNCEY BROWN, TOWN MARSHAL. We went in, Virgil, the women, Pony, and me. I got a hammer and knocked the marshal sign off, and went back in.

Virgil looked at Allie and smiled.

“So that’s where Choctaw was,” he said.

“He was fixin’ to shoot you,” Allie said.

Virgil nodded.

“They was all fixin’ to shoot us,” Virgil said. “Tell me about Choctaw.”

Laurel was sitting beside Allie on the couch. She was looking at Allie and at Virgil, and sometimes at Pony and at me. She sat perfectly still. She was still silent, but it was, somehow, a lively silence, as if she wanted to jump around.

“Well . . .” Allie said.

Allie’s stories were often long. If you asked her what was for supper, she’d start with when she went for groceries yesterday. But Virgil didn’t push her.

“Pony brought us into town, and we snuck up the back outside stairs and no one paid us no mind. Anybody saw us probably figured we was just some whores coming to work.”

She looked at Pony and smiled.

“With a customer,” she said.

Virgil nodded.

“And Frisco let us in, and said she’d go down the hall and stay with another whore and we could have the room to ourselves. It was a nice room for a whore. I mean, some of the rooms I’ve . . .”

She stopped.

“Anyway, Pony left us and said he’d be downstairs in the saloon, and he went and we locked the door and I took out the gun you gave me, and we both went and watched out the window till we seen you ride into town. Then, a’course, we both run to the door to listen, see what was going to happen.”

As she talked, I stood in the doorway and kept an eye on the street. I saw the undertaker’s wagon go by, headed for Pike’s Palace. Otherwise, everything was quiet.

“And all of a sudden we hear men talking right outside the door. And one of them, I think it was Mr. Pike, one of them says, ‘You can’t find the women?’ And the other one says, ‘They ain’t at the house.’ And the first one, I’m sure it’s Mr. Pike, says, ‘He took them or he hid them. We’ll find them after we get through with Cole.’ ”

Virgil sat in his chair, perfectly still, listening. Pony stood and got a dipper of water and drank.

“Well,” Allie said, “you can imagine how we felt. But we’re listening and listening. And Choctaw says to Pike, ‘How many are they,’ and Mr. Pike says, ‘Two.’ And Choctaw says, ‘Cole and Hitch?’ And Mr. Pike says, ‘Yes.’ And Choctaw says, ‘They that good?’ And Pike says, ‘Don’t matter how good they are, ’cause you’re gonna be up here with a Winchester.’ ”

Allie was having a good time. She paused now, and looked at all of us.

“And Choctaw says, ‘How you want it to go?’ And Mr. Pike says, ‘You get him in your sights and when I say I believe I can beat you, I’ll step aside and you kill him.’ Well, let me tell you,” Allie said, “my blood ’bout froze when he said that. And Choctaw says, ‘Kill Cole first?’ and Pike says, ‘Yes, then Hitch.’ And Choctaw says, ‘Everybody else in place?’ And Mr. Pike says, ‘Yes, got eight guns in the room, including Abner.’ And then they’re quiet, and I hear them moving around outside my door, and then Mr. Pike says, ‘See him?’ And Choctaw says, ‘Got him.’ Then Mr. Pike says, ‘Okay.’ And I hear him walk away.”

Laurel, sill wordless and not moving, somehow radiated excitement. She leaned suddenly toward Allie and made a rolling motion with her hands. Allie nodded and smiled at her. Pony drank some more water. Virgil never moved. I looked back up the street. The undertaker’s wagon was no longer in sight.

“So,” Allie said, making the small word sound long. “I put on the chain bolt and I peek out, and there he is, five feet away, behind one of the drapes, with a rifle. So I aim at him, and I wait. And I can hear your voice and Mr. Pike’s, and I wait and then I hear Pike say, ‘I believe . . .’ And Choctaw steps out from behind the drape and I shot him in the middle of the back, like you told me, aim for the middle, and Choctaw doubles backwards and snaps forward, and the rifle falls over the balcony and he falls on the railing, and then everybody downstairs starts shooting and I slammed the door and locked it, and then I heard you call me. And I opened it and we came down and . . .”

“I know the rest,” Virgil said quietly.

“Yes,” Allie said. “Of course you do.”

70

“I NEED TO KNOW ONE THING,” Allie said.

She seemed still caught up in the drama of the recitation.

“How did you know it was me?”

“Had to be,” Virgil said. “Wasn’t no one else it coulda been.”

Allie smiled and nodded.

“Actually, two things,” Allie said. “I want to know if I hadn’t shot him, would he have killed you.”

Virgil nodded.

“Probably would have,” Virgil said.

“And Everett?”

“Maybe,” Virgil said.

“So that means I saved your life,” Allie said.

“It does,” Virgil said.

“And Everett?” she said.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “And I’m grateful.”

She nodded as if she was satisfied.

“Does that, maybe a little bit, anyway,” Allie said, “make up for any of the bad things?”

Virgil grinned at her.

“Yes,” he said. “It does.”

I went to the desk and took out a bottle. Then I got some coffee cups and poured all of us, including Laurel, a drink. I made Laurel’s drink short. Then I handed the cups out. I raised my cup, and everyone raised theirs. We drank. No one said anything.

Then Allie said, “What are we going to do now? Are we going to stay here?”

“Not good memories here,” Virgil said, and nodded at Laurel.

“No,” Allie said. “We should go someplace else.”

Virgil looked at me.

“Everett?” he said.

“Agree,” I said. “We should move on.”

“I’ll telegram Morrissey,” Virgil said. “Tell him we’re quitting.”

I nodded. We drank a little more whiskey, except for Laurel.

“Where?” Allie said.

“Where what?” Virgil said.

“Where are we going to go?” Allie said.

“Hadn’t thought about it,” Virgil said.

“I want to start over,” Allie said.

“Okay,” Virgil said.

“I want to go back to Appaloosa,” Allie said. “Close the circle. Begin again, see if we can do better . . . see if I can do better.”

“Everett?” Virgil said.

“Got no problem with Appaloosa,” I said. “Maybe even got work for a couple of upstanding shootists like us.”

Virgil nodded.

“Most places do,” Virgil said.

“Ain’t that fortunate,” I said.

“We got the money from Pike,” Virgil said. “We ain’t pressed.”

“Still gotta work,” I said.

“Yes,” Virgil said. “We do.”

Virgil looked at the girl.

“Laurel?” Virgil said.

Laurel nodded and stepped close to him and whispered. Then she sat back down on the couch next to Allie.

“Laurel would be happy to visit Appaloosa,” Virgil said.

“Allie been tellin’ her about it.”

“So, maybe it ain’t a sudden idea,” I said. “That Allie just thought up.”

Allie smiled faintly and said nothing.

Virgil said, “Maybe not.”

“So, it’s Appaloosa?” I said.

“It is,” Virgil said. “You want to ride along, Pony?”

Pony shook his head.

“Where are you going?” Allie said.

“Mother’s people,” Pony said. “Live Chiricahua for a while. Living white face too hard.”

Pony turned to Virgil.

“Jefe,” he said.

And he put out his hand. Despite the fact that Virgil never shook hands, Virgil shook it.

“Pony,” Virgil said.

Pony and I shook hands.

He nodded to Allie.

“Allie?” he said.

“We will miss you,” Allie said.

Pony looked at Laurel.

“Chiquita,” he said.

Laurel stood and took the derringer out of her coat pocket and handed it to Pony.

Pony shook his head.

“You keep,” he said. “Remember Pony Flores.”

She stared at him for a minute and then nodded and put it back in her pocket. Then she went to him and put her arms around him and hugged him for a long time.

Pony made no attempt to get loose. He stood quietly, patting her back between the shoulder blades. Then finally he took her arms gently and freed himself and guided her to the couch.

“Pony Flores come back someday, chiquita,” he said, bending to look in her eyes. “You see Pony again.”

She nodded.

Pony looked once more at Virgil. Virgil nodded. Pony nodded back. Then he turned and walked out of the office. We all sat silently, listening to the sound of Pony’s horse as he rode away.

71

THE STALLION WAS STILL THERE, a gray leopard Appaloosa, tending his mares on the flank of a hill outside Appaloosa. He’d been there when I’d come to Appaloosa, and I’d passed him the last time I rode out. Now returning, I paused at the top of the hill to watch him. Virgil and the women went ahead, trailing the pack mule. The stallion reared and snorted at the scent of the mule, though the mule was no threat to his harem. One of the mares drifted away from the herd, and the stallion, glancing at me every few steps, moved off to get her and drive her back. When he got her back to the herd, he left her and came around to put himself between me and the mares. The wandering mare went right off again, not in a hurry, just like she had a mind of her own and wanted to graze where she wanted to graze. The stallion stood, stiff-legged, ears forward, looking at her. He bugled once. Then he looked at me and went after her again. This time he nipped her as he drove her back. She tried to kick him, but he was an old hand at this, and he evaded the kick without effort. He drove her to my side of the herd this time and pressed her in among the other mares. Then he resumed his position between me and the mares, cropping the grass, raising his head every few crops to check on my position. The mare began to edge her way through the other mares, away from the stud. He raised his head and looked at her and bugled again and hurried around to the other side of the herd to block her. She stopped, still among the other mares, and put her head down and began to graze. Eyeing me all the time now, he reluctantly stayed on that side of the herd. Several of the mares appeared to be carrying foals. After they were born, there would be wolves to deal with. Being a stallion is high-pressure business. I decided not to add to the pressure by hanging around, and turned my gelding down the slope and followed Virgil and the women on into Appaloosa.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

THE SPENSER NOVELS

The Professional

Rough Weather

Now & Then

Hundred-Dollar Baby

School Days

Cold Service

Bad Business

Back Story

Widow’s Walk

Potshot

Hugger Mugger

Hush Money

Sudden Mischief

Small Vices

Chance

Thin Air

Walking Shadow

Paper Doll

Double Deuce

Pastime

Stardust

Playmates

Crimson Joy

Pale Kings and Princes

Taming a Sea-Horse

A Catskill Eagle

Valediction

The Widening Gyre

Ceremony

A Savage Place

Early Autumn

Looking for Rachel Wallace

The Judas Goat

Promised Land

Mortal Stakes

God Save the Child

The Godwulf Manuscript

THE JESSE STONE NOVELS

Split Image

Night and Day

Stranger in Paradise

High Profile

Sea Change

Stone Cold

Death in Paradise

Trouble in Paradise

Night Passage

THE SUNNY RANDALL NOVELS

Spare Change

Blue Screen

Melancholy Baby

Shrink Rap

Perish Twice

Family Honor

THE VIRGIL COLE/EVERETT HITCH NOVELS

Brimstone

Resolution

Appaloosa

ALSO BY ROBERT B. PARKER

Double Play

Gunman’s Rhapsody

All Our Yesterdays

A Year at the Races

(with Joan H. Parker)

Perchance to Dream

Poodle Springs

(with Raymond Chandler)

Love and Glory

Wilderness

Three Weeks in Spring

(with Joan H. Parker)

Training with Weights

(with John R. Marsh)

Published by the Penguin Group

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Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) . Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England . Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) . Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) .

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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

Copyright © 2010 by Robert B. Parker

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

Published simultaneously in Canada

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Parker, Robert B.

Blue-eyed devil / Robert B. Parker. p. cm.

eISBN : 978-1-101-42942-6

1. Cole, Virgil (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Hitch, Everett (Fictitious

character)—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3566.A686B

813’.54—dc22

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

http://us.penguingroup.com

For Joan: blue-eyed and devilish, in exactly the right proportion

1

LAW ENFORCEMENT in Appaloosa had once been Virgil Cole and me. Now there were a chief of police and twelve policemen. Our third day back in town, the chief invited us to the office for a talk.

He was tall and very fat in a derby hat and a dark suit, with a star on his vest, and big black-handled Colt in a Huckleberry inside his coat. Standing silently around the room were four of his police officers, dressed in white shirts and dark pants, each with a Colt on his hip.

The chief gestured for us to sit. Virgil sat. I leaned my shotgun on the wall by the door and sat beside him.

“Heard ’bout both of you,” he said. “Heard ’bout that thing, too. What’s it fire, grapeshot?”

“It’s an eight-gauge,” I said. “Good for grouse.”

“Or fucking hippopotamuses,” the chief said.

“Them, too,” I said.

“Name’s Amos Callico,” he said. “Thought we should have a chitchat.”

Virgil nodded.

“You’re Virgil Cole,” Callico said.

“I am,” Virgil said. “Big fella here with the eight-gauge is Everett Hitch.”

“I know who he is,” Callico said.

Virgil nodded again.

“What I hear ’bout you is mostly good,” Callico said.

Virgil looked at me.

“Mostly,” he said.

“Probably meant ‘all,’ ” I said.

Callico paid no attention. He took a cigar from a box on his desk, didn’t offer us one, trimmed it and lit it, and got it burning right. The four policemen stood silently, watching us.

“I know your reputation, Cole,” he said. “And I know that you ran the town, ’fore I got here. And I want you both to understand that you don’t run it now.”

“That would be you,” Virgil said.

“And I’ve got a dozen officers to back me,” Callico said.

Virgil didn’t say anything.

“On the other hand, none of them are like you,” Callico said. “I could use couple of gun hands like you.”

Virgil shook his head slowly.

“Pay you fifty a month,” Callico said.

“Nope,” Virgil said.

“Make you a sergeant,” Callico said.

“Nope.”

“You speakin’ for Hitch, too?” Callico said.

“Yep.”

“Why the hell not?” Callico said.

Virgil looked at me.

“You think you’re important,” I said to Callico. “Virgil don’t think anybody’s important. Bad match.”

Virgil nodded.

“That right, Cole?” Callico said.

“ ’ Tis,” Virgil said.

Callico puffed on his cigar and blew some smoke past the lit end. He studied it for a moment.

“So, what are you going to do in town?” Callico said.

“Sit on my porch,” Virgil said. “Drink a little whiskey. Play some cards.”

“That’s all?” Callico said.

“See what develops,” Virgil said.

Callico smoked his cigar some more. Then he looked at me.

“You boys done a nice job when you was in this office,” Callico said. “Bragg and the Shelton brothers and all.”

Virgil nodded. Callico looked at me.

“Heard you killed Randall Bragg ’fore you left town,” Callico said.

“I did,” I said.

“Why?”

“Self-defense,” I said.

“Heard it was over a woman,” Callico said.

“I got nothing to do,” I said, “with what you hear.”

“Was it over a woman?”

I shook my head.

“You know why he killed Bragg?” Callico said to Virgil.

“Bragg come at him with a gun,” Virgil said.

“Why?”

“Have to ask Bragg,” Virgil said.

“Bragg’s dead,” Callico said.

“So he is,” Virgil said.

We all sat and thought about that. Callico nodded slowly.

“Don’t want no trouble from you boys,” he said.

“Don’t plan to give you none,” Virgil said.

Callico looked at me.

“Me, either,” I said.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Callico said.

Virgil stood.

“Nice meeting you,” he said.

He looked around the room at the four policemen.

“And you fellas,” Virgil said.

He turned and left, and I followed him.

On the street, I said to Virgil, “We’re gonna have trouble with him.”

“I believe we are,” Virgil said.

2

VIRGIL’S HOUSE hadn’t changed much in the time we’d been away. Allie and Laurel cleaned it up as soon as we arrived back in Appaloosa, and we moved right in. I bunked with Virgil in one bedroom, and Allie slept with Laurel in the second.

All four of us were sitting on the front porch sipping whiskey in the early evening while it was still light, when a tall, thin man with a big mustache walked up the front path. It was Stringer, the chief sheriff’s deputy.

“Ev’nin,” he said.

“Stringer,” Virgil said.

“I’m down to pick up a prisoner, heard you folks was back in town. Thought you might be drinking whiskey.”

“Sit,” I said. “Have some.”

Stringer adjusted his gun belt a little and sat.

“Allie,” Virgil said. “You remember Deputy Stringer.”

“I don’t recall us meeting,” Allie said.

“You was with the Shelton brothers,” Virgil said. “Probably thinking ’bout other things.”

Allie nodded.

“At the train,” she said.

“That’s me,” Stringer said.

“How do you do,” she said to Stringer, and made a small curtsy.

“Glad you’re well,” Stringer said. “Who’s this young lady?”

“Her name’s Laurel,” Virgil said. “She don’t say much. Laurel, this here is Deputy Stringer.”

Laurel looked at Stringer and nodded slowly and made her small curtsy. Then she went to Virgil and whispered to him. He whispered back. She whispered again.

“Well, sure, sort of like Pony Flores,” Virgil said.

“She shy?” Stringer said.

“Indian took her,” Virgil said. “She had a pretty bad time till we got her back.”

“Her folks are dead,” Allie said. “I’m looking out for her.”

“Since we got her back,” I said, “won’t talk to nobody ’cept Virgil.”

Stringer sipped some whiskey.

“Who’s Pony Flores?” Stringer said.

“Tracker,” Virgil said. “Helped us get her back.”

Laurel whispered again to Virgil. He listened and nodded.

“He gave her a gun,” Virgil said. “She wants to show it to you.”

Stringer nodded. Laurel took the derringer out of the pocket of her pinafore and held it out in the palm of her hand. Stringer looked at it carefully.

“That’s a very fine derringer,” he said.

He looked at Virgil.

“Loaded,” he said.

“She knows how to use it,” Virgil said. “Makes her feel safer.”

Stringer nodded.

“What are you boys gonna do here?” Stringer said.

“We’re posturing that,” Virgil said.

“Or pondering,” I said.

“Pondering,” Virgil said. “That’s what we’re doing. Everett went to the Military Academy.”

“Could speak to the sheriff for you,” Stringer said.

“Foraged up some money in Brimstone,” Virgil said. “We figure to take some time and look around.”

“You boys good at anything but gun work?” Stringer said.

“Might be,” Virgil said.

“Like what?” Stringer said.

“We’re ponderin’ that, too,” Virgil said.

“Meet the new chief of police?” Stringer said.

His voice was neutral, but there was something in the way he said “chief of police.”

“Yep,” Virgil said.

“And?” Stringer said.

“Offered us a job,” Virgil said.

“Which you turned down,” Stringer said.

“Everett and me don’t like him,” Virgil said.

Stringer studied the surface of his whiskey for a moment and then drank some.

“How come?” Stringer said.

Virgil looked at me.

“He annoyed Virgil,” I said. “Kinda full of himself.”

Stringer nodded.

“Don’t make no mistake with him,” Stringer said. “He’s a horse’s ass, okay, but he knows what he wants. He’ll do what he needs to get it. He can shoot, and he will. Got some people working for him can shoot.”

“Twelve people working for him,” I said.

“Town got big fast,” Stringer said.

“Virgil and me ran it with two,” I said. “It get six times bigger?”

“More people work for you, more power you got,” Stringer said. “Callico’s ambitious.”

“He want to be sheriff ?” I said.

“It’s the next step,” Stringer said.

“To what?” Virgil said.

“Governor.”

“Why’s he want to be governor,” Virgil said.

“Probably ’cause it’s the next step to senator,” Stringer said. “I don’t know what Callico wants.”

“What kind of lawman is he?” Virgil said.

“Tough, strict, fair enough, I think,” Stringer said. “But he got no heart.”

“Heart don’t do you much good,” Virgil said.

Stringer smiled.

“ ’ Course it doesn’t,” he said. “Makes you soft.”

“Get you killed,” Virgil said.

Stringer said, “You think Virgil Cole got heart, Laurel.”

Laurel was sitting next to Virgil with Allie on her other side. She showed no sign of having heard Stringer’s question.

“She hear me?” Stringer said.

“She don’t much talk with anybody but Virgil,” I said.

“Hell,” Stringer said.

Laurel leaned in close to Virgil and whispered to him. Virgil smiled. He looked at me for a moment, then at Stringer.

“Laurel claims I got the most heart in the world,” he said.

3

THE BOSTON HOUSE had changed hands twice since I had killed Randall Bragg. But Willis McDonough in his starched white shirt was still the head bartender. And he bought us each a drink when Virgil and I went in to say hello.

“New owner’s a fella from Chicago named Lamar Speck,” Willis said. “Nice enough fella, I guess. You boys looking for work?”

“Might be,” Virgil said.

“No peace-officer work, I guess,” Willis said.

“I guess,” Virgil said.

As always, Virgil was looking at the room, paying no attention, seeing everything. I didn’t bother. Virgil would do it anyway, and he saw more than I did.

“Got more peace officers than you can shake a stick at,” Willis said.

“Need ’em all?” Virgil said.

Willis shrugged.

“You boys kept things pretty well buttoned up with just two of you.”

“So why so many?” I said.

Willis looked around at the near-empty bar, then leaned forward and lowered his voice.

“Might be another plan,” he said.

“What?” Virgil said.

“I’m just a bartender,” Willis said, “but. . . .”

Virgil waited.

Willis looked around again and leaned in toward us even closer.

“Not much happens around here anymore without Chief Callico having something to do with it,” he said softly.

“Payoffs?” Virgil said.

“I’m just the bartender.”

“But you hear things,” Virgil said.

“I think Mr. Speck gives him money.”

“What happens if he don’t?” Virgil said.

“There’s trouble, police are too busy, ya know? Too busy to get here.”

“And you got nobody to keep order?” I said.

Willis shook his head.

“Was a fella named Hector Barnes,” Willis said. “Worked the lookout chair with his brother, Chico. But they quit.”

“Why?” Virgil said.

Willis shrugged.

“I think the police was bothering them about things.”

“They run ’em off ?” Virgil said.

Willis shrugged.

“Ain’t here no more,” he said.

“And Speck is making his payments,” Virgil said.

“Might be,” Willis said.

“Anybody say anything to the sheriff ?” I said.

“He’s a day’s ride from here,” Willis said.

“So?”

“Something might happen to you or your place, by the time the sheriff got to sending a deputy down.”

“So, how come you’re telling us,” I said.

“Figured it might be a job opening for you boys,” Willis said.

“Keepin’ the peace in the Boston House?” I said.

“I tole Mr. Speck I’d speak to you, first time you come in,” Willis said.

“Should we talk to Mr. Speck,” I said.

“I can arrange it,” Willis said.

I looked at Virgil. He nodded slowly. I nodded with him.

“Why don’t you,” Virgil said to Willis.

4

LAMAR SPECK was a little skinny guy with a big Adam’s apple and a prominent nose. He dressed like a dandy. Black coat with velvet lapels, a red-and-gold vest, striped trousers. He sat at a big rolltop desk in the back office of the saloon, and swiveled around in his chair and stood when Willis showed us in.

“Mr. Cole,” he said. “Mr. Hitch. A pleasure.”

We agreed that it was a pleasure.

“I understand that you gentlemen are looking for work,” Speck said.

“Might be,” Virgil said.

“Sit,” Speck said. “Please.”

We sat. McDonough was looking at Virgil as he talked. Everybody always talked to Virgil.

“I have of course heard of you gentlemen, especially, Mr. Cole. And of course I know you used to be the lawmen in town.”

“We were,” Virgil said.

“And I know that most of our citizens respect you both,” Speck said.

“They surely do,” Virgil said.

He didn’t show it. But I knew Virgil was getting restless. It drove him crazy when people rambled on, except when it was him.

“So, I thought to myself, Lamar, here’s a chance to get some first-rate help. If you boys will agree, I’ll hire you, and if there’s trouble, you’ll take care of it.”

“How much?” Virgil said.

Speck told him.

“You don’t have anybody sitting lookout?” Virgil said.

“The police arrested my last one,” Speck said. “Turns out he was wanted in Kansas.”

“Kansas,” Virgil said, and looked at me.

“The police keep a sharp eye in Appaloosa,” I said.

“We run our own show,” Virgil said. “Post a list of rules, people obey them or they leave. People give us trouble, we shoot them.”

“Shoot?”

“You think people gonna obey the rules ’cause they like us?” Virgil said.

“Well, ah, no, of course not, I guess.”

“They obey the rules ’cause they know we’ll shoot,” Virgil says. “Which means maybe, now and then, we’ll have to.”

“Well, I . . . certainly. You know this work best.”

“Police gonna be helpful?” I said.

“I’m sure they will be pleased to have help,” Speck said.

“They been helpful in the past?” I said.

“They are often very busy,” Speck said.

“Ain’t had any trouble with Callico?” Virgil said.

“Certainly not,” Speck said. “Except for my lookout.”

Virgil nodded.

“We’ll come by in the morning,” Virgil said. “Give a list of our rules. You agree to post them. We’ll start work.”

Speck stood and put out his hand. Virgil ignored it.

“Virgil don’t shake hands,” I said. “Nothing personal.”

“Oh,” Speck said. “Oh, well, very good. I’ll look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”

As we stood on the porch outside the Boston House, Virgil said, “You ain’t wanted in Kansas, are you?”

“No,” I said. “You?”

“Nope.”

“Maybe Callico’s just enforcing the law,” I said.

“That’s getting to seem harder than it used to,” Virgil said.

5

THE PAY was regular at the Boston House, and the work was easy. Most people in Appaloosa had heard of Virgil Cole.

When things were slow, Virgil and I would drink coffee with the whores in the back of the room, or lean on the bar and talk with the bartenders. When the place was busy we’d move through the room, making sure nobody was heeled and, occasionally, soothing a belligerent.

I was up front one evening, talking with Willis, when one of the whores yelled for Virgil. I looked. A man in a fancy frock coat had hold of the whore’s arm and was trying to drag her out of her chair. Virgil walked over. I picked up my eight-gauge and strolled up to where I could watch Virgil’s back.

The whore’s name was Emma Scarlet. She was a pleasant whore, and I liked her.

“I’m not going with you,” she said.

“You’re selling your ass,” he said, “and my money’s as good as anybody’s.”

“You don’t like to fuck,” Emma said to the man in the frock coat. “You like to hurt people.”

“You can let her arm be,” Virgil said to the man in the frock coat.

“Who the fuck are you?” the man said.

He was tall and slim with long, blond hair and a white shirt buttoned to the neck. I didn’t see a gun.

“Virgil Cole,” Virgil said.

“What makes this your business,” the man said.

“I’m not going to fuck with this,” Virgil said. “You let her go, or I’ll kill you.”

The man let go of the whore’s arm and took a step back, as if Virgil had pushed him.

“Kill me?”

“That’s better,” Virgil said.

“Kill me?” the man said. “Over a fucking whore in a saloon?”

“Got trouble with this whore, find another one,” Virgil said.

“Some other place,” Emma said. “Nobody here’s gonna let him do anything.”

Virgil nodded.

“Any of you ladies care to do business with this gentleman?” Virgil said.

No one said anything. Several of the whores shook their heads.

“Guess not,” Virgil said to the man. “Try down the street.”

“You’re kicking me out?” the man said. “Because the whores don’t like me?”

“I am,” Virgil said, and stepped aside to let him pass.

“You got no idea who I am, do you?”

“I don’t,” Virgil said, and nodded toward the door.

“My name’s Nicholas Laird,” he said. “That mean anything to you?”

“Means none of these ladies want your business,” Virgil said.

He took hold of Laird’s right arm with his left hand. Laird tried to shake it off and couldn’t.

“We’ll walk to the door,” Virgil said.

“You’re heeled,” Laird said. “And I’m not. And you got the shotgun over there.”

“Bad odds,” Virgil said.

“Next time you see me,” Laird said, “odds are gonna be different.”

Virgil’s face changed slightly. No one else probably could tell. But I knew he was smiling.

“Maybe not,” Virgil said.

6

WE WERE DRINKING coffee at the bar with Willis

McDonough.

“Would you really have shot him?” Willis asked.

“Certain,” Virgil said.

“She’s a whore,” Willis said.

“She is,” Virgil said. “But she ain’t a slave.”

Willis nodded and looked like he didn’t get it, but he didn’t need to.

“Well, you bit a pretty big end off the plug,” Willis said. “His old man is General Horatio Laird. Took over Bragg’s place after”—Willis looked at me—“after he, ah, died. Bought that Scots bull, too.”

“Black angus,” I said.

“Yeah,” Willis said. “Them, and the cows, and made a killing with ’em. People back east was eatin’ them fast as Laird could slaughter the steers.”

“Rich man?” I said.

“Damn straight,” Willis said.

“What’s the ‘general’ for.”

“Confederate army.”

“Still hanging on to it,” I said.

“Proud of it,” Willis said. “Proud of a lot of things. But the kid ain’t one of them.”

“Nicholas,” Virgil said.

“The general must have done some bad stuff in his life, ’cause Nicholas is a big punishment,” Willis said.

Virgil didn’t seem to be listening. He scanned the room aimlessly. But I knew he heard everything. Just like he saw everything.

“Wild?” I said.

“Thinks he’s a gun hand,” Willis said. “Tell me he practices an hour every day with a Colt.”

“Ever shoot at live targets?” Virgil said.

“Heard he might,” Willis said. “ ’Specially he got some folks behind him.”

“Folks,” Virgil said.

“General’s getting on,” Willis said. “He’s tryin’ to let the kid run things, so he’ll be ready when the general steps off the train. Kid has hired himself some second-rate riffraff up there worse than Bragg had.”

“Be some bad riffraff,” Virgil said. “They shooters?”

“Most of ’em couldn’t hit a bull in the ass with a shovel,” Willis said.

“Useless, too,” Virgil said.

7

IT WAS A DARK gray day, when Amos Callico came into the saloon, with four of his policemen. The four policemen all carried Winchesters.

“Like to sit with you boys for a minute,” Callico said.

We sat at a table up front near the bar. The four policemen ranged along the walls near us. The tables around us were empty. One of the bartenders brought a bottle and three glasses.

“Understand you hired on here,” Callico said.

He poured himself some whiskey and offered the bottle toward us. Virgil and I declined.

“That right?” Callico said.

“It is,” Virgil said.

“Bouncers,” Callico said.

“Correct,” Virgil said.

“Got you a big list of rules,” Callico said, and nodded without looking at the rules posted on the wall.

“We do,” Virgil said.

“Pretty much same rules you had for the town when you was marshal,” Callico said.

“Pretty much,” Virgil said.

“Just want to be sure you remember that you ain’t marshal now,” Callico said.

“I remember,” Virgil said.

Callico looked at me for the first time.

“You?” he said.

“I remember, too,” I said.

He looked at the eight-gauge leaning against the edge of the table.

“You haul that fucking blunderbuss around with you everywhere?” he said.

“I do,” I said.

“For God’s sake, why?” Callico said.

“Same reason you have your boys carry Winchesters in a saloon,” I said. “Folks get the idea you’re serious.”

Callico looked at me without expression for a moment. Then he turned back to Virgil.

“Why do you suppose Speck hired you?” Callico said.

“Keep order,” Virgil said.

“I’m the one keeps order in Appaloosa,” Callico said.

“Well, that’s by-God comforting,” Virgil said. “We run into trouble we’ll be sure to holler for you.”

“You should have hollered for me already,” Callico said. Virgil looked at me.

“You know any reason we should have hollered for the police?” Virgil said.

“Nope.”

“You threw Nicky Laird out of here, couple days ago, for a damn whore.”

“Several damn whores,” Virgil said.

“He’s a highly regarded citizen of this town, and his father is a close personal friend of mine.”

“Nice,” Virgil said.

“You embarrassed him in public,” Callico said.

“Man embarrassed himself,” Virgil said.

“Boys,” Callico said, and poured himself more whiskey. “This is exactly why I don’t want no vigilante law enforcing going on. There’s a distinguished citizen being insulted by some whores and you side with the whores.”

He stopped, drank some of his whiskey, and shook his head slowly.

“You boys know the county sheriff’s chief deputy,” Callico said.

“Stringer,” Virgil said.

Callico nodded.

“He was in town picking up a prisoner. Got a lot of regard for you boys.”

“Stringer’s a good man,” Virgil said.

“And I got a high regard for you both. I know your reputation,” Callico said. “But you can’t run a town with two different sets of law.”

“Welcome to borrow ours,” Virgil said.

Callico slammed his hand loudly on the table. Virgil didn’t appear to notice.

“Goddamn it,” he said. “I don’t want either one of you working here. That put it plain enough?”

“I’d say it was,” he answered. “You say so, Everett?”

“I do,” I said.

“Then you’ll quit,” Callico said.

“No,” Virgil said.

“No?” Callico said. “I won’t take no.”

“Everett,” Virgil said, “I think Chief Callico is trying to intimate us. . . .”

Virgil paused and frowned and shook his head.

“No,” he said. “That ain’t right. What am I trying to say, Everett?”

“Intimidate?” I said.

“That’s it,” Virgil said. “I think the chief is trying to intimidate us.”

As quietly as I could, I cocked both hammers on the eight-gauge.

“Goddamn it, I’m telling you plain what I want,” Callico said.

“Amos,” Virgil said. “Me ’n Everett don’t much care what you want.”

“You defying me?” Callico said.

“By God,” Virgil said. “I believe we are.”

“There’s five armed men here,” Callico said.

Virgil said nothing.

“You’re willing to die rather than let me run you off ?” Callico said.

Virgil shook his head.

“Don’t expect to die,” he said.

“Against five men?” Callico said.

“Expect me and Everett can kill you all,” Virgil said.

Everyone was still, except Callico. I could hear him breathing in and out, his chest heaving slowly. Then he, too, quieted. Very slowly he put both hands flat on the tabletop.

“Don’t get ahead shooting people up in a saloon,” he said, and looked at us.

Then he stood and jerked his head at the officers along the wall.

“We’ll talk again,” he said to Virgil.

And they filed out.

“Be my guess it ain’t over,” I said.

“When he finds an excuse,” Virgil said.

8

IF WE STAYED around the house in the morning until Allie got up, she set right in cooking us breakfast. So we tried to get out, before she woke up, and went to eat at Café Paris. Since I wasn’t a lawman these days, and I didn’t expect to shoot anybody, I left the eight-gauge in the house.

“We got to eat supper with her sometimes, so’s not to hurt her feelin’s,” Virgil said. “But I can’t face her cooking in the morning.”

“How’s the rest of it going,” I said.

“She don’t seem so crazy,” Virgil said.

“Maybe ’cause she got Laurel to take care of,” I said.

“Maybe,” Virgil said.

“Makes her feel important,” I said.

“She’s important to me,” Virgil said.

“I know,” I said.

“Sex life be better, though,” Virgil said, “Allie wasn’t sleepin’ with Laurel.”

“Maybe I could arrange for Laurel and me to take long walks in the evening,” I said.

“Might help,” Virgil said.

“And,” I said, “soon as we settle in, I’ll get a place of my own.”

“I know,” Virgil said. “But I ain’t sure Laurel can sleep by herself.”

“No,” I said. “Probably can’t.”

Virgil paid for breakfast.

“So we’re back to the long walks,” I said.

We stood.

“Thing is,” Virgil said as we left Café Paris, “Allie says she feels funny doing it now that there’s a child in the house.”

“Even if the child is out for walk?” I said. “With me?”

Virgil shrugged. We strolled along Main Street to the Boston House and sat on the front porch and looked at the town.

“Be worth a try,” Virgil said.

We sat without talking. There was nothing uncomfortable in the silence. We could sit quiet for a long time. And we’d shared a lot of silences in the years we’d been together.

The land north of Appaloosa rose gradually through the mesquite. A wagon road ran up the rise to the edge of town, where it became Main Street. From town, unless you were at the very northern edge, you couldn’t see the road. It was as if Appaloosa stood long at the edge of a cliff, and when anything entered town from that direction it seemed simply to appear. There wasn’t a lot of traffic yet on Main Street. Two freight wagons appeared, each hauled by four big draft horses, their wide hooves kicking up little scatters of dust as they came. The early stage to Blue Rock went past us, heading north with two passengers and the driver up top next to the shotgun messenger.

“Town don’t bustle much,” Virgil said, “this early.”

“Later,” I said. “It’ll bustle later.”

Virgil nodded toward the north end of Main Street.

“Couple riders,” he said.

I looked.

“So?” I said.

“Recognize anybody?” Virgil said.

“Not yet,” I said.

“One on the left’ll be Pony Flores,” Virgil said.

I studied the riders.

Then I said, “I believe it will.”

9

THE RIDERS pulled up and sat their horses in front of the Boston House.

“Pony,” Virgil said.

Pony nodded at him. His Stetson was tipped forward, shading his face.

“Thought you was going to live Chiricahua for a spell,” I said.

Pony shrugged and tipped his head toward the rider beside him.

“My brother,” he said, “Kha-to-nay.”

We said, “Hello.”

Kha-to-nay had no reaction.

“He speak English?” Virgil said.

“Can,” Pony said. “Won’t.”

“Don’t like English?” Virgil said.

“He raised Chiricahua,” Pony said. “Don’t like white men.”

“He understand what we say?” I asked.

“Sure,” Pony said. “But only listen Chiricahua. Only talk Chiricahua.”

“Should introduce him to Laurel,” I said. “She only talks Virgil.”

“Chiquita,” Pony said. “She is well?”

“Doin’ fine,” Virgil said. “Kinda quiet, is all.” Kha-to-nay was motionless on his horse. As far as I could tell, watching him sit a horse, he was a little shorter than Pony, and a little wider. Pony had on buckskin leggings and high moccasins. The handle of a knife showed at the top of the right moccasin. He had on a dark blue shirt that might have once belonged to a soldier, and a big horn-handled Colt on a concho-studded belt. There was a Winchester in his saddle scabbard. Kha-to-nay wore a dark suit and a black-and-white striped shirt buttoned up tight to his neck. His black hair came to his shoulders. He, too, had a Winchester, and he wore a bowie knife on his belt.

“You lawmen again?” Pony said.

“Not at present,” Virgil said.

Pony nodded.

“Need help,” he said.

“Okay,” Virgil said.

“How the law in this town?” Pony said.

“Got a police chief,” I said. “Name of Amos Callico. Seems pretty set in his ways.”

Pony looked at Virgil.

“Don’t like him,” Virgil said.

“You live someplace?” Pony said.

“Got a house,” Virgil said.

“We go there and talk,” Pony said.

“Sure,” Virgil said. “Allie be glad to see you.”

We stood, and with Pony and Kha-to-nay walking their horses beside us, we went down Main Street toward Virgil’s house.

“What’s Kha-to-nay mean, in English?” I said to Pony. Pony thought a minute.

“Sees a Snake,” he said. “I think.”

“You think?” I said.

Pony pointed to his head.

“Change into Spanish,” he said. “Then Spanish to English.”

We could have been speaking Egyptian for all the attention Kha-to-nay paid. He rode silently, his eyes shifting left and right as he rode. We went down to First Street and turned right and walked a block to Front Street, where Virgil’s house was.

Allie was on the front porch in a rocker, reading to Laurel. I knew what she was reading. It was a book called Ladies’ Book of Etiquette, Fashion, and Manual of Politeness. She’d been reading a chapter a day to Laurel since we left Brimstone. I didn’t know if it was doing Laurel any good, but Allie appeared to be soaking it up.

They both looked up as we came into the small yard. Neither of them said anything for a moment. Then Laurel stood up abruptly and stepped off the porch. She walked to Pony, being careful not to look at Kha-to-nay, and took the derringer out of her apron pocket, and held it out so Pony could see it. Pony smiled, threw a leg over the pommel of his saddle, and slid fluidly off his horse.

“Chiquita,” he said.

She jumped into his arms, and he held her, rocking gently side to side. Kha-to-nay sat silent as a stone.

“Pony Flores,” Allie said. “How perfectly lovely. Come sit on the porch, you and your friend.”

Pony said something to Kha-to-nay in Apache. Kha-to-nay shook his head. Pony spoke again. Kha-to-nay did not answer, nor did he look at any of us.

“My brother is a donkey,” Pony said. “But he is my brother.”

10

WE SAT on the porch and passed around a jug of corn whiskey. Allie put a marker in her etiquette book, went to get small glasses for herself and Laurel.

“Ladies don’t drink from jugs,” Allie said.

Virgil poured a little for each lady, and took a pull from the jug before he handed it to Pony Flores. Laurel sat close beside Virgil and did not look at Kha-to-nay.

Kha-to-nay would not touch the jug or even acknowledge that it existed. But he did finally get off his horse and lean on the porch railing, with his Winchester, looking toward town, standing as far away from the rest of us as possible.

“For true Chiricahua, Blue-Eyed Devil not exist,” Pony said. “What Kha-to-nay believe.”

“You’re a half Mex,” Virgil said. “Ain’t he?”

“All Chiricahua,” Pony said. “Same mother. Different father.”

“He hate us all?” I said.

“Like only Chiricahua,” Pony said.

“We take away his land?” I said.

“Take away everything,” Pony said.

“How you feel about that?”

“You come, take away what Chiricahua have,” Pony said.

“While ago Chiricahua come and take away from other people. Other people come long time ago, take away.” Pony shrugged. “Somebody probably come one day, take away from Blue-Eyed Devil,” Pony said. “Happen always.”

“S’pose it does,” I said. “Kha-to-nay know you feel like that?”

“Sí,” Pony said.

“You talk about it?” I said.

“Sí,” Pony said. “I think man live now, do what need to be done, keep word, don’t think how things be before.”

“And Kha-to-nay?” I said.

Pony smiled.

“Say I am only half Chiricahua.”

I nodded. Kha-to-nay stared into the middle distance. Pony took a pull on the whiskey jug.

“What kinda help you need?” Virgil said.

“I know you come back to Appaloosa. I think you be the lawman here,” Pony said.

Virgil nodded.

“Kha-to-nay kill an Indian agent and rob train,” Pony said.

Without looking at us, Kha-to-nay said something in Apache. Pony answered. Kha-to-nay said something else. Pony nodded.

“Kha-to-nay say he not rob train. He destroy train. He say Chiricahua people at war with white-eyes. Say destroy train is act of war.”

“How ’bout the Indian agent?” Virgil said.

“Kill white-eye . . . tirano?” Pony said, and looked at me.

“Tyrant,” I said.

“Kill white-eye tyrant,” Pony said. “Free Chiricahua people.”

“So, the government is after him for the Indian agent,” Virgil said. “And the Pinkertons are after him for the railroad.”

“U.S. Marshals arrest Kha-to-nay,” Pony said. “Put him in jail. I get him out. We come here.”

“How’d you get him out of Yaqui?” Virgil said.

Pony smiled and patted his Colt. Virgil nodded.

“There a bounty on him?” Virgil said.

“Sí,” Pony said.

Virgil rocked back a little in his chair and took the jug from me and took a pull.

“Well,” Virgil said. “We can’t let ’em take you.”

11

YOU WANT to move in here?” Virgil said. Pony shook his head.

“Kha-to-nay not stay with white devil,” Pony said.

“Don’t blame him,” Virgil said. “Wasn’t one myself I wouldn’t stay with him, either.”

“Not understand,” Pony said.

“Virgil’s making a joke,” I said.

“Got any money?” Virgil said.

Pony smiled and nodded.

“When Kha-to-nay destroy train in war with white tyrant, he take money, too.”

“Kha-to-nay’s not so dumb,” I said.

From his place at the far end of the porch Kha-to-nay said nothing.

“Anybody on your trail?” Virgil said.

Pony shook his head.

“Only man can track Pony Flores,” he said, “is me.”

“Good,” Virgil said. “Police ain’t on our side here.”

“You on other side of law now?” Pony said.

“Neither side,” Virgil said. “Just keeping order in the Boston House saloon.”

“You not the law,” Pony said. “Maybe we bring you trouble. Maybe should move on.”

“Where?” Virgil said. “Here, you got two friends in town.”

“Four,” Allie said.

We all looked at her. Virgil nodded slowly.

“Four friends in town,” he said.

Pony nodded.

“All good with gun,” he said, and smiled at Laurel.

She almost smiled back.

“We stay,” Pony said, “for while.”

“Then what?” Allie said.

“We see,” Pony said.

“See what?” Allie said.

Pony looked at Virgil.

“See what develops, Allie,” Virgil said.

“That’s your plan?” Allie said.

“Plan gonna depend on what develops,” Virgil said.

“So, how do you know you can handle what develops?” Allie said.

Ladies, don’t drink from the jug, I thought, but they sometimes have several from the glass.

“Don’t,” Virgil said.

“What about all of that stuff Everett talks about from Who’s-he-which on War?” Allie said.

“Clausewitz,” I said. “Prepare for what your enemy can do, not what you think he will do.”

“How about that?” Allie said to Virgil.

“Hell, Allie,” Virgil said. “Don’t know who the enemy is yet.”

“So, you just wander into it,” Allie said. “The great Virgil Cole, full of yourself, assuming, as you always do, that you can handle everything.”

Virgil said, “Don’t know how else to go, Allie.”

“Everett’s no better,” Allie said. “You go, he goes, too.”

She poured an unladylike slug of whiskey into her glass and drank some.

“Well, what about me? What happens to Laurel?” she said.

“Wouldn’t have found Laurel without Pony,” Virgil said.

Allie didn’t say anything for a moment.

Then she said, “Men!” and shook her head.

Laurel looked as solemn as always.

12

A SHORT, fat man with a goatee, wearing a flat-crowned black hat, came into the Boston House in the late afternoon with Lamar Speck. He and Speck located Virgil leaning on the bar.

“Virgil,” Speck said. “This is Buford Posner.”

Virgil nodded.

“I own the Golden Palace,” Posner said, “down the street, and there’s trouble there right now.”

“I suggested you and Everett,” Speck said.

He was speaking very fast.

“Whaddya need?” Virgil said to Posner.

“A group of cowboys are causing trouble in my place,” Posner said. “They’ve run off my lookout, and Lamar tells me you’ve been successful with this sort of thing in the past.”

“Why not the police?” Virgil said.

“Like Lamar, I am not on good terms with the police,” Posner said. “I will pay you, of course.”

“Be a favor to me, Virgil,” Speck said.

Virgil looked at me.

“Everett?”

“Why not,” I said.

“They say they are going to destroy my saloon,” Posner said.

“Then we better hurry,” Virgil said. “Everett, bring your eight-gauge.”

The Golden Palace wasn’t much on the outside, but inside it was a fancy, fussy little place with murals painted on the walls and ornate plaster moldings. There were eight cowboys in there, drinking whiskey from the bottle. A couple were sitting on the bar, the rest at a pair of tables. The spittoons had been tipped over. There was broken glass on the floor, and someone had shot holes, kind of strategically, in the mural of a wood nymph.

Behind us, Posner said, “My God,” and backed out the door. Virgil and I went in without him.

One of the cowboys looked at us as we pushed into the saloon and said, “Who the fuck are you?”

“Name’s Virgil Cole,” Virgil said. “Big fella with the siege gun is Everett Hitch.”

“Want a drink?” the cowboy said.

He was young, probably no more than twenty-five, and he wore a big Colt with a black handle in a low-cut holster tied down on his right thigh.

“No,” Virgil said. “We’d like you boys to leave.”

“Leave?” the young cowboy said.

I moved away from Virgil, so that I was close to the saloon wall on Virgil’s right. He moved left, against the bar.

“Correct,” Virgil said.

The young cowboy jumped down from the bar and faced Virgil.

“What happens if we don’t leave?” he said.

“We shoot some of you,” Virgil said.

I thumbed the hammers back on the eight-gauge. It was a touch of theater, the sound of the hammers snicking back. We’d done it a hundred times before. But I also knew that Virgil was ready to shoot. He didn’t seem to have changed position, but I knew that he was balanced, knees bent a little, shoulders relaxed. He looked steadily at the young cowboy. It was a hard look to meet. But the young cowboy had the wild eyes you see sometimes in bucking horses, and he held the look. I knew Virgil didn’t care if the kid held his look or not. Virgil was in the place he goes to when it might be time to shoot. Everything registered and nothing mattered.

“You gonna shoot all of us?” the kid said.

“Depends,” Virgil said.

“On what?” the kid said.

The other cowboys had gathered behind him. All of them were heeled.

“On what you all do,” Virgil said. “You pull on me and I’ll kill you.”

“All of us,” the kid said.

“You first,” Virgil said. “Everett will get some with the scatter gun. Then we’ll see.”

The kid looked around for a moment at the other cowboys.

“Wanna go at ’em?” he said.

Somebody behind him said, “Lazy L don’t back down from nobody.”

The kid nodded. He looked back at Virgil.

He was going to try it.

You do this enough you can sense it. I knew he was going to try. Virgil knew. We maybe both knew before the kid really did.

The kid’s shoulders twitched, and Virgil drew his gun and had the hammer back before the kid reached his holster. I had the eight-gauge at my shoulder. We were far enough apart so that they’d have to decide which of us to shoot at.

The kid froze with his fingertips on the black butt of his Colt.

“Jesus Christ,” the kid said.

“Might want to back down from this one,” Virgil said.

“How’d you do that?” the kid said.

“Done it before,” Virgil said.

“For crissake, you didn’t even move fast,” the kid said.

“Fast enough,” Virgil said.

The kid slowly moved his hand away from his gun.

“I’m really fast,” the kid said.

The tension had gone out of the room.

“Sure,” Virgil said.

“You coulda killed me easy,” the kid said.

“Sure,” Virgil said.

The kid started slowly toward the door. The other cowboys followed.

Virgil turned slowly as they moved. I did, too, with the shotgun still at my shoulder.

When they were gone, Virgil holstered his Colt. I lowered the eight-gauge.

“Lazy L,” I said. “Could be General Laird’s place.”

“Could be,” Virgil said.

“If it is,” I said, “they might be getting tired of us.”

“Might,” Virgil said.

“If they are,” I said, “I s’pose they’ll let us know.”

“Probably,” Virgil said.

He found a couple of unbroken glasses on the bar and poured us each a drink. We were sipping it when the saloon doors opened a crack and Posner looked in.

“Everybody’s gone?” he said.

“They are,” Virgil said. “Care for a drink?”

13

IT WAS RAINING, a nice, straight-down summer rain. We sat on the covered front porch after supper and drank coffee and watched it. Allie and Laurel were still cleaning up inside.

“What was that we ate for supper?” Virgil said.

“Dinner,” I said. “Allie told me it’s properly called dinner.”

“Whatever we call it, it was heavy going,” Virgil said.

“I think what we ate might once have been a tough old chicken,” I said.

“Think it was,” Virgil said. “But what was in the pot with it?”

“Don’t know,” I said. “Coffee ain’t much, either.”

“Gotta put a lot of sugar in it,” Virgil said.

“Whiskey might help.”

“Suspicion it would,” Virgil said. “You got the jug over by you?”

“I do.”

Virgil held his cup out toward me.

“Whyn’t your pour a little into this coffee for me,” Virgil said.

I poured some for both of us. The rain smelled very clean, and things seemed fresh.

“Kid in the saloon today,” I said. “Was really interested in whether he could kill you.”

Virgil nodded.

“Then when he couldn’t, he was just as interested in why he couldn’t,” I said.

“Wants to be a pistolero,” Virgil said.

“He needs to get better,” I said.

“Does,” Virgil said, and sipped from his cup.

Allie and Laurel came out of the house with coffee and sat down with us.

“You drinking whiskey in that coffee?” Allie said.

“We are,” Virgil said. “Hard to drink it without some.”

“Oh, Virgil,” she said. “You know you don’t mean it.” Virgil looked at me.

“ ’Course he don’t,” I said.

“Everett,” Allie said. “You might pour a splash for me and Laurel.”

I poured some into Allie’s coffee.

“Go easy on the child,” Allie said.

“Sure,” I said.

“I met Mrs. Callico this afternoon, at a church meeting. A fine lady. Educated back east. Very good manners.”

“Like you,” Virgil said.

“Oh, Virgil, you know I don’t have an eastern education,” Allie said.

“You’re a fine lady, anyway,” Virgil said.

“Oh, Virgil,” she said. “That’s so sweet.”

Virgil smiled. The rain was making the soft noise rain can make, when it’s right.

“What are you going to do about Pony?” Allie said.

“Nothing,” Virgil said.

“I think you should tell him to move on,” Allie said.

“Thought he had four friends here,” Virgil said.

“Of course he does, Virgil. But he’s trouble,” Allie said. “For all of us. I think you should tell him.”

“Ain’t gonna do that, Allie,” Virgil said.

“It’s not him so much,” Allie said. “It’s that brother. I don’t like him. I don’t like the way he looks at me. And you know Laurel and Indians. Poor child won’t even look at him.”

“Ain’t afraid of Pony,” Virgil said.

“He ain’t all Indian,” Allie said.

Virgil stood and walked to Laurel’s chair.

“You afraid of Kha-to-nay?” Virgil said, and bent down to her.

She whispered in his ear. He nodded and whispered back to her. She whispered again. Virgil smiled.

“Says she is scared of Kha-to-nay,” he said. “But she knows Pony won’t let him hurt her.”

“Mrs. Callico invited me to have tea with her sometime,” Allie said.

“That’s nice,” Virgil said.

“We live here,” Allie said. “We own a house. It is my chance to have a regular life, Virgil.”

“Sure,” Virgil said. “I want that for you, Allie.”

“Then get rid of Pony,” she said. “And his brother.” Virgil shook his head. Laurel made a sound. All of us looked at her. It might have been the first sound she’d made since we got her. She made the sound again and shook her head violently.

Allie began to cry.

“Nobody understands,” she said. “Nobody understands me.”

“We do,” Virgil said. “All of us know you want to be a fine churchgoing lady. And all of us know that being friendly with a breed carries a knife in his moccasin don’t help that.”

Allie looked up with tears on her face.

“Then send him away,” Allie said.

Laurel made her noise again.

“Can’t,” Virgil said.

Allie stood with her hands covering her face and her shoulders shaking, and rushed into the house.

Virgil looked at me silently for a minute.

Then he said, “Know them long walks we was talking about you and Laurel taking?”

“I do,” I said.

“Don’t think there’ll be so much need for ’em right now,” Virgil said.

14

IT WAS MORNING. There was a CLOSED sign on the door to the Boston House saloon. Virgil and I sat at a big round table in the back of the saloon. With us sat Lamar Speck, Buford Posner, and five other men. The room was otherwise empty. Except for Willis McDonough, who was setting up the bar. Outside, the rain that had made things fresh yesterday was making things soggy today.

“This is a private meeting,” Speck said. “What we talk about here doesn’t leave the room. Anybody don’t understand that?”

Nobody said they didn’t.

“This here’s Virgil Cole and Everett Hitch,” Speck said.

“You all know who they are and what they do. They done it for me, and you know what happened at Buford’s place this week.

“Boys,” Speck continued, “everybody at the table owns a saloon, or similar public place. Buford, you know, owns the Golden Palace.”

He introduced us around the table, and identified each man with his business.

“All us got the same problem,” Speck said. “And we thought you boys might be able to help us.”

Speck shifted in his chair and studied the backs of his hands for a moment. Virgil and I waited.

“It’s Callico,” Speck said.

He looked around the table. No one fainted. Speck glanced at the front door of the saloon. No one came in.

“He charges something he calls a ‘safeguard fee.’ We pay him regular, and when there’s trouble the police will come at once and put things right.”

“And if you don’t pay him regular?” Virgil said.

“They don’t come,” Speck said.

Virgil looked at me and smiled faintly.

“Fee a big one?” I said.

“Substantial,” Speck said.

“Thinking you could get the same service for less?” I said.

“Yes,” Speck said. “We been talking ’bout that, seein’ as you boys done it twice already.”

“’Cause you wouldn’t pay Callico’s safeguard money,” Virgil said.

“Yes, Buford and I agreed it was extortion, and refused to pay.”

“Which is why you had to hire us when Nicky Laird run off your shotgun lookout.”

“Yes. And it’s why I brought Buford to you. And it’s why all of us are here now. We all chip in. We post them rules of yours in our establishments. You’ll be here, and if there’s any trouble anyplace, they’ll send for you, and you come running. We get safety. You get money.”

“There enough trouble?” Virgil said. “We come cheaper than Callico. But we ain’t cheap.”

“We’ll guarantee you a year,” Speck said. “There’s enough trouble. More since you left. More since the police stopped showing up. And more as the town gets bigger. And more since General Laird took over Bragg’s place.”

“He the Lazy L?” I said.

“He is,” Speck said. “But Nicky mostly runs it.”

“Couple things to think about,” Virgil said.

“I know we can meet your price,” Speck said.

Everybody at the table agreed.

“Good,” Virgil said. “’Nother thing is, Everett and me do this, sooner or later we gonna have to kill somebody.”

Nobody said anything.

“Anybody care ’bout that?” Virgil said.

Speck looked at the other men around the table, then at Virgil. No one appeared to care.

“You boys should do what you need to do,” he said. Virgil nodded slowly and looked at me.

“Everett?” he said.

“Not like we got something else to do,” I said.

Virgil kept nodding. He looked back at Speck.

“Okay,” he said.

Later we sat on the front porch of the Boston House admiring the rainwashed air.

“Smells nice after it rains,” Virgil said.

“Um-hm.”

Virgil tilted his chair onto its back two legs and allowed it to balance there, its back resting against the hotel wall.

“You thinking?” he said.

“Yep.”

“’Bout Callico?” Virgil said.

“Yep.”

Virgil nodded. He allowed the chair to rock slightly on its rear legs, the back tapping lightly against the wall.

“Me, too,” he said.

“Ain’t gonna like us taking away his safeguard business,” I said.

“True,” Virgil said.

“We kill somebody, be his chance to come after us.”

“Might,” Virgil said.

“Other hand,” I said. “If Stringer’s right, Callico’s after bigger things when statehood comes.”

“So, he might not want to open up the fee question,” Virgil said.

“Might not,” I said.

“Guess we just proceed,” Virgil said. “See what comes along.”

15

VIRGIL AND I took to sitting out on the porch in front of the Boston House, the way we used to sit on the porch outside the jail, when we were the law in Appaloosa. Mostly we sat and watched the life on Main Street. It was handy to everybody we were supposed to be protecting. It was pleasant, especially since Appaloosa hadn’t been all that rambunctious since we signed on. And now and then, Tilda would come out of the saloon to pour us some coffee.

“Appears to be a parade,” Virgil said.

I looked down Main Street and saw Amos Callico coming up the street with six policemen carrying Winchesters. The policemen stopped in the street and formed a semicircle facing Virgil and me.

“No drum,” I said to Virgil.

“Too bad,” Virgil said.

Callico came up the steps and sat next to Virgil on the porch.

“You boys are costing me money,” he said softly.

“I believe we are,” Virgil said.

“I want it back,” Callico said.

“I would, too,” Virgil said. “I was you.”

“I want you boys gone by Sunday,” Callico said.

Virgil shook his head.

“You’re telling me no?” Callico said.

“I am,” Virgil said.

“You’re here after Sunday, we’ll kill you first time we see you.”

“That sound legal to you, Everett?” Virgil said.

“Don’t,” I said.

“I’m the law in this town,” Callico said. “If I do it, it’s legal.”

“Might cause you a little trouble down the line,” Virgil said. “Sheriff’s bound to look into it. Most likely it’ll be Stringer, and he don’t like you much, anyway.”

“Fuck Stringer,” Callico said.

“Everett,” Virgil said. “You think shooting a couple of famous lawmen would look good, if you was gonna run for sheriff, or gov’nor, or God, or something?”

“Might not,” I said.

Callico looked silently at both of us.

Then he said, “You may have a point there, Virgil. Maybe there’s some way we can work this out more amicably.”

Virgil looked at me.

“ ‘Amicably’?” he said.

“Friendly,” I said.

“Not sure how amicable you and me can be, Amos,” Virgil said.

Callico looked at the six policemen in the street. They were far enough away so that they couldn’t hear what was being quietly spoken. He took a deep breath.

“There’s a nice life to be lived here. Pleasant, respectable, and money to be made. There’s enough for both of us. But not if we’re on opposite sides. I’ve just started to develop this arrangement, and there’s a lot more of it to come. If you just get out of the way. I’ll give you a piece of it.”

“How big a piece?” Virgil said.

“We can negotiate that,” Callico said. “Be a percentage, I would think. So, as I grow you get more.”

“You’re planning on growing,” Virgil said.

“I plan on owning this town,” Callico said. “Every goddamned citizen will be giving me money regular.”

“Got it all planned out?” Virgil said.

“I’m feelin’ my way along. But it can be done.”

“’Less we get in your way.”

“You’re right,” Callico said. “Be harder for me if I have to kill you. But if it gets even harder when I don’t kill you . . .”

Callico spread his hands, and raised his eyebrows, and shrugged.

“Don’t need an answer right now, Virgil,” Callico said. “Both you boys think on it.”

“Be glad to,” Virgil said.

“Be needing an answer by Sunday,” Callico said.

“Surely,” Virgil said.

We all sat for a moment. Then Callico stood, nodded to us, and headed back down Main Street. His men followed. Virgil and I sat quiet for a time, and then Virgil spoke.

“You know,” Virgil said. “Last time we was here we was lawmen. Now we appear to be outlaws.”

“I guess,” I said.

“Don’t seem much different,” Virgil said.

“Maybe it ain’t,” I said.

“Oughta be,” Virgil said.

I shrugged.

“We gonna take his offer?” I said.

“No.”

“We leaving town?”

“No.”

“We gonna face it out with him?”

“Be my plan,” Virgil said.

I nodded.

“Why don’t we take his offer?”

“Don’t like the man,” Virgil said.

“Least you got a nice, strong reason,” I said.

“Don’t like him,” Virgil said.

16

PONY HAD BREAKFAST with us at Café Paris on Friday. The Chinaman who ran the café had some chickens, and they had been laying recently. So, with our beans and salt pork and biscuits, we each had an egg.

“Sick of cooking for me and Kha-to-nay,” Pony said.

“How is life out on the prairie,” I said.

Pony shrugged.

“Quiet,” he said. “But Kha-to-nay wants to go back to war with white-eyes.”

“Ain’t gonna win that,” I said.

“I know,” Pony said. “Try to keep him alive long as I can. Balloon go up here on Sunday?”

Virgil shook his head.

“No?” I said.

Virgil shook his head again.

“He backed off the shooting,” Virgil said. “Soon’s we brought it up.”

“Scared?” Pony said.

Virgil shook his head.

“Ambitious,” he said.

“Afraid it would spoil his plan to be governor?” I said.

“Yep.”

“He did shift the tone of the conversation,” I said.

“He tell you go,” Pony said. “He tell you, you not go he kill you.”

“True,” Virgil said. “But he won’t.”

“Think I come in town, anyway,” Pony said. “Stay with you Sunday.”

“ ’Preciate it,” Virgil said. “But I ain’t wrong ’bout this.”

“Wants to be known as the man who cleaned up Appaloosa,” I said.

“Yep,” Virgil said. “And he won’t get that reputation by shooting us.”

“Who actually did clean up Appaloosa,” I said.

“Maybe for a while,” Virgil said. “But Callico’s a politician. Don’t care nothing about actually.”

“He lie?” Pony said.

“How he knows he’s a politician,” Virgil said.

17

PONY WALKED with us up from Café Paris and sat with us in our spot in front of the Boston House. Tilda brought us out some coffee.

“This what you do every day?” Pony said.

“When we ain’t keeping order in our saloons,” I said.

“How much you do that?” Pony said.

“Not so much,” Virgil said.

“Mostly we do it from here. Anybody needs us, they send somebody.”

“Don’t seem too dangerous here,” Pony said.

“Don’t,” Virgil said.

“Seem boring,” Pony said.

“Is,” Virgil said. “Mostly.”

“Good for ladies,” Pony said.

“Yep.”

“How is Chiquita?” Pony said.

“Doin’ fine,” Virgil said. He was watching four horse-men come up the street. All four wore dusters and black Stetsons.

“Hello,” I said.

Virgil nodded. Pony said nothing.

As the riders came abreast of us, they wheeled the horses and stopped in front of us.

“Looking for the police office in town,” one of the riders said. He had very pale blue eyes and a thick mustache peppered with gray.

I told him where it was.

“Chief’s name is Callico,” I said.

The man was eyeing Virgil.

“Ain’t you Virgil Cole?” the man said.

“I am,” Virgil said.

“Seen you in Abilene,” he said. “You were good.”

Virgil grinned.

“Still am,” he said.

“You the law here?” the man said.

“Nope,” Virgil said. “Just a citizen.”

“Dell Garrison,” the man said. “I’m with the Pinkerton Detective Agency. We’re chasing an Indian. Run off from the Apache reservation. Held up a train. Killed a couple railroad employees.”

“What makes you think he’s here?” Virgil said.

“Folks in Van Buren spotted them, couple weeks back, heading south. This is the next town.”

Virgil nodded.

Garrison looked at Pony.

“He’s traveling with a breed,” Garrison said.

“Know the breed’s name?” Virgil said.

“Nope.”

“How ’bout the Indian?” Virgil said.

“Got it wrote down somewhere in my saddlebags,” Garrison said. “Indian name.”

Garrison looked at Pony some more.

“You a breed?” he said to Pony.

Pony said something in Spanish.

“He a friend of yours?” Garrison said.

“He is,” Virgil said.

“What’d he say?”

“Don’t know,” Virgil said. “Don’t speak Spanish. Everett, you know what he said?”

“No,” I said.

“You’re Everett Hitch,” Garrison said.

“Yep.”

“Breed speak any English?”

“Never heard him,” I said.

“This fella’s a friend and you don’t speak Spanish and he don’t speak English.”

“We’re pretty quiet,” I said.

“He a breed?” Garrison said.

“Don’t know,” Virgil said.

Garrison nodded and looked at me.

“That an eight-gauge?” he said.

“It is,” I said.

“Don’t see them much,” Garrison said. “Wells Fargo issues them, I think.”

“That’s where I got it,” I said.

Garrison looked at Pony some more. Pony said nothing, showed nothing.

“You see my Indian,” Garrison said, “or the breed he’s running with, the railroad’s got a nice reward out.”

“Bounty hunters?” I said. “Sure . . . big reward.”

“They following you?” Virgil said.

Garrison smiled.

“You know the trade,” he said. “Yeah, they let us do the finding and then try to slip in ahead of us and get there first.”

“You mind?” I said.

“We get paid either way, and we ain’t eligible for the reward, anyway.”

“Dead or alive?” Virgil said.

“Yep.”

“Dead is easier,” Virgil said.

“Yep,” Garrison said. “And, hell, he’s an Indian.”

Nobody said anything.

“Well,” Garrison said. “Keep an eye out.”

“Surely will,” Virgil said.

Garrison backed his horse out a couple of steps away from us and turned him and headed on down toward Callico’s office. The three other riders followed.

When they were gone, Virgil turned to Pony.

“Place up north a ways, Resolution. Me and Everett worked there a while back. Last I knew, the law up there was a couple boys we worked with.”

“Cato Tillson,” I said. “And Frank Rose.”

“You tell ’em we sent you,” Virgil said. “Be a nice place to hunker down for a while.”

“What about police chief ?” Pony said. “Sunday.”

“Callico?” Virgil said. “On Sunday, Callico’s gonna let it slide.”

“You know?”

“Know enough,” Virgil said. “Don’t worry about Callico.”

Pony nodded slowly.

“We will go there,” Pony said.

Pony smiled and shrugged.

“I was Garrison,” Virgil said, “I’d turn that corner and send a man back along Front Street to see what you done. If you lit out, I’d have him follow you.”

“Ain’t going to light out,” Pony said. “Go home with you.”

Virgil nodded.

Pony smiled.

“Then light out,” he said.

“I was you,” Virgil said, “and I was gonna light out anyway, I’d collect Kha-to-nay and light out ’fore Allie cooked you supper.”

“Sí,” Pony said.

“And tell your brother,” I said, “not to irritate Cato.”

“Sí,” Pony said.

Then the three of us got up and walked down Main Street toward Virgil’s house.

18

ON SUNDAY MORNING Virgil was sitting where he sat, in front of the Boston House. He was heeled and his Winchester leaned against the wall beside his chair. I was across the street with the eight-gauge, standing on the boardwalk in the shade in front of the feed store. Above us the sky was a pale, even, uninterrupted blue that appeared to stretch clear west at least to California.

People were on the street, dressed up, the women especially, going to church. I saw Allie go by in her best dress, with Laurel. They were walking with a tall, handsome woman in clothes that looked like she’d shopped in New York. Allie waved at Virgil as she passed. Virgil touched the brim of his hat.

We waited. That was okay. We were good at it. Virgil and I could wait as long as we needed to. Around midday, Callico came down the street with his Winchester escorts. They stopped in front of Virgil. Callico looked around, saw me across the street, and murmured something to his escort. Three of the policemen turned and faced me. I nodded at them. Nobody nodded back.

“I’ve decided not to kill you, Virgil,” Callico said.

He had a big voice, and it carried easily from the Boston House to the feed store.

Virgil looked at the armed policemen.

“You ever go anyplace alone, Amos?” Virgil said.

“I’m not a violent man,” Callico said. “And I figure it’s easier to get along with you than kill both of you.”

“A sight easier,” Virgil said.

“Long as you don’t break the law,” Callico said.

Virgil didn’t comment.

“And I’ll be keeping my eye on you,” Callico said.

“Expect you will,” Virgil said.

“You break a law and I’ll come down on you like an avalanche.”

“Avalanche,” Virgil said.

“Like a mountain fell on you,” Callico said.

Virgil nodded.

“Amos,” he said. “You got to stop trying to scare us. Ain’t effective. Me ’n Everett been doin’ gun work too long.”

“This is a small town,” Callico said. “And a big country. I’m not going to sacrifice the big for the small, you understand that?”

“Surely do,” Virgil said.

“So, you do your business, and I’ll do mine, and you stay clean, we won’t bother each other.”

“That sounds fine,” Virgil said.

He raised his voice.

“That sound fine to you, Everett?” he said.

“Fine,” I said.

“We think it’s fine,” Virgil said.

Callico looked at Virgil for a considerable time without a sound.

Then he said, “Mind your step, Virgil. Just mind your step.”

He turned and led his policemen on down the street. I strolled over to where Virgil was and sat down beside him.

“Pompous son of a bitch,” I said.

“Don’t mean he ain’t good with a Colt,” Virgil said.

“Stringer claims he’s one of the best,” I said.

“Stringer knows something about that,” Virgil said.

“On the other hand, we’re pretty good, too,” I said.

“We are,” Virgil said. “Ain’t we.”

Tilda came out with coffee and we settled in for another day.

19

ALLIE AND LAUREL liked to walk up Main Street in the evening, but Laurel wouldn’t leave the house without Virgil, so when they wanted to go, we went, too, and strolled with them past the dress shop window, where Allie told Laurel how beautiful the clothes were. Laurel stared at them silently.

At the end of Main Street, past Seventh, were the short-time whorehouses, so we stopped before we reached them, and crossed the street and headed back down along Main Street. Walking ahead with Virgil, Laurel would pause sometimes and whisper to him. Allie and I dropped a few steps behind.

“You think she’ll ever talk to me, Everett?” Allie said.

“Might,” I said.

“I’ve been a mother to her since what happened,” Allie said.

“You’ve been a good one, Allie.”

“I guess she talks to Virgil because he saved her,” Allie said.

“I saved her, too,” I said. “And she won’t talk to me.”

“Or Pony Flores,” Allie said. “Virgil always says you wouldn’t have found her without Pony Flores.”

“True,” I said.

“She even hugs him, but doesn’t speak.”

“I know,” I said.

“There must be something about Virgil,” she said.

“Virgil’s not like other people, Allie.”

“No,” she said. “He certainly isn’t.”

We passed the Golden Palace. The light and sound spilled gladly out onto the street.

“Everything seems so peaceful now,” Allie said.

“Yes.”

“Did Virgil ask Pony to leave?” Allie said.

“Pinkertons showed up looking for him,” I said. “We sent them up to Resolution. Know the law there.”

“Resolution was where you and Virgil were for a time, while I was . . . away.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Why doesn’t Kha-to-nay go back to his people?” Allie said.

“First place they’d look for him,” I said. “And Pony is afraid that if he’s back with the tribe he’ll instigate trouble.”

“So, it wasn’t because I asked him,” Allie said.

We passed the Boston House.

“How are things with the police chief,” Allie said.

“Fine.”

“Mrs. Callico invited me and Laurel to tea after church last Sunday,” Allie said. “She’s so elegant. From New Orleans.”

“Never been to New Orleans,” I said.

“And she speaks French,” Allie said.

Ahead of us, Virgil walked with a slight forward bend, so he could listen when Laurel whispered to him.

“And she has clothes sent to her from there,” Allie said.

We reached First Street and turned right on it, toward Front Street.

“And she has a Mexican woman who cooks and serves,” Allie said.

“Can see why Callico needs income,” I said.

“Oh, he’s going to be very wealthy,” Allie said.

“You’re sure?”

“Mrs. Callico says he has a plan worked out. He’ll get elected sheriff next year. And then, later, he’ll go to Congress and come back and be a governor, and he says one day he’ll be President.”

“Of the country?” I said.

“That’s what Mrs. Callico told me.”

“The United States of America,” I said.

“President of the United States,” Allie said.

“Amos Callico,” I said.

“Wouldn’t that be exciting if he was, and we knew him?”

“Why would anybody want to be President?” I said.

“Oh, Everett,” Allie said. “Don’t be so silly.”

20

EVERY COUPLE OF HOURS, more often at night, Virgil or I toured the saloons we were hired to protect. The one not touring would be in place in front of the Boston House in case there was trouble and someone sent for us. On a pleasant evening, with a lot of starlight, I was on tour. As I came out of the Sweet Water Saloon, Tilda, the Boston House waitress, came running.

“Trouble,” she said. “Come fast.”

“Boston House?” I said.

“Yes.”

I went up Main Street at a run, carrying the eight-gauge.

In the Boston House, Virgil was in the doorway that led to the hotel lobby. He was leaning his left shoulder against the jamb. Standing across the room, with a half dozen of his ranch hands behind him, Nicky Laird was drunk. So were the hands.

“Sign says no guns,” Nicky said to Virgil.

“Does,” Virgil said.

“We got guns.”

“Yeah, you do,” Virgil said.

“Gonna try to do something ’bout that?” Nicky said.

“Have to ask you to leave,” Virgil said.

“We ain’t goin’,” Nicky said.

“Then I have to disarm you.”

“All seven of us?” Nicky said.

“Yep.”

“Even if you got a round under the hammer,” Nicky said. “You only got six.”

“Three choices,” Virgil said. “You leave, you take off the guns, or you pull on me. Anybody pulls on me, I kill you, too.”

Behind Nicky I thumbed both hammers back on the eight-gauge. It was a loud sound in the quiet room. Several patrons silently moved out of the line of fire.

Nicky glanced back at me.

“Your back-shooting friend,” he said to Virgil.

Virgil didn’t answer.

“Don’t change nothing,” Nicky said.

Virgil nodded gently. His shoulders were relaxed. He seemed almost a little bored.

“The Laird name gets respect,” Nicky said. “And if it don’t, somebody pays hell for it.”

“No reason it has to be you,” Virgil said.

“Man’s right,” one of the hands said. “The general won’t like this.”

“Fuck the general,” Nicky said. “I run things.”

“You’re a boy,” Virgil said. “And you’re drunk. I’ll take no pride in killing you.”

“Fuck you, too,” Nicky said, and went for his gun.

Virgil shot him and a man on either side of him before anyone cleared leather. Everyone else froze. I didn’t even have to shoot.

Someone said, “Jesus!”

“You boys leave the saloon,” Virgil said, “and take them three with you.”

The four men did as they were told. No one looked at Virgil or me. I let the hammers down on the eight-gauge. Virgil carefully took the spent shells from his Colt and fed in three fresh ones.

“Kid had choices,” Virgil said.

“Had three,” I said.

“Took the wrong one,” Virgil said.

“Kinda thought he would,” I said.

“Drunk,” Virgil said.

“And young,” I said.

“Too young,” Virgil said.

“Maybe,” I said. “But old enough to kill you, if you let him.”

“’Fraid so,” Virgil said.

21

WHEN WE COULD, Virgil liked to take the horses out and run them so’s to keep their wind good. On Sunday morning, while Allie and Laurel were in church, we were in the hills back of Bragg’s old spread, which was now the Lazy L.

The Appaloosa stallion was still there with his mares. He looked at us, stiff-legged, as we sat our horses on the west flank of a hill. He tossed his head.

“Smells the geldings,” I said.

“Stallions don’t like geldings,” Virgil said.

“Wonder why?” I said. “Ain’t no competition.”

“Maybe he don’t know that,” Virgil said.

“But you and I both seen a stallion attack a gelding without no mares around. Gelding minding his own business.”

“Maybe the stud just don’t like the idea of geldings,” Virgil said.

“Can’t say I’m all that fond of it myself,” I said.

“Probably don’t smell like a mare,” Virgil said. “And don’t smell like a stallion, and he don’t know what it is.”

“Creatures don’t seem to like things they don’t know what it is,” I said.

The stallion moved nervously around his herd of mares. Head up, tail up, ears forward. One of the mares was cropping grass a few feet away, separate from the herd. The stallion nipped her on the flank, and she closed with the other mares.

“Stays right around here,” Virgil said.

“Why you suppose he keeps them here?” I said. “Lotta herds drift.”

“Good grass,” Virgil said. “Water, lotta shelter in the winter.”

“Not much competition, I’d guess.”

“I dunno, see a couple new scars on him,” Virgil said. “One on his neck there, and one on his left shoulder.”

“Could be wolves,” I said.

“Looks like horse to me,” Virgil said.

“Ain’t seen no other wild horses around here,” I said.

“Maybe somebody rides a stud,” Virgil said. “And it wandered.”

“Lotta work being a stud,” I said.

“It is,” Virgil said.

“Gets a lot of humping,” I said.

“Wonder if it’s worth it,” Virgil said.

“He keeps at it,” I said.

Another mare strayed, and the stallion dashed around the herd with his head low and his neck out flat, and drove her back.

“Worth it to him, I guess,” Virgil said.

22

THE FUNERAL for Nicky Laird was held on Monday morning. Virgil and I watched the procession from the window of Café Paris, where we were eating fried salt pork and biscuits and all four of the eggs the Chinaman had that day.

The Appaloosa police force in full uniform marched behind the hearse, and Chief Callico sat in the black funeral carriage with a starchy-looking old man who was probably General Laird.

“Callico appears to be a friend of the family,” I said.

“Seems so,” Virgil said.

There was a sturdy-looking Mexican woman in the carriage, too. She was crying.

“Not the mother,” I said. “The general didn’t marry no Mexican.”

Virgil shook his head.

“Don’t see no mother,” Virgil said.

“Probably the housekeeper,” I said. “Maybe raised the boy.”

“Must be hard burying a child,” Virgil said.

“Must be,” I said.

“Got no children, so I guess we can’t know,” Virgil said.

“Got Laurel,” I said.

“Be hard burying Laurel,” Virgil said.

“Would,” I said.

We drank our coffee. The funeral proceeded past.

“You had to kill him, Virgil,” I said. “Don’t see what else you coulda done.”

Virgil nodded.

“Killing don’t bother me,” Virgil said. “Long as I follow the rules.”

“You gave him a choice,” I said.

“He’s got to know what he’s up against,” Virgil said. “He’s got to have a chance to walk away.”

“He knew who you were. He was looking for a fight. He coulda chosen not to fight,” I said.

“He could,” Virgil said.

“That one of the rules?” I said.

Virgil always seemed clear on the rules, but I never exactly knew how the rules got made.

“Sometimes,” Virgil said.

“How ’bout the five men had Laurel and her mother,” I said. “Didn’t give them no chance.”

“The rule there was save the women,” Virgil said.

“How ’bout if somebody shoots first,” I said.

Virgil grinned.

“Rule there is save your ass,” he said.

“So, the rules change,” I said.

“’Course they do,” Virgil said. “Ain’t no one rule for everything.”

I said, “Which means sometimes you have to make one up pretty quick.”

“Sometimes the fight makes the rules for you,” Virgil said. “And you only know afterwards that it was a rule at all.”

“You do have some ideas,” I said. “You reading books again?”

“Still reading this Emerson fella,” Virgil said. “Mostly it’s mush, but sometimes he says something.”

“Say much about gunfight rules?” I said.

“Ain’t touched on that, so far,” Virgil said.

“How ’bout that drummer you shot, the one run off with Allie?”

“I broke the rules,” Virgil said.

“You shot him ’cause you were mad,” I said.

“I did. He hadn’t broken no law.”

“And you were the law,” I said.

“Yep.”

“So, the law was the rule then,” I said.

“Yep.”

“But now we ain’t the law,” I said.

“Hell,” Virgil said. “We’re on the other side of the law in this town.”

“But there’s still rules,” I said.

“’Course there are,” Virgil said. “Don’t you got any rules, Everett?”

“Don’t think much about it,” I said. “Mostly I just follow yours.”

Virgil smiled slightly and looked at me silently for a while.

Then he said, “Good.”

23

VIRGIL AND I were thinking about lunch, and fearing that Allie would bring some, when a man on a tall gray horse rode alone up Main Street and stopped in front of the Boston House, where Virgil and I were sitting. He was a tall man, barrel-bodied, with a white beard and thick white hair, under the kind of gray slouch hat that Confederate cavalry officers used to wear.

“I’m Horatio Laird,” he said to Virgil. “You killed my son.”

“I’m sorry about that, sir,” Virgil said. “He left me no choice.”

“I know you,” Laird said. “You’re a professional killer. My son was wild, but he was no gunfighter.”

“He was drunk, sir,” Virgil said. “He pulled on me.”

“He didn’t have a chance,” Laird said.

“He did,” Virgil said. “I gave him one. He didn’t take it.”

“He was a proud boy,” General Laird said. “Hotheaded, never a boy to back down.”

Virgil nodded. The general’s voice thickened.

“I . . . I taught him that,” he said.

Neither Virgil nor I said anything.

“God help me,” the general said.

His big-boned gray was a stallion, with a black mane and tail. I wondered if he was the one that had been after the Appaloosa’s mares. He was so big a horse that the general was high above us, the reins slack over the saddle horn, hands folded on top of them, the knuckles white with effort. He didn’t seem to be carrying a weapon.

“He thought he was faster than he was, sir,” Virgil said.

The general was shaking his head slowly left, right, left, right.

“Wasn’t me,” Virgil said. “It was gonna be somebody.”

“He died standing up,” I said. “Facing the man who killed him.”

“You . . . think . . . that matters . . . to . . . me?” the general said.

“No, sir,” Virgil said. “Probably don’t. But there ain’t much else to say.”

He shook his head some more. Left, right. Left, right.

“My son’s dead, Cole, and you’re not,” the general said.

“That ain’t right.”

He seemed to be having trouble with his breath.

“I could, I’d kill you where you’re sitting. But you’re too fast.”

His breath was harsh.

“But I’ll make it happen,” he rasped, “if I have to shoot you in the back.”

Nobody spoke. The general struggled with his breath for moment, and then wheeled the stallion and rode off down the street.

“Think he means it?” I said.

“Not about shooting me in the back,” Virgil said. “I expect he can’t. Man like him. Be against the rules.”

“Those rules again,” I said.

“He pretty surely got more than I do,” Virgil said. “He’ll find another way.”

“Hire somebody?” I said.

“S’pect he might,” Virgil said.

24

CHIEF CALLICO stopped by our place of business, outside the Boston House, where Virgil and I were looking at the town and drinking coffee. He sat with us. He was neighborly Amos today.

“By God, Virgil,” he said. “You’ve put me in a bind.”

“Weren’t my intention,” Virgil said.

He sipped his coffee and looked over the rim of the mug past the rooftops of the town, at the higher country to the west. The land was mostly brown, with some moments of green, where there was water.

“Horatio Laird is the most important man in this part of the country,” Callico said.

“I believe he is,” Virgil said.

“Did you have to kill his only son?” Callico said.

“I did,” Virgil said.

“He’s pressing me real hard about it,” Callico said.

“Wants me arrested,” Virgil said.

“He wants that very bad,” Callico said.

“Can’t say I blame him,” Virgil said.

Tilda came out with a pot of coffee and poured some for us.

“Tilda,” Virgil said. “Why don’t you get a cup for our friend Amos here.”

“Yessir, Mr. Cole,” Tilda said.

“But we both know I can’t arrest you,” Callico said.

He took the cup from Tilda and held it while she poured.

“You got fifty eyewitnesses that it was self-defense,” Callico said.

“Didn’t know it was that many,” Virgil said. “You know that, Everett?”

“Knew there were enough,” I said.

“I got plans,” Callico said. “I’m trying to enforce the law in this town, and do it in a way will help me with those plans, you understand?”

“Heard you was aiming for president,” Virgil said.

“And, by God, I’d be a good one, Virgil,” Callico said.

“But there’s some stops ’fore we get there. And I got to make them.”

“And you don’t get to make them,” I said, “arresting people and having to turn them loose.”

“Correct. And I don’t make them unless I enforce the law right,” Callico said. “And I don’t make them unless I got support from important people, like General Laird.”

“And right now you’re in a squeeze,” I said.

“You see that,” Callico said.

Virgil drank some more coffee.

“Everett went to West Point,” he said.

“Smart fella,” Callico said. “Both of you are smart fellas. You give me any support you can, I’ll appreciate it, and I’ll remember it when I’ve made a few of those stops.”

“Need money to go where you want to go,” Virgil said.

“Sure do,” Callico said. “One reason people like the general are important.”

“Reason why you charge folks a fee for police services, too,” Virgil said.

“Town don’t give us enough operating budget,” Callico said. “Got to do what I can.”

Callico smiled a big, friendly smile.

“Opened up a little business for you boys, too,” he said.

Virgil nodded.

“Did,” he said.

“I can do things like that,” Callico said.

Virgil and I didn’t say anything.

“I ain’t asking you boys for help. You’re the only ones round here could give me trouble. You stay out of my way, and I’ll consider it help.”

“We got no ill will,” Virgil said. “Do we, Everett.”

“Nope.”

“Good,” Callico said. “Thanks for the coffee.”

He stood and walked back down Main Street.

I looked at Virgil.

“You sure we don’t have no ill will?” I said.

Still studying the western horizon, Virgil smiled slowly. “Well,” he said. “Maybe a little.”

25

I HAD STARTED keeping company with Emma Scarlet. “Your partner killed General Laird’s son,” Emma said.

It was midafternoon and business was slow for both of us, so we took a siesta in her room.

“Yes,” I said.

“And I started it,” Emma said.

“I guess,” I said.

“It’ll get him in trouble with the general,” Emma said.

“Or it might get the general in trouble with Virgil,” I said.

The life hadn’t gotten her yet, and she still looked pretty good with her clothes off.

“General draws an awful lot of water, round here,” Emma said.

“I heard that,” I said.

“Be governor if he hadn’t been a reb,” Emma said.

“People still care?” I said.

“Not around here,” she said. “But lot of other voters. Don’t make much difference to me. I can’t vote, anyhow.”

“What you can do, though, you do pretty well,” I said.

“Pretty well?” she said.

“Best in the history of the goddamned world,” I said.

She giggled.

“Oh, Everett,” she said. “That’s real sweet.”

“Like me,” I said.

“Most men are scared of the general,” she said.

“Virgil ain’t,” I said.

“How do you know so sure?” Emma said.

“’Cause Virgil ain’t scared of anything,” I said.

“I feel kinda bad about Nicky getting killed,” Emma said. “You know? Like it was my fault. Couldn’t Virgil have just whonked him on the head with his gun?”

“Ever see a gunfight, Emma?”

“Sure, I have. I’m a whore. I work saloons. Seen a lot. Drunks, mostly. Usually they miss.”

“There’s another kind, too,” I said.

“Like the ones you and Virgil do?”

“Like those,” I said. “What I learned about those, I learned from Virgil. Because of what he does, what we do, mostly we’re outnumbered.”

“Like you were with Nicky,” Emma said.

“Yep. So we got to mean it, soon as it starts. No whonking people. No shooting them in the leg. They need to know, and we need to know, that we are ready to kill them.”

“Someone told me Nicky had six men with him,” Emma said. “How come they all didn’t just start shooting at the same time and kill both of you.”

“Couple reasons,” I said. “One, Virgil always makes it one against one. He always lets them know that if they draw first they are going to die first. And he’s so quick that he’s killed the first man before anyone else has cleared the holster. It tends to freeze everyone. Once they freeze, it’s over.”

“God,” Emma said. “You talk about this like it was some kind of regular work, like herding cows.”

“Seems like regular work after a while, I guess. How ’bout you?”

Emma giggled.

“Depends who I have to fuck,” Emma said.

“It would,” I said. “Wouldn’t it.”

“I do it ’cause, pretty much, I gotta. I got no money, no husband, don’t know how to do nothing else,” Emma said. “But you can do other stuff. You don’t have to do what you do. You been to the United States Military Academy. How come you just do gun work.”

“Me and Virgil,” I said. “We’re good at it. Hell, Virgil may be the best there is at it.”

“And you like that.”

“It’s pleasing,” I said. “To be good at what you do.”

“You like killing folks,” Emma said.

I thought about that for a while.

“Not so much killing,” I said. “But when we do it, and, Virgil would say, do it right, it’s like we say, This is us; this is who we are; this is what we do.”

“And you like that.”

“Guess we do,” I said.

“You think I’m good at what I do?” Emma said.

“Best in history,” I said.

“Want me to do it again?”

“One’s all I can afford,” I said.

Emma rolled over on top of me.

“On the house,” she said.

26

NICKY LAIRD had been dead for three weeks. I was in the Golden Palace explaining to a very drunk mule skinner why he couldn’t buy more whiskey on credit. He was kind of stubborn about it, so I hit him in the stomach with the butt of the eight-gauge and threw him off the front steps into Third Street.

I came back into the saloon, and a man came in behind me. He was wearing a beaded buckskin shirt, an ivory-handled Colt on his hip, and a derby hat tilted forward over the bridge of his nose. He looked like somebody from a wild west show, except, somehow, I knew he wasn’t.

“Nicely done,” the man said to me.

He had black-and-white striped pants tucked into high black boots, and his skin was smooth and kind of pale, like a woman’s. He didn’t look like he spent much time outside. His hands were pale, too, with long fingers.

“No guns,” I said, “allowed in the saloon.”

“Oh,” he said. “Of course. Perhaps we could step out onto the veranda.”

First time I ever heard it called a veranda. But we stepped out onto it anyway.

“No wasted movement,” he said when we were outside.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Nice long gun, too,” the man said. “Eight-gauge?”

“Yep.”

“Makes a big hole,” the man said.

“Does,” I said.

“You work here?” he said.

“Here and there,” I said.

“I’m looking for a fella named Virgil Cole,” the man said. “Might you be he?”

“Nope,” I said. “Name’s Everett Hitch.”

“Chauncey Teagarden,” he said. “You’re with Cole, are you not?”

He didn’t offer to shake hands. I didn’t, either.

“I am,” I said.

“Know where to find him?”

“I do,” I said. “Why do you want to see him?”

“Heard so much about him,” Teagarden said.

I nodded. We were both quiet.

“Seems to me,” I said after a short time, “that I’ve heard some ’bout you.”

“All good, I hope.”

“Heard you did gun work,” I said.

“Some.”

“What brings you to Appaloosa?” I said.

“Just drifting,” he said.

“Planning on staying?” I said.

“Don’t expect to be here long,” Teagarden said.

“Planning on any work while you’re here?” Teagarden smiled.

“See if any comes my way,” he said. “I’d surely like to meet Virgil Cole.”

“Probably sitting in front of the Boston House,” I said. “I’ll walk up with you.”

“’Preciate it,” Teagarden said.

27

WE LEFT the Golden Palace and turned up Main Street. Virgil was sitting where we sat, in front of the Boston House. He stood as we came toward him. There was nothing sudden in the movement. He was seated. Then he wasn’t. I’d never seen Virgil hurry, except that everything he did, he seemed to do it before anyone else.

“Virgil Cole?” Teagarden said.

“Yep.”

“Chauncey Teagarden.”

Virgil nodded. Neither man put his hand out.

“You was up in Telford,” Virgil said.

“Indeed,” Teagarden said.

“Osage County War,” Virgil said.

Teagarden nodded.

“Pleasure,” Teagarden said.

“Likewise,” Virgil said.

Since they had come in sight, each had looked exclusively at the other.

“Not doing law work,” Teagarden said.

“Nope.”

“You and Hitch keeping order in some saloons,” Teagarden said.

“Yep.”

Then Teagarden nodded slightly.

“Well, I’m glad I got to meet you,” Teagarden said. “The great Virgil Cole.”

Virgil didn’t comment.

“Maybe see you again,” Teagarden said.

“Maybe,” Virgil said.

Teagarden turned and walked off down Main Street. Virgil watched him go.

“Says he’s just drifting,” I said.

“He ain’t just drifting,” Virgil said.

“Here on business?”

“He’s here to kill somebody.”

“You now that,” I said.

“It’s what he does,” Virgil said.

“Why’d he want to see you?”

Virgil smiled.

“So he’d know what I looked like,” Virgil said.

“You think it’s you?” I said.

“I don’t think he was just being neighborly,” Virgil said.

“Anything personal?” I said.

“Chauncey Teagarden? Hell, no. He got no feelings. Somebody hired him.”

“We know who that would be,” I said.

“Probably,” Virgil said.

“We gonna do anything about it?” I said.

“We’ll await developments,” Virgil said.

28

I WAS LEAVING the Boston House to start my evening rounds when Laurel came full speed through the swinging doors and ran into me. I caught her and held her for a moment as she looked wildly around the room.

“Virgil?” I said.

She nodded. I knew she couldn’t talk to me. So with my arms still around her I bellowed back into the saloon for Virgil. When he appeared I let her go, and she pressed herself against him. He put his head down, and she whispered in his ear. Virgil listened to Laurel completely, like he always did.

“Okay,” he said. “We’ll go out and you can sit with me and Everett while we discuss this.”

Laurel nodded. We sat in front of the saloon.

“Laurel says that Allie told Mrs. Callico that Pony and his brother are up in Resolution.”

Laurel leaned over and whispered for a long time to Virgil. He nodded gravely as he listened. Then, when she stopped, he spoke to me.

“Laurel says Mrs. Callico’s first name is Olivia.”

He looked at Laurel. She nodded.

“Says Mrs. Callico told Laurel to call her Aunt Olivia.” I smiled.

“But since Laurel don’t talk,” Virgil said, “don’t make much difference what she calls her.”

“True,” I said.

“Laurel says she thinks Mrs. Callico is a horse’s ass,” Virgil went on. “But that Allie thinks she’s the queen of England or somebody.”

“So, she told her where Pony went, to suck up,” I said.

Laurel pulled at Virgil’s sleeve, and he leaned down again. She whispered to him. Virgil nodded.

“Allie was bragging about how she can get her way when she wants it,” Virgil said. “Told Mrs. Callico that she made us send Pony away.”

“You tell her that?” I said to Virgil.

“I did,” Virgil said. “Thought she’d like it.”

I nodded.

“Keep forgetting that you can’t always count on her,” he said.

“Easy mistake to make,” I said. “Shot Choctaw Brown for you in Brimstone.”

“Keep remembering that,” Virgil said. “Keep forgetting how we got to be in Brimstone in the first place.”

“Have to assume she’ll tell Amos,” I said.

“And there’s a reward on both Pony and Kha-to-nay,” Virgil said.

“Figure we should ride up there,” I said.

Virgil nodded.

“We’ll go on home, and tell Allie we got to go north for a few days,” Virgil said to Laurel. “You don’t say a word to her ’bout anything you told me.”

Laurel nodded. Then she leaned close to Virgil again and whispered.

When she was done, Virgil said, “Don’t worry ’bout Pony. Pony can take care of himself pretty good. And we’ll go up.”

Laurel nodded. She leaned over again. Again Virgil listened carefully.

Then he said, “Nothing going to happen to Pony Flores. I promise.”

She whispered again. Virgil nodded.

“You promise, too, Everett?” he said.

“I promise,” I said to Laurel.

She looked at Virgil. He nodded. She looked at me. I nodded. Then she nodded back at both of us. And smiled.

29

LAUREL’S SO QUIET,” Virgil said. “Folks forget she’s there, and they say things in front of her.”

“Think she’ll ever talk?” I said to Virgil.

“Talks to me,” Virgil said.

“Think she’ll ever talk to anybody else?” I said.

“Don’t know,” Virgil said.

We were riding easy down a low slope. The horses had settled in for the ride, and picked their way comfortably through the prairie grass. It was warm. The sun was at our backs. And we had a ways to go before we got to Resolution.

“Know why she won’t talk to anybody but you?” I said.

“No more’n you,” Virgil said.

“Had to do with what happened to her,” I said. “But Pony and me saved her, too. How come she only talks to you.”

“Knows I’m the smart one,” Virgil said.

I nodded.

“Probably it,” I said. “I wonder if we took her back east. Boston. Philadelphia. Someplace like that. Maybe a doctor could fix her, or a school, something.”

“She don’t want to go,” Virgil said.

“She said so?”

“She did,” Virgil said. “I asked her and she said no.”

“Maybe she oughta go anyway,” I said. “For her own good.”

Virgil shook his head.

“Child’s sixteen years old,” I said. “How she gonna meet a husband? Have children? Live a life? She won’t say nothing.”

“Allie’ll work with her,” Virgil said.

I didn’t say anything. Ahead of us a sage hen flurried up and canted off with a lot of wing flapping before she resettled maybe a hundred yards from us.

“We both know Allie got her problems,” Virgil said after a while.

“We do,” I said.

“Allie’s had a lot of hard times of her own,” Virgil said.

“And you and me can’t do it.”

“No.”

“That monthly stuff, and all,” Virgil said.

“We can’t do it,” I said.

“So, we got to let Allie do it,” Virgil said. “She’s trying.”

“And we got no one better,” I said.

“Nope.”

“Maybe we can find a way to send Allie back east with her.”

Virgil shrugged.

“Ain’t gonna make Laurel go,” Virgil said.

“Maybe we should.”

“Done too much she don’t want to do,” Virgil said. “She don’t want to talk, she don’t have to.”

“No,” I said. “I s’pose that’s right.”

“Make it our business to see to it she don’t have to do what she don’t want to,” Virgil said.

“Her whole life?”

“Long as is needed,” Virgil said.

“Might mean in the end she don’t get to do things she does want to,” I said.

“I can see to that, too,” Virgil said.

“Not so sure you can,” I said.

Virgil shrugged.

“Hell,” he said. “Talking ain’t worth so much, anyway.”

30

LAW IN RESOLUTION was still Cato and Rose. Frank Rose was a big, showy guy with a handlebar mustache and two pearl-handled Colts. Cato Tillson was small with droopy eyes and a sharp nose. He carried one Colt, with a dark walnut handle. They were both good with Colts. Cato maybe a little better.

“Fella we know got a small place outside of town,” Rose said. “Your Indians are sleeping in his hayloft.”

“Ain’t mine,” Virgil said. “And Pony’s a breed.”

“Well, they ain’t give us no trouble,” Rose said.

We were in the Blackfoot Saloon, sitting at a round table in the rear, sipping whiskey. Whatever the conversation, as they sat together, Virgil and Cato Tillson always eyed each other. No hostility, just a kind of professional carefulness.

“Anybody else know that?” Virgil said.

“Sure,” Rose said. “You used to be here. Town’s still ’bout the size of a corncrib.”

“There’s a bounty on them,” I said.

“Didn’t know that,” Rose said. “You know that, Cato?”

“Nope.”

“Make a difference?” Virgil said.

Rose looked at Cato. Cato shrugged.

“Not to us,” Rose said. “Might to some folks.”

“Police chief in Appaloosa probably knows, by now, that they’re here,” I said.

“He gonna come after them?”

“Probably will,” Virgil said.

“He’s the law in Appaloosa,” Rose said.

Virgil said, “Yep.”

“We the law here,” Cato said.

Virgil nodded.

“Bounty hunters out?” Rose said.

Virgil nodded again.

“Might be some Pinkertons, too,” he said.

“Might have to hire us couple of deputies,” Rose said. “Fellas with experience, say, like you boys.”

“Could arrest them,” Cato said.

“Cole’s Indian?” Rose said.

“Can’t make us give up our prisoners,” Cato said.

“’Course they can’t,” Rose said.

Virgil shook his head.

“Indian won’t go for it,” he said.

“The breed’s brother?” Rose said.

Virgil nodded.

“He won’t go to jail,” Rose said.

Virgil shook his head.

“We leave the cell unlocked,” Cato said.

“He won’t,” Virgil said.

“Don’t make no sense,” Rose said. “You think Virgil’s right, Everett?”

“Might be,” I said. “Often is.”

“Well,” Rose said. “Let’s go talk to them. They don’t want to come in, least we can give them a running start.”

“Maybe they don’t want to run,” Virgil said.

Rose looked at Cato again, and leaned back a little in his chair and smiled.

“They want to stay and fight,” Rose said. “The least we can do is offer them some high-priced backup.”

31

VIRGIL HAD BROUGHT some whiskey in his saddlebags, and we sat on a plank bench outside of the small barn and passed the bottle. Kah-to-nay declined to drink. A few dark red chickens scratched in the barnyard. A sow with a litter wallowed in a pen beside the barn. Two big-footed farm horses stood placidly in a corral, their heads hanging over the top rail. Our own horses were gathered at the watering trough.

“How long you think before Callico come here?” Pony said.

“Dunno,” Virgil said. “All I’m sure is that his wife knows you’re here.”

“Chiquita warned you,” Pony said.

“Yes.”

Pony smiled.

“Chiquita doesn’t want anything to happen to Pony Flores,” he said.

“True,” Virgil said.

Pony said something in Apache to Kah-to-nay. Kah-to-nay made a faint shrug.

“If wife don’t gossip to him,” Pony said. “He maybe not come for weeks.”

“Maybe,” Virgil said. “Or maybe he’s waiting for us at the jail when we get back to town.”

“We can arrest you,” Rose said. “Put you in the jail. We wouldn’t lock the cell. That way, we can say you our prisoner and we won’t release you to him.”

Kah-to-nay shook his head sharply and spoke in Apache. Pony nodded and held his hand up at his brother.

“How many people Callico bring?” Pony said.

“Gotta leave some people to watch the town,” Virgil said. “Figure six or eight, plus himself.”

“He any good?” Pony said.

“Amos Callico?” Cato said. “Very good.”

Pony nodded.

“You are very good?” Pony said.

“Yes,” Cato said.

Pony nodded.

“You and Everett stay, too, Virgil?”

“Long as we need to,” Virgil said.

Kah-to-nay spoke again in Apache. Pony nodded.

“So, we all stay here maybe one, maybe two, three weeks, wait for Callico to come arrest me and Kah-to-nay. Maybe big fight.”

“Pretty much,” Rose said.

Pony nodded.

“Kah-to-nay not go to white jail,” Pony said.

All of us nodded.

“Better we go away,” Pony said.

“Where?” Virgil said.

“Apache places,” Pony said.

“That’s where they’ll be looking for you,” I said.

Pony smiled.

“Some Apache places white-eyes don’t go,” he said.

“Might depend a little on the white-eye,” Virgil said.

Pony grinned wider.

“Yes, Virgil, you go, maybe Everett go with you,” he said. “But mostly not.”

Virgil nodded.

“You gonna stay on the run all your life?” I said.

“See tomorrow,” Pony said. “Don’t do Chiricahua good, think about long time from now.”

“No,” Virgil said. “I’d guess it don’t. You need anything.”

Pony shook his head.

“You know where me and Everett 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

AS 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 fugitives.”

“Can’t say we did,” Virgil said.

“I got a mind to by God take this town apart until I find them,” Callico said.

Rose’s voice became softer.

“You’re the law in Appaloosa, Callico,” he said. “Me ’n Cato are the law here. Here you ain’t worth lizard scat.”

Like Cato and Rose, we were spread out on our side of the street. I had the eight-gauge. Callico looked at us. Then back at Cato and Rose.

“Cato and Rose,” Callico said. “I heard of you.”

“Hell, Chief,” Rose said. “Everybody heard of us.”

Callico looked back at us.

“Thick as fucking thieves,” he said.

I said, “Sorry we can’t be more helpful, Amos.”

“I can shoot with any of you,” Callico said.

“Probably not sitting on a horse,” Rose said.

“Probably not,” Cato said.

“Come on,” Callico said to his men, and headed his horse up Main Street at a gallop.

33

THE GOING UNDERFOOT was slow on this stretch as we rode south toward Appaloosa. The horses knew they were going home and didn’t need guidance. We gave them their head and, with the reins hanging loose over the saddle horn, let them pick their way through the thorny ground runners and low sage.

“Funny thing,” Virgil said. “’Bout the law.”

On a long ride, Virgil, who often went hours without saying anything, was given to musing aloud.

“What’s that,” I said.

“Up in Resolution,” Virgil said. “With Cato and Rose, we was on the side of the law, and Callico was not. When we get back to Appaloosa, Callico’ll be the law, and we’ll be on the other side of it.”

“True.”

“But we ain’t changed,” Virgil said.

“Nope.”

“Did the law change?” Virgil said.

“People who decide what it is changed,” I said.

“Don’t seem right,” Virgil said.

“Hell, Virgil, you made the law in every town we marshaled.”

“I did,” Virgil said. “Didn’t I.”

“You did,” I said. “Will again.”

“But it didn’t keep changing once I made it,” Virgil said.

“No, it didn’t,” I said. “Still don’t. Never does. When we’re marshaling you make rules and we call it the law. When we ain’t marshaling, you make rules and we call it Virgil Cole.”

The horses waded halfway into a small stream and stopped to drink. While they drank, Virgil thought about that.

“And you don’t care?” Virgil said.

“Nope. Same rules.”

We moved on across the stream and back into the rough scrub.

“And it don’t bother you?”

“Hell, Virgil,” I said. “You know I don’t worry much ’bout such things.”

“You let me decide?” Virgil said.

“Generally I agree with you,” I said.

“And if you didn’t?” Virgil said.

“Depends,” I said. “Can’t recall you ever asking me to do something didn’t seem like I should.”

“But how you know if you should?” Virgil said.

“Most people know what they should do, most of the time,” I said. “’Specially if they ain’t married.”

“So, why you think I worry about it?” Virgil said.

“Couple things,” I said. “You talk about it, but you don’t really worry about it. You don’t worry ’bout much of anything, ’cept maybe Allie.”

Virgil nodded.

“That’d be one thing,” Virgil said.

“And you’re a good gun hand,” I said.

“So are you,” Virgil said.

“Yeah, I am,” I said. “But you are the best gun hand I ever seen. Maybe the best there is. There’s some weight goes with that.”

Virgil was looking at some dragonflies hovering over a patch of flowers off to the right.

“Can’t just kill somebody ’cause you’re quicker’n them,” he said.

“No, you can’t,” I said.

Virgil was quiet for a time as the horses moved carefully along.

“And I don’t,” he said.

“No,” I said. “You don’t.”

34

VIRGIL AND I were at our post out front of the Boston House when Chauncey Teagarden strolled past us, wearing his ivory-handled Colt.

“Afternoon, Virgil,” he said. “Everett.”

I nodded.

Virgil said, “Afternoon.”

Chauncey stood for a moment looking at Virgil. Virgil had no reaction. Chauncey shook his head slightly.

“The great Virgil Cole,” he said.

“You’ll be checking that Colt with Fat Willis,” Virgil said.

“Of course,” Chauncey said.

He looked another moment at Virgil and then went i nside.

“You sure do impress him,” I said.

Virgil smiled.

“More important I am,” Virgil said. “Better he’ll feel when he kills me.”

“If he kills you,” I said.

“If he don’t, won’t matter to him one way or other,” Virgil said.

“’Cause you’ll have killed him.”

“Yep.”

“It’s like he’s . . . flirting,” I said.

“Is, ain’t it,” Virgil said.

“Like he wants to get to know you,” I said.

“Some fellas like that,” Virgil said.

“Enjoy the work more if they know you well,” I said. “’Fore they kill you?”

“Something like that,” Virgil said.

“Heard he was from New Orleans,” I said. “Won some duels down there.”

“Heard that, too,” Virgil said.

“Means he got self-control,” I said. “Being quick don’t make no difference in a duel.”

“And he can shoot,” Virgil said. “You can’t, you don’t win many duels.”

“So, what we don’t know is how fast?” I said.

“Killed Burleigh Ouellette,” Virgil said.

“Burleigh was quick,” I said. “Chauncey got him?”

“Did,” Virgil said.

“And you figure he’s here to get you,” I said.

“That’s what he’s here for,” Virgil said.

“You figure the general hired him?”

“Be my guess,” Virgil said.

“So, what’s Teagarden waiting for?” I said.

“Needs a situation where it’s just me and him. He ain’t gonna fight us both at the same time.”

I nodded.

“Needs me to draw first, and he’s figuring how to do that,” Virgil said.

“And maybe he’s enjoying the game,” I said.

“Probably,” Virgil said.

“You think he can do it?” I said.

“Kill me?” Virgil said.

“Yeah.”

“No,” Virgil said. “I don’t.”

“You never do,” I said.

“Correct,” Virgil said.

“And you been right, so far,” I said.

35

LAUREL, holding her skirt up, came along Main Street at a dead run. When she reached us, she whispered to Virgil. Virgil nodded.

“Pony came to the house,” Virgil said to me. “Wants us to meet him west of town at Red Castle Rock.”

“I know where that is,” I said.

Laurel whispered again to Virgil.

“We won’t see him, but if we sit our horses by the rock, he’ll find us,” Virgil said to me.

“Now?” I said.

Virgil looked at Laurel. She nodded hard.

“Now,” Virgil said.

He patted Laurel on the shoulder, and we set out for the livery to get our horses.

We followed the stage road west.

As we rode I said to Virgil, “I noticed something ’bout Laurel today when she come running up to tell us ’bout Pony.”

“With her tits bouncing?” Virgil said.

“You noticed it, too,” I said.

“Yep.”

“She ain’t a little girl,” I said.

“Nope.”

“What are we gonna do ’bout that?” I said.

“Don’t know,” Virgil said.

The road began to rise gently ahead of us. The horses adjusted to it.

“She know the facts?” I said.

“Hope so,” Virgil said.

He grinned.

“Allie sure ’nuff is qualified to tell her ’bout them,” he said.

“Virgil,” I said. “Laurel don’t talk to anybody, ’cept whispering to you.”

“I know.”

“You can’t go round the rest of her life translatin’ for her,” I said.

“Probably could,” Virgil said. “But don’t seem like I ought to.”

“So, what do we do?” I said.

“Don’t know,” Virgil said.

“What’s Allie say?”

“Allie don’t like me talkin’ ’bout Laurel to her,” Virgil said.

“She don’t?”

“Nope. Says I spend too much time thinkin’ ’bout Laurel.”

“Jesus Christ, Virgil,” I said. “She’s jealous of Laurel?”

“’Pears so,” Virgil said.

“Well, we got to do something about Laurel,” I said.

“We do,” Virgil said.

“What?” I said.

“Was hoping you’d come up with something,” Virgil said.

Ahead of us, with late sun shining from behind it, was the high remnant of ancient red rock that looked a little like the tower of a castle.

We stopped close to its base and sat our horses in its shadow, and pretty soon Pony Flores rode around the base and stopped beside us.

36

HOW IS CHIQUITA?” Pony said. “She’s fine,” Virgil said.

“She talk yet?” Pony said.

“Just to me,” Virgil said.

Pony nodded.

“Kah-to-nay has gone to fight Blue-Eyed Devil,” he said.

Virgil nodded.

“Never could abide us,” Virgil said.

Pony shook his head.

“Kha-to-nay think you betray him,” Pony said.

“You know we didn’t,” I said.

“I know,” Pony said. “Kah-to-nay not know.”

“Kha-to-nay fighting white men by himself?” Virgil said.

“No, go back to reservation, get others. Maybe fifteen, they leave reservation, keep moving.”

“Raiding?” Virgil said.

“Sí.”

“Live off what they take in a raid?”

“Sí.”

“So they got to keep raiding.”

Pony nodded.

“Where?” Virgil said.

“Come this way,” Pony said. “Appaloosa.”

“He’d attack the town?” I said.

“Maybe not,” Pony said. “Maybe small ranch, maybe homesteader. Maybe posse come out after them; maybe they attack town.”

“While the posse’s out roaming the plains,” I said.

“Sí.”

“He ask you to join him?” I said.

“Sí.”

“And you didn’t,” I said.

Pony shook his head.

“How’d he take that?” I said.

“He say I am traitor to Chiricahua people,” Pony said. “I say I go with him, I am traitor to myself.”

“So, how you want to handle this,” Virgil said.

“I cannot kill my brother,” Pony said.

Virgil nodded.

“He kill you?” Virgil said.

“No,” Pony said.

“So, we stop him and don’t kill him,” Virgil said.

“Cannot go to jail,” Pony said.

“Stop him, don’t kill him, turn him loose,” Virgil said.

“Won’t he go right back to it?” I said.

“Maybe will,” Pony said.

“What do we do ’bout that?” I said.

“Be Pony’s call,” Virgil said.

“How bad is the raiding?” I said.

“Burn, torture,” Pony said. “Scare white men.”

“Don’t abide no torture,” Virgil said.

The sun had set. But the western sky was still light, and it was still darker in the shadow of the rock than it was on the prairie. We sat silently in our saddles. The horses were cropping the meager grass near the rock.

“You with them for any raids?” Virgil said.

“With them, not raid,” Pony said.

“Army after them?” Virgil said.

“Yes, but not close,” Pony said.

The horses moved slowly, looking for grass. We let them move. The sky to the west continued to darken very slowly.

After a time Virgil said, “How soon you figure they’ll get here?”

“I left them two days ago,” Pony said.

Again we were quiet. The only sound was the movement of the horses as they grazed.

“We can’t let them do it,” Virgil said.

“What about Kah-to-nay?” I said.

“We do what we can for him,” Virgil said. “But we need to stop him.”

Neither Pony nor I said anything.

“You okay with that, Pony?” Virgil said.

“Sí.”

“You gonna be involved?” Virgil said.

“Spring in hollow near rock,” Pony said. “I stay here. See them come, I ride in, tell you.”

“You gonna be with us when the balloon goes up?” Virgil said.

“Be with you,” Pony said. “Not kill Chiricahua.”

“So, what will you do?” I said.

“Maybe keep Chiricahua from kill you,” Pony said.

37

YOU HELP these two renegades escape,” Callico said. “And now you come asking me to round them up for you?”

“Giving you information,” Virgil said.

“Which I take to be bullshit,” Callico said. “Who are we fighting here? Alexander the Great?”

“They’ll lure the fighters out of town,” I said. “And come in behind you, and tear the place up.”

“Sure thing,” Callico said. “So we stay in here and let them loose on the farms and ranches. Won’t that look good.”

“Bring the small outfits in,” Virgil said. “Big ones, like Laird, can take care of themselves.”

“Well, isn’t that dandy,” Callico said. “I hide here in town with the homesteaders, and let the important land-owners fight their own battles.”

“For crissake, Callico,” I said. “This ain’t about the next election.”

“You hadn’t gone up to Resolution and warned ’em,” Callico said, “wouldn’t be having this problem.”

Virgil stood.

“Nice talking with you, Amos,” he said.

He turned and left, and I went with him.

As we walked up Main Street, Virgil said, “Horse’s ass.”

“Thinks it’s his chance to be a hero of the Indian wars,” I said.

“Like Custer,” Virgil said.

“Just like that,” I said.

“Couple ways this could go,” Virgil said.

I nodded.

“They can lure Callico out of town and come in and chew up what he’s left behind.”

“Or,” Virgil said, “they can lure him out and cut him to ribbons like they did to Custer up in Montana.”

“Or both,” I said.

Virgil stopped and looked at me and thought about it, and nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “I was Kah-to-nay I’d do both. While I had them chasing after me out on the plains I’d come in here and fuck up the town. I’d let a few people escape so they’d run to Callico.”

“And when Callico come roaring back into town with blood in his eye, you’d have a spot picked out, and you’d ambush him,” I said.

“Both birds with one shot,” Virgil said.

“If Kha-to-nay’s that smart,” I said.

“Don’t know ’bout Kah-to-nay,” Virgil said. “But Callico’s that stupid.”

“He is,” I said. “So, what do we do?

“We stay in town,” Virgil said. “Can’t be leaving Allie and Laurel alone.”

“Might take more’n you and me,” I said.

Virgil grinned.

“Most things don’t,” he said.

“Two dozen Apache warriors?” I said.

“Might be time to have a talk with General Laird,” Virgil said.

“Providing he don’t shoot us on sight,” I said.

“He’s got Chauncey Teagarden for that,” Virgil said.

“And Chauncey ain’t ready yet.”

“How do you know he ain’t ready?” I said.

“Know boys like Teagarden all my life,” Virgil said. “He likes to play with it first.”

“And he might want us around to help with the two dozen Apaches,” I said.

38

THE LAZY L still had the layout it had when it was Randall Bragg’s place. But a lot of sprucing had been done since Bragg’s rat pack had moved on. We sat in the big front room of the main ranch building while we waited for General Laird, and drank scotch whiskey that a Chinese houseboy poured for us from cut-glass decanters.

“They sell the stuff in them bottles?” Virgil said.

“Nope, sell it in regular bottles,” I said. “Those are decanters.”

“Don’t look like they’d travel good,” Virgil said.

“No,” I said. “They don’t.”

General Laird came in through a side door. Teagarden was with him. Chauncey wasn’t wearing a hat indoors. He had on a ruffled white shirt and a black silk vest. The ivory handle of his Colt gleamed on his hip. Virgil and I both got to our feet.

“Enjoy my whiskey?” the general said.

“Surprised you offered it,” Virgil said.

“No man comes to my home without the offer of a drink,” the general said. “Even you.”

A little off to the general’s right, and a step behind him, Chauncey smiled at us.

“Virgil,” he said. “Everett.”

We both nodded.

On the wall over the big fireplace at one end of the room was a painting of General Laird in full CSA uniform. There were photographs of the general alone and with his troops. On the buffet at the other end of the room was a painting of a good-looking young woman, probably the general’s wife when they were young. And beside it, ornately framed, was a recent photograph of Nicky Laird.

“No reason to pretend we’re friends,” Virgil said. “Got some renegade Apaches jumped the reservation. Coming this way.”

“Riders?” the general said.

“Yep.”

“How many?”

“Maybe fifteen, twenty,” Virgil said. “Maybe a few more.”

“Hell,” the general said. “We got ’em outgunned on this ranch.”

“Ain’t gonna fight ’em on this ranch,” Virgil said.

“They gonna chop up some of the small spreads outside Appaloosa.”

The general nodded.

“Till they form a posse and go chasin’ them,” the general said. “And the Apaches swing in behind ’em and hit the town.”

“Yep.”

“Callico ought to bring in all the folks can’t defend themselves,” the general said. “And stay in the town.”

“Yep.”

“He won’t,” the general said.

“Nope,” Virgil said.

“Callico’s a horse’s ass,” the general said.

“I thought he was your man,” I said.

“Best I’ve got,” the general said. “How you know all this ’bout the Apaches?”

“Fella told me,” Virgil said.

“Ever fight Indians?” the general said.

“Some,” Virgil said. “Everett here’s fought a lot of them.”

“Army?” the general said.

I nodded.

“Everett’s been to West Point,” Virgil said.

“Went there once myself,” the general said, “when it was all the same country.”

“Still is,” I said.

The general shrugged slightly.

“Never owned a slave,” he said. “Don’t believe in it. You boys can’t explain things to Callico?”

“Wants to be a hero of the Indian wars,” Virgil said.

“Against fifteen reservation Apaches,” the general said.

“Yep.”

“Can’t give you none of my boys to protect the town,” the general said. “They gotta protect the ranch.”

“Know that,” Virgil said. “But I figured you could give me Chauncey.”

The general stared at Virgil for a considerable period. Then he looked at Chauncey.

“Sure,” Chauncey said. “I can give you a hand.”

39

VIRGIL AND I were sipping corn whiskey on Virgil’s veranda when we looked up and Pony was there, soundlessly sitting his horse in the shadows.

“They are here,” he said.

“Where?” Virgil said.

“Hills, south, near water falling,” Pony said.

Virgil glanced at me.

“Squaw Falls,” I said. “Couple hours’ ride.”

“Who’s out that way?” Virgil said.

“Compton McCaslin, works the place with his two sons,” I said.

“Any hands?” Virgil said.

“Nope.”

“Women?”

“Wife of one of the sons,” I said.

“They will kill men,” Pony said. “Burn ranch. Rape woman, and send her into town.”

Pony looked up at the moon in the black sky.

“Probably happen by now,” he said.

“Maybe Callico can send some people out to bring the other settlers in,” Virgil said.

“Kah-to-nay like that,” Pony said.

“Because it will split up the white-eye force,” Virgil said.

“Pick off some, make more come,” Pony said. “Good both ways.”

“You think he’s watching the town?” I said.

“Yes.”

“He know you’re here?” Virgil said.

“No.”

“You’re sure?” I said.

Pony looked at me.

“You’re sure,” I said.

I looked at Virgil.

“Can’t save everybody,” I said.

“You can’t,” he said. “Pony, you staying.”

“I stay,” Pony said.

“How you want to play it with your brother?” Virgil said.

“Get him away, before he killed,” Pony said.

“How you want us to play it?” Virgil said.

“Same, if you can. If you can’t, you have to do what you do.”

“Everett,” Virgil said. “Time for you to ride on up to General Laird’s and collect Chauncey Teagarden. Tell the general he might want to put some pickets out, too.”

40

THEY FOUND the woman lying naked in the south stage road. She had been badly beaten, but she was alive, the blood drying dark on her pale body. The shotgun messenger put his coat around her and held her half across his lap while the driver pushed the tired team hard into Appaloosa.

Virgil and I watched from in front of the Boston House as they took her up the outside stairs to Dr. Peloquin’s office above the Café Paris. A crowd gathered outside. Callico showed up promptly, pushed through the crowd, up the stairs, and into Peloquin’s office. The saloons began to empty out. The crowd got bigger.

With his hat tilted down over his forehead and his arms folded across his chest, Virgil leaned against one of the roof’s support posts.

“Here we go,” he said.

“Callico got down there quick,” I said.

“Would you wager against him making a speech from the top step when he comes out?” Virgil said.

“No bet,” I said.

Chauncey Teagarden came out of the Boston House wearing a black bowler hat, a pink-striped white shirt, and a black string tie. He was carrying a big cup of coffee.

“Amos won’t have much trouble working ’em up,” Teagarden said. “Half of them are drunk already.”

“Tend to be out front,” Virgil said. “While the booze is working.”

Teagarden grinned.

“Tell who’s sobering up the quickest,” he said. “By who’s dropping back the fastest.”

“If they’re lucky,” Virgil said. “Otherwise they the first ones killed when the balloon goes up.”

“Virgil,” Teagarden said. “You and me’ve made a good living shooting fellas like that.”

“When I had to,” Virgil said.

“Why else,” Teagarden said. “Ain’t much glory in it.”

“Here he comes,” Virgil said.

Callico stepped out of Peloquin’s office and looked down at the crowd from the top step. He waited. Someone shouted, “We’re with you, Amos.” Someone else shouted, “Kill the heathen bastards.” Callico waited.

Teagarden looked at us and grinned.

“You notice nobody has shouted, ‘How’s the woman?’” he said.

“They don’t care,” Virgil said.

“Nope,” Teagarden said. “They don’t. She’s served her purpose.”

From the crowd in front of Callico, someone started to chant, “Posse, posse.”

Others took it up. Callico waited a little longer as the chant built. Then he put a hand up like he was going to turn stones into loaves of bread. The crowd quieted.

“Dr. Peloquin,” he said, “tells me she won’t die.”

The crowd cheered. Callico waited for them to quiet.

“Though surely she must have wished to die, these last hours. Her husband is dead. Her father-in-law, her brother-in-law. All murdered by the red niggers,” Callico said. “She herself abused in extent and manner I cannot speak of in a public forum.”

The crowd’s sound was indecipherable. It was now simply massive communal noise. Callico let it subside.

“I have been warned,” Callico said, “that to pursue these heathen beast is to put the town at risk.”

The crowd was suddenly silent. Something real was about to be discussed.

“Are we men?” Callico said softly.

The crowd listened. I could almost feel it lean forward.

“Are we white Christian men?” Callico roared.

The crowd screamed that we were.

“Is there a man among us who will not join us?” Callico shouted.

The crowd screamed that, no, there were no men who would not join him.

“Even the great Virgil Cole,” Callico said. “I can see him from here, in front of the Boston House.”

He raised his voice as if he had to make himself heard that far away.

“Will you be joining us, Virgil?”

Virgil stood as he had during the entire performance, hat down, arms folded. He gave no sign that he had heard Callico.

“Of course he will,” Callico said. “And his friends.”

The mob cheered.

“I’ll have my full police force armed and ready for the field,” Callico said. “Right here, in the street, mounted and ready to ride, in one hour. I want every man jack of you that owns a gun to join us here with it and lots of bullets, ready to ride.”

The mob made its guttural scream. Callico came down the stairs and pushed through the idolatrous crowd toward the police station. Some of the crowd followed him a ways and then began to break up and go home to get ready.

Chauncey Teagarden watched them move away.

“Be like bossing a fucking cattle drive,” he said.

“It will,” I said.

“He won’t get within ten miles of the Indians.”

“’Less they let him,” I said.

“In which case they massacre his posse,” Teagarden said.

“Half of them haven’t shot anything bigger than a jackrabbit in their life. They’ll probably be drunk. If he does catch them, what’s he gonna do, trample ’em to death?”

“He knows all that,” Virgil said.

“And he’s gonna do it anyway?”

“Ain’t about the Indians,” Virgil said. “Or the posse. Or the dead men. Or the woman got hurt.”

“He wants to be president of the United States of America,” I said.

“It’s about Callico,” Virgil said.

41

WE SAT OUR HORSES with Pony Flores behind Red Castle Rock. Chauncey Teagarden was with us. Pony raised his hand and then put his finger on his lips. The horses stood quietly. There was no wind. We listened.

Then Virgil said, “Callico.”

Pony nodded. The sound was very faint. A low murmur of hoofbeats. Virgil scanned the horizon.

Then he said, “From the northeast.”

And there it was, a faint drift of dust, kicked up by the faint beat of hooves.

“Kah-to-nay leave big trail toward river,” Pony said.

“Over there.”

We looked west, where, in the distance, the river ran straight north to south in the deep trench it had dug itself.

“Square Stone River,” I said. “Hard river to get across. Deep, ten-foot banks straight up and down.”

“Kah-to-nay lead them to ford,” Pony said.

“And across?” Virgil said.

“Sí.”

Virgil nodded to himself. There were things Virgil didn’t get. But none of them had to do with his profession. And the things he did get, he got right away.

“Everett,” Virgil said. “You done a lotta Indian fighting when you was soldierin’.”

“I did.”

“You know the ford?”

“I do,” I said.

“How many men would it take to hold the ford?” Virgil said.

Pony smiled. I thought about the ford for a bit.

Then I said, “Depends how bad the enemy wants to cross, but probably ’bout four with Winchesters.”

“So,” Virgil said. “Kah-to-nay makes it look like he and his men crossed. Which they didn’t. Callico goes hell for leather across the ford, ’cause he don’t want to get caught in the water. Kah-to-nay puts, say, four riflemen in the rocks to hold the ford and takes the rest of his bucks hell-bent for Appaloosa. Where the only gun in town is the derringer Pony gave Laurel.”

Teagarden looked at Pony.

“That right?” he said.

Pony smiled.

“Sí,” he said.

“Smart Indian,” Teagarden said.

“Younger brother,” Pony said.

“That how he learned stuff like this?” Teagarden said.

“Sí,” Pony said.

“He tell you he was gonna do this?” Teagarden said.

“No,” Pony said.

“But you know,” Teagarden said.

“Sí.”

“Because that’s what you’d do,” he said.

Pony nodded.

“What I would do,” Pony said.

Teagarden looked silently at Pony for a moment.

“Me, too,” he said.

We sat and watched the barely discernible dust cloud move ahead of the barely audible sound of the horses.

Then I said, “Time to head back to Appaloosa?”

“I believe it is,” Virgil said, and turned his horse northeast.

42

WE PUT Allie and Laurel in the Boston House, on the second floor in front.

“Lock the door, stay inside,” Virgil said, “until me or Everett tells you to come out.”

“Do you think they’ll come soon?” Allie said.

“Yes,” Virgil said. “You got a gun?”

“Yes.”

“Laurel, too,” Virgil said.

“The one Pony gave her. She always has it,” Allie said.

Laurel took the derringer out of her skirt pocket and showed it to Virgil. He nodded. She stepped close to him and whispered. Teagarden and I stood at the front windows, looking down.

“Pony’s on watch,” Virgil said.

Laurel nodded. Her face was pale and very tight. She swallowed hard. And her movements were stiff.

“Ain’t gonna let them near you,” Virgil said.

Laurel nodded stiffly.

“Somehow they get in here,” Virgil said quietly to Allie, “you know what to do.”

Allie nodded.

“How many will come?” she said.

“Pony says between fifteen and twenty.”

“And there’s only four of you,” Allie said.

“More like three and a half,” Virgil said. “Pony said he won’t shoot no Indians.”

“How can you stop them?” Allie said.

Virgil smiled faintly.

“We shoot very good,” he said.

He was wearing his Colt, and a second one stuck in his belt. He carried a Winchester and two bandoliers of .45 ammo. The ammo fit the Winchester and both Colts. I had two Colts and the eight-gauge, and ammo. Chauncey wore a two-holster gun belt with matching ivory-handled Colts. There were bullets in the loops on the gun belt. He had a Winchester, too, and extra ammo in a pigskin satchel.

“Pony’s coming,” I said.

“How fast?”

“Easy trot,” I said.

Virgil nodded toward the door, and Teagarden and I started out.

“We’ll be back for you,” Virgil said to the women.

Allie looked nearly as pale as Laurel did.

“Can’t you stay with us?”

“Don’t want to draw fire or attention,” Virgil said. “We’ll be back.”

“I pray that you are,” she said.

Laurel stood stone still and watched us as we started out the door.

“Lock it behind us,” Virgil said.

“Come back for us,” Allie said.

Her voice sounded scratchy.

“Always have,” Virgil said.

43

WE WERE STANDING in the empty street when Pony arrived. Most of the town still believed that Callico’s heroic posse would banish the red heathen. But they were staying inside anyway.

“Maybe forty minutes,” Pony said as he slid off his horse. “Kha-to-nay, and eighteen warrior.”

Virgil nodded.

“Callico on the other side of the river?”

Pony nodded.

“Three warrior with Winchesters on this side,” Pony said.

“Only way to get across would be to put the whole posse into the ford at once,” I said.

“Lose half of them,” Chauncey said. “If you do.”

“Callico won’t have much luck getting them to take that kind of casualties,” I said.

“’Specially now that they ain’t drunk,” Chauncey said.

Virgil was looking at the street.

“Where they gonna come in?” he said to Pony.

“Kah-to-nay ride straight in down Main Street. Make him feel good. He think no guns here.”

“Damn near right,” Virgil said. “You sure ’bout this?”

“What Pony would do,” he said.

Virgil nodded.

“Everett, take that fucking siege gun up onto the second-floor balcony above the bank,” he said.

“Teagarden,” Virgil said. “In the hayloft over the livery stable. Try to seem like several people.”

“I always seem like several people,” Teagarden said.

“You gonna fight?” Virgil said to Pony.

“Not kill Chiricahua,” Pony said. “Where Chiquita?”

“In the Boston House,” Virgil said. “Upstairs front. With Allie.”

Pony nodded.

“Not draw attention,” he said.

Virgil nodded.

“You and me,” he said. “Front of the pool room across the street. Behind the water trough.”

He looked at all of us.

“Let them come in. I’ll stop them here, between Everett and Teagarden. Wait for me to shoot.”

Teagarden and I both nodded and headed off for where Virgil had told us to be. Chauncey Teagarden had probably been brought to town to kill Virgil Cole. And might still be planning to try. But right now he obeyed Virgil’s orders without question, just like everybody always did.

I set up behind the railing of the upstairs porch, made sure all the weapons were loaded, laid a bandolier of ammunition out on the floor, and waited.

44

THEY CAME single-file straight down Main 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

THE 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 said.

“Then kill them,” Pony said.

“Can’t fight the fire,” Virgil said. “Can’t protect all the people. Only thing we can do is kill Apaches. Too few of us to spread out. We stay together. Kill any Indian we see.”

He looked at Pony.

“Have to,” he said.

Pony nodded.

“Boston House not burning yet,” he said.

“It will,” Virgil said.

“I go there,” Pony said.

Someone released two horses from the livery, and they skittered together down Slate Street and toward the open prairie.

“Indians gonna collect them later,” Chauncey said.

“And a lotta scalps,” I said.

We moved in the same direction down Bow Street. At the end of the block where Bow crossed Sixth Street two Apaches with Winchesters held their excited horses hard as they stepped and turned, blocking the street. Virgil killed them both.

“Roof,” Chauncey said, and killed an Apache straddling the ridgepole. The Indian tumbled off the ridge and rolled down the roof slant and fell to the street. His Winchester stayed halfway down the roof. Next door a building collapsed, the roof falling in with an explosion of flame, and smoke, and sparks, and debris.

A brave came out of an alley in front of us and rode straight at us, firing a big old Navy Colt. Indians in general were not great shooters, and the fact that we were standing, and they were shooting from horseback, gave us another edge. The tight choke of eight-gauge shot hit the Indian full in the chest and knocked him backward off his horse as if he had run into a wall. Somewhere a woman screamed. We could hear a baby crying above the roar of the flames. And occasionally came the awful scream of a war cry. We moved up Sixth Street to Slate and turned the corner. Virgil and I stayed tight to the wall. Chauncey Teagarden had an ivory-handled Colt in each hand.

“Fuck this,” he said, and stepped into the center of Slate Street, heading back toward Main. A bullet kicked up dirt in front of him and, almost negligently, he snapped off a shot with his left-hand gun and killed an Indian on a pinto horse. Main Street was full of terrified citizens milling desperately in the searing heat, under a pall of black smoke. The Indians herded them the way cowboys herded cattle. Mounted and moving among the citizens, the Apache were not easy targets. Teagarden stayed in the open street. Gunfire continued to miss him. If we got out of this we’d learn a couple of things. Teagarden could shoot. And he didn’t scare easily.

Suddenly the shooting stopped. The flames still tossed and snarled above the buildings, and the smoke still hung low over the street. But it seemed somehow as if everything stopped when Kha-to-nay rode into the maelstrom with four warriors behind him. A young girl with her skirts pushed up high on her bare legs straddled the big bay horse in front of Kha-to-nay, clamped against him by Kha-to-nay’s arm holding the reins. It was Laurel. With his left hand Kha-to-nay pressed the edge of a bowie knife against her stomach.

“Virgil Cole,” Kha-to-nay bellowed. “Put down your guns and show yourselves, or I will gut your little whore right here.”

Virgil stood in the doorway of the hardware store, looking at the situation. We could not let Laurel be cut. We could not give up our guns.

Pony Flores appeared from behind the Boston House, riding a horse with no saddle. Kha-to-nay raised a “hold your fire” hand to his troops, as Pony’s horse picked his way through the terrified crowd. He stopped beside Kha-to-nay. On Kha-to-nay’s left side. Laurel stared at him.

“Chiquita,” he said to her. “I have come get you, again.”

Kha-to-nay spoke to Pony in Apache. Pony answered. Kha-to-nay shook his head. Pony spoke again. Kha-to-nay spoke again, louder, shaking his head as he did so. Pony moved so quickly it was hard to follow. He took hold of Kha-to-nay’s knife hand and pulled it away from Laurel. His right leg swung over his horse’s withers and he was on Kha-to-nay’s horse, behind him. The knife appeared from the top of his moccasin. He cut Kha-to-nay’s throat, shoved him off the horse, slid forward behind Laurel, got hold of the reins with his arms around her, and kicked the horse forward. As the horse moved we opened up on the four warriors with Kha-to-nay. Three of them went down. Pony flattened Laurel out over the horse’s neck and himself over her, and they galloped into the coming darkness of the prairie.

The remaining rider stepped off his horse and squatted next to Kha-to-nay. Chauncey Teagarden raised one of his Colts.

“No,” Virgil said.

Chauncey shrugged and held the gun half raised. The Indian began to chant something. In a short while the rest of the still-surviving Indians moved slowly through the crowd and gathered around Kha-to-nay’s body. They joined the chant. It was nightfall, and the mourning Apaches gathered around their fallen leader were lit only by the violent flames of the burning town.

“It’s over,” Virgil said. “You know enough Apache to tell them that?”

“Maybe,” I said.

“Say they can take him and go. We won’t bother them,” Virgil said.

“We got ’em in front of us,” Teagarden said. “We could clean them up for god.”

“I know,” Virgil said.

He nodded toward the group of Apaches.

“Talk to ’em,” Virgil said.

It was as much sign language as me speaking Apache, but I was able to get it across that they were free to take Kha-to-nay and go. The terrified and now delirious crowd in the streets watched them as they rode past bodies they’d killed, out of Appaloosa and away from it. I thought about how far they would have to ride before the burning town would no longer be visible.

“I thought Pony was trying to save his brother,” Chauncey said.

“He was,” Virgil said.

“Guess he wanted to save the girl more,” Chauncey said.

“Guess he did,” Virgil said.

46

VIRGIL AND ALLIE and I were sitting on what was left of the front porch of the Boston House. Much of the town was burned out. Against the charred backdrop of it, women and children and old men were walking aimlessly about.

“Why do you suppose they didn’t burn our house?” Allie said.

Virgil shrugged. He was looking down Main Street at some riders coming in. It was Callico.

“Because we’re friends of Pony?” I said.

“But he took Laurel and was going to kill her,” Allie said.

“Things weren’t going the way he wanted,” Virgil said.

“And he’d change like that?” Allie said.

“Folks do,” Virgil said.

“Savages do,” Allie said.

Virgil nodded.

“How’d he get hold of Laurel?” Virgil said.

“She saw the flames. She became hysterical. I tried to keep her with me. But despite all I’ve done for her, she paid me no mind. She was in the street and he saw her and must have recognized her.”

Virgil nodded.

“Got him killed,” he said.

“His own brother,” Allie said.

“Laurel,” Virgil said.

We sat quietly as Amos Callico and his troops straggled back into the smoldering town.

When he saw us, Callico pulled his horse over and stopped. He was spattered with mud, and his clothes were rumpled. He took his hat off.

“Miss Allie,” he said, and bowed his head slightly.

“Welcome home, Mr. Callico,” Allie said.

“Thank you very kindly, Miss Allie,” Callico said.

He looked at Virgil and me.

“Well,” Callico said. “We did it.”

“We surely did,” Virgil said.

“Don’t expect those red niggers will try this town again.”

“Probably not,” Virgil said.

“Thanks for your help,” Callico said.

Virgil and I both nodded.

“Well,” Callico said, and looked around at the ruin of a town. “Get me a bath and a night’s sleep, and we’ll start putting this town back together.”

“Gonna cost some money,” I said.

“Those Indians are from a United States government reservation,” Callico said. “I figure the government owes us.”

“Think you can convince them?” I said.

“You boys just watch me,” Callico said.

“We will,” Virgil said.

Callico turned his horse and fell back in among the returning straggle.

We watched him ride away.

“The hero of Appaloosa,” I said.

“He gets government money to rebuild this place,” Virgil said, “he will be.”

“And they’ll never remember what he was doing while the place was burning,” I said.

“He knows many important people,” Allie said. “I’ll bet he can do it.”

Virgil nodded.

“When will Pony bring Laurel back?” Allie said.

“Soon as he thinks she’s safe,” Virgil said.

“Do you know where he took her?” Allie said.

“Red Castle Rock, probably,” Virgil said.

“You know where that is?” Allie said.

“I do,” Virgil said.

“Well, why on earth don’t you go out there,” Allie said. “And bring her back.”

“He’ll bring her back,” Virgil said. “When it’s time.”

“She’s alone, sleeping God knows where with a half-breed tracker,” Allie said. “She’s sixteen, for God’s sake. I’m trying to bring her up right.”

“Doin’ a fine job,” Virgil said.

“And one thing I know,” Allie said. “If I know anything, I know men.”

Virgil nodded.

“And let me tell you right now,” Allie said, “that no good will come of him running off with her someplace alone.”

Staring down the smoke-soiled main street of Appaloosa, Virgil turned his head and squinted at Allie.

“I love you, Allie,” Virgil said. “Not exactly sure why sometimes. And it looks like I’m keep doing it.”

“Why, thank you, Virgil,” Allie said.

“But you say some of the goddamned stupidest things I have ever heard,” he said.

“Everett,” Allie said. “Are you going to let him speak that way to me?”

“Pony killed his brother to save Laurel,” I said.

“Does that make him a good candidate for husband?” Allie said.

“Might mean he loves her,” I said.

“Oh, piffle,” Allie said. “Why does anybody love a nybody?”

Virgil squinted at her some more.

“Damned if I know,” he said.

47

FAT WILLIS MCDONOUGH, who had no bar to tend at the moment, walked down to Virgil’s house from the remains of the Boston House.

“Your friend Pony Flores is in some trouble up on Main Street,” Willis said.

“Girl with him?” Virgil said.

“Yep.”

Virgil stood.

“You fellas go ahead,” Fat Willis said. “Never much liked hurrying.”

“Not generally much need,” Virgil said.

We started up First Street. And when we reached Main, we turned left.

Pony was there, still mounted, with Laurel sitting behind him, her arms around his waist. Standing in front of them in a semicircle in the street were Callico and his four surviving cops.

“Managed to get two of them killed at the ford the other day,” Virgil said.

Standing on the street beside Pony, near his left stirrup, with his two ivory-handled Colts gleaming in the sunlight, was Chauncey Teagarden.

“Fellas want to arrest the hero of the great Apache war,” Teagarden said to us. “Don’t seem right to me.”

We paused so that Callico had Teagarden and Pony in front of him, and me and Virgil behind him. His uniformed officers may have lost some of their confidence in him at the river crossing. They looked at us a little uneasily.

“You are interfering with an officer in performance of his legal duties,” Callico said sternly.

Teagarden smiled.

“You bet your ass,” he said.

“We are five armed men,” Callico said.

“And we’re only four,” Teagarden said. “What a shame.”

Virgil said, “What you arresting him for, Amos?”

“I want to know what part he played in all of this,” Callico said. “I mean, his brother was the one burned the town. Why’d this man take that girl? How much did he help his brother with the burning and looting?”

I smiled to myself. They’d been too busy with the burning to do much looting. That would probably have come next day, along with raping, if Pony hadn’t cut the whole thing short.

“He helped save your town,” Virgil said.

“Got to find that out officially, Virg,” Callico said. “Got to take him in.”

“No,” Virgil said.

“Virg,” Callico said. “You gotta understand. We’ll turn him loose, soon’s we clear him.”

Virgil said nothing.

I said, “Callico, we all know that this is about looking like the man in charge at the battle of Appaloosa.”

“You’re planning to interfere?” Callico said.

“We are,” I said.

“All three of you?”

“Four,” Pony said.

Callico nodded forcefully.

“We’ll discuss this again,” he said.

“No,” Virgil said. “We won’t.”

The sound of hammers and saws filled the street. A big freight wagon hulked past, stacked with partially burned lumber, the massive draft horses leaning hard into their harness. Callico turned sharply, jerked his head at his policemen, and walked back down Main Street. We watched them go. Pony looked at Virgil and smiled.

“ ‘Virg’?” he said.

“My mother didn’t even call me that,” Virgil said.

“What did she call you?” I said.

“Don’t remember,” Virgil said.

48

WE WENT back down First Street toward Virgil’s house. When we got there, Allie was on the front porch. Laurel slid off the back of Pony’s horse and ran to her. Pony stayed on the horse.

“My child is home safe,” Allie crooned. “My child is home.”

“Don’t think she’s staying, Allie,” Virgil said.

He was standing on the first step of the porch, next to Laurel.

“What,” Allie said. “What.”

Virgil said, “You stayin’, Laurel?”

She shook her head.

“You going away?” Virgil said.

She nodded.

“With who?” Virgil said.

Laurel pointed at Pony.

“You can say his name,” Virgil said.

Laurel stared at Virgil.

“You can,” Virgil said.

She stared some more. Virgil leaned forward and whispered in her ear. She nodded. He whispered again. She shook her head. He whispered again. She was motionless. Then she looked at Pony. And at me and Allie, and obliquely at Chauncey Teagarden. She looked back at Virgil and then at Pony again.

“Pony,” she whispered.

I saw Allie’s eyes widen. Her mouth opened. But something stopped her before she spoke.

“You want that, Pony?” Virgil said.

Pony was turned sideways in his saddle. His right foot was in the stirrup, and his left knee hooked over the saddle. He was rolling a cigarette.

“Sí,” Pony said, and lit the cigarette.

“Got some money left from Brimstone,” Virgil said. “I’ll get you some.”

Pony shook his head.

“Good way to start, Jefe,” he said. “Each other, nothing else.”

Virgil nodded.

“Buy her a horse,” he said.

Pony smiled.

“I get her horse, Jefe.”

Virgil nodded slowly.

“Kinda what I was afraid of,” he said.

Pony looked at me and put out his hand.

“Everett,” he said.

“Pony.”

He looked at Teagarden.

“Gracias,” he said.

Teagarden shook his hand.

“On down the road,” he said.

Pony nodded. He looked at Allie.

“Señorita,” he said.

She was holding her apron up to her face.

Virgil stood in front of Laurel with his hands at his sides.

“Wherever you go. Whatever happens. You got some people here who love you.”

She nodded. Then put her arms around Virgil and buried her face in his neck and cried. He put his arms around her and stood expressionless, holding her comfortably until she was through.

She stepped away from him and looked at Pony.

“Chiquita,” he said, and put out his hand.

She swung up behind him. He turned the horse and kicked him into a trot and they left. All of us watched as they rode off. Allie sniffled loudly.

“Nice ceremony,” Teagarden said.

49

EMMA SCARLET wore a red wig for business, but since we were more friends than anything else, and since this morning we had finished our business already, she left the wig on its holder while we drank coffee in her room.

“So, the girl ran off with the half-breed,” Emma said.

“Laurel,” I said. “With Pony Flores.”

“Love,” Emma said.

“I guess.”

We drank some coffee.

“I think Allie was a little upset,” I said.

“You do,” Emma said.

“Think she was planning on some fine eastern gentleman,” I said.

“For crissake, Everett, Laurel didn’t even talk.”

“’Cept to Virgil,” I said. “And ’fore she left she said Pony’s name out loud.”

“Golly,” Emma said.

“She might have been losing her baby, but she’d only had a baby for a couple years.”

“And maybe she didn’t mind,” Emma said.

“No?” I said.

“Maybe she didn’t like the competition,” Emma said.

“Competition with who?” I said.

“Laurel,” Emma said.

“For?”

“Virgil,” Emma said.

“Virgil wouldn’t lay a hand on Laurel,” I said.

“Don’t matter what Virgil would do,” Emma said. “It’s what Allie fears that matters.”

“You think Allie was afraid Virgil would run off with Laurel?” I said.

“’Course she was,” Emma said.

“I don’t see that,” I said. “I known them since they been together. Virgil never run off on her.”

“She ever run out on him?” Emma said.

“She did,” I said.

Emma was still naked from our time of business, and as she talked she leaned back and looked at her extended leg.

“Where’d she end up?”

“Pig wallow in Placido,” I said. “On the Rio Grande.”

“How’d she get out of there?”

“Me and Virgil found her, took her out,” I said.

“And if you hadn’t?”

“She’d a died,” I said.

“So, he owes her leavin’,” Emma said.

“More than one,” I said.

“And if it weren’t for him she’d be fucking her life away in some dump down by Mexico.”

“So, she’d be worried about anybody,” I said.

“Especially a young girl starting to come of age that speaks only to Virgil?”

I nodded and drank some coffee.

“Hadn’t thought of it that way,” I said.

“’Course you hadn’t,” Emma said. “She’s a woman.” She waved her naked leg around. “You only think of her this way.”

“You don’t seem to mind,” I said.

She shrugged and pointed her toes.

“Not with you,” she said.

50

SOMEONE HAD SET UP a steam saw at the corner of Main and Second Street, and you could hear it eighteen hours a day, every day, all over town. It was like the base melody for an orchestra of hand tools: hammers, chisels, mallets, and handsaws hovering in lighter cadence. The raucous language of the laborers formed a vocalization.

Several saloons had set up tents with plank-and-barrel bars, and enough people got drunk to keep me and Virgil in business from our headquarters on what was left of the Boston House’s front porch.

Virgil was looking at it all.

“We had this many government folks before,” Virgil said, “Kah-to-nay wouldn’t have attacked.”

“And Callico has kissed the ass of every one of them since,” I said.

“The hero of the recovery,” Virgil said.

“Lot people will remember him for it, and be grateful,” I said. “He knows a lot of people. He’s brought in lot of money for rebuilding.”

“The savior of Appaloosa,” Virgil said.

“Been better if he never lost it in the first place,” I said.

“Would,” Virgil said.

A big lumber wagon pulled by eight oxen drudged up Main Street past us toward the steam saw with a load of logs.

“When they get that cut up,” I said, “think they’ll cure it proper?”

“Nope.”

I smiled.

“Be good not to buy a new building in town for a few years,” I said. “Let it dry out.”

A handsome two-bench buggy went by in the other direction, pulled by two gray horses. A driver sat on the front seat, and in back was General Laird, with Chauncey Teagarden beside him. Chauncey was wearing a black jacket with conchos, and his ivory handle gleamed in contrast.

“Chauncey’s looking good,” I said.

“He is good,” Virgil said.

“He still here for you, you think?”

“Be my guess,” Virgil said.

“Because of the son,” I said.

“Yep.”

“What are they waiting for?” I said.

“Chauncey likes to play the fish for a rime, ’fore he catches him,” Virgil said. “And during the recent Indian thing we was kinda useful.”

“I got another theory,” I said.

“Figured you would,” Virgil said. “Bein’ as how you went to West Point and all.”

“Things are in a state of some flux,” I said.

“ ‘Flux’?” Virgil said.

“Like flow,” I said. “Things are moving and changing.”

“Does a river flux?”

“No, it flows,” I said.

“Don’t it mean the same thing?” Virgil said.

“Pretty much,” I said. “Except people just say it the way they say it.”

“So, things are fluxing,” Virgil said.

I nodded.

“So, Laird may be thinking it’s a good idea to have a first-rate gun hand available until things shake out.”

“That would be Chauncey,” Virgil said.

“And if Chauncey kills you,” I said, “he probably would need to go away.”

“Not, I’m betting, because of Amos Callico,” Virgil said.

“Maybe, maybe not. Depends how things are when he has to decide. But Stringer might come down from the sheriff’s office. Hell, I might even get sort of bothersome ’bout it.”

“It would make sense for Chauncey to flux on out of Appaloosa after he killed me,” Virgil said.

“Which,” I said, “would leave Laird without the gun hand that he might need if, say, he finds it too hard to get along with Callico.”

“Nicky probably done that work for him before,” Virgil said.

“Or wanted to,” I said.

Virgil shook his head sadly.

“Wasn’t good enough,” he said.

“But Chauncey is,” I said.

“Maybe,” Virgil said.

“And if you kill him . . .” I said.

“Laird’s gotta find somebody else.”

“Ain’t too many in Chauncey’s class,” I said.

“Nope.”

“So, we wait and watch,” I said.

“Yep.”

“Least he won’t back-shoot you,” I said. “He’ll come at you straight on.”

Virgil nodded.

“Be too bad if I have to kill him,” Virgil said. “He’s been pretty useful so far.”

“So have you,” I said.

“I have,” Virgil said. “Haven’t I?”

51

THE FRONT of the Golden Palace where it faced the street was still open. And carpenters were bringing in lumber and millwork. But the back of the room was enclosed and there were a few odd tables set up near a bar made from a couple of tailgates.

Buford Posner brought a bottle of whiskey and four glasses to the table where Virgil and I were sitting with Lamar Speck. He poured some whiskey for each of us. Speck raised his glass.

“Almost back,” he said, and drank. We joined him.

“Get that front closed in,” Speck said. “And you can get started on the finish.”

“Got a new bar,” Posner said, “coming in from Denver. Amos got them to ship it to me on credit through the Reclamation Commission.”

“And got a little finder’s fee,” Speck said.

“Sure,” Posner said. “Amos always gets a little finder’s fee.”

“Didn’t know we had a Reclamation Commission,” I said.

“What Amos calls it,” Posner said. “Calls himself commissioner, too.”

“He would,” I said.

“Not a bad idea, though,” Speck said. “Town was originally thrown up building at a time with no oversight. So Amos got together with some of the better-off business interests in town, and he says we got a second chance, let’s do it right. And he brings the general aboard, first off, and when people see that, they’re interested. Me ’n Buford came aboard.”

Virgil seemed interested in the framing work going on in the front of the saloon. But I knew he heard what was being said. Virgil, as far as I know, always heard everything that mattered. And saw everything, and knew what to do.

“How’s it work?” I said.

“We all chip in some money, to make a little credit pool, and use it to support loans for people rebuilding. In return they give the commission a say in what they’re doing,” Speck said.

“Nice position of power,” I said.

“Amos put in money,” Virgil said.

He was still watching the framers. It was the kind of thing Virgil liked to watch. Men with a skill practicing it well.

“Mostly the general put up the money at first,” Posner said. “Him and Amos is pretty tight. Amos is the commissioner, does most of the legwork.”

“You boys get to say much?” I said.

“We have regular meetings,” Speck said.

“Truth of the matter,” Posner said, “we’re in ’cause we can’t afford to be out.”

I nodded.

“But do you have any say?”

“Not much,” Speck said. “Callico and the general are very tight. They pretty much decide everything.”

“And it’s not just the money,” Posner said. “Callico is the law here, and he always has some policemen with him.”

“And the general?” Virgil said.

“Teagarden is always beside him,” Posner said.

“Any threats?” Virgil said.

“Not direct, but they can back up what they think should happen,” Posner said.

“And you boys can’t,” Virgil said.

“No.”

“And you want us to help you.”

They said yes at the same time.

Virgil looked at me.

“You want to have the first say, Everett?” he said.

I nodded.

“I don’t like it,” I said.

Virgil nodded slowly.

“No,” he said. “I don’t, either.”

“We can pay you well,” Speck said.

Virgil shook his head.

“Ain’t that,” he said.

“Are you afraid?” Posner said.

Virgil smiled.

“Long as Everett and me been doing this?” he said. “Nope, we ain’t scared.”

“You want to end up on the right side of things,” Speck said. “When this is all over with and Callico’s got the town.”

“Everett,” Virgil said to me. “Would you explain to these two gentlemen why we ain’t gonna do this?”

“What we do,” I said to Speck and Posner, “is we kill men. We been doing it for a while and we are better at it than anyone we’ve come up against so far. Being good at killing men is different than being good at bulldogging a steer or shooting holes in silver dollars. It’s serious, and it needs to be done right.”

Speck and Posner stared at me and said nothing.

“You’re a lawman and right is pretty easy. You do what the law requires. And you’re pretty much sure you’re on the right side of things. Until now and then you find that you’re not. And you have to kill someone on your own terms.”

Virgil nodded. He had always worried about stuff like this more than I did.

“This would be like that,” I said. “And we don’t want to kill a man on your terms.”

“Well,” Speck said. “Pretty goddamned fancy for a couple of fucking gunmen.”

“Fancy,” Virgil said.

52

VIRGIL AND I were having coffee and dried-apricot pie at Café Paris. Through the front window we could see the opening ceremonies for the new Laird bank that the general was opening in Appaloosa.

There was red, white, and blue bunting. There were some speeches. Two guys played banjo. The general was there, of course, in a dark gray suit and some ribbons and an officer’s dress sword on a sash. Teagarden was beside him, wearing his ivory-handled Colt. Chauncey was a bear for ceremony.

“Lotta money kicking around Appaloosa these days,” I said.

“Callico and the general,” Virgil said.

“Yeah,” I said. “They’ve brought in a lot.”

“That much money coming and going,” Virgil said. “Trouble comes with it.”

“Bad element collecting in town?” I said.

“Seems so,” Virgil said.

“Anyone special?” I said.

“Well,” Virgil said. “There’s you and me.”

“We cleaned it up the first time, Virgil.”

“Might have to again,” Virgil said.

“And who’ll pay us to do it?”

“Whoever got the most to lose, I expect,” Virgil said.

“So, we got some preliminary skirmishes to observe,” I said. “’Fore we know.”

Virgil nodded. We both ate some pie, and Virgil drank some coffee. He shook his head.

“Chinaman makes the second-worst coffee in Appaloosa,” he said.

“Allie being the worst,” I said.

“Yes.”

I nodded toward the bank festivities.

“Allie’s in attendance,” I said.

“I know,” Virgil said. “Since Laurel went off, Allie’s got a lot of free time.”

He drank some more coffee.

“I don’t encourage her to spend it cooking,” he said.

“I wouldn’t,” I said.

“She’s working her way up in Appaloosa society,” he said.

“Which would be, at the moment, Callico,” I said. “And the general.”

“Callico is through Mrs. Callico,” Virgil said.

“The belle of New Orleans,” I said.

“Whole damned South,” Virgil said.

The Chinaman came out and poured us more coffee. We both drank some and looked across the bright street. Allie was talking to Chauncey Teagarden.

“General’s kinda long in the tooth,” I said. “But Chauncey ain’t.”

Virgil nodded and stared across the street at Allie over the top of his coffee cup.

“You and me know Allie, I’d guess,” Virgil said, “better’n anybody.”

“You know her best,” I said.

Virgil shook his head.

“No,” Virgil said. “I fucked her and you ain’t. But you know her well as I do.”

I didn’t say anything.

“And she knows that Chauncey is here sooner or later to kill me,” Virgil said.

I nodded.

“And she knows that he might succeed.”

“Always possible,” I said.

“And so you know she’s thinking ahead,” Virgil said.

I was quiet for a moment, looking across the street. Then I took in some air and blew it out slowly.

“And lining up replacements,” I said.

“In case,” Virgil said.

“Something happened to you, I’d look out for her,” I said.

“She knows that,” he said. “She also knows I go down, you’ll probably go, too.”

“Probably,” I said.

“And even if you don’t go down, she knows you won’t . . .”

Virgil wobbled his hand a little.

“No,” I said. “That’s right. I’d look out for her, but I wouldn’t, ah, be with her.”

“You don’t love her,” Virgil said.

“No.”

Virgil gazed across the street silently.

“I do,” he said.

“I know.”

“Don’t make any sense, does it?” Virgil said.

I exhaled again.

“No,” I said. “But maybe it ain’t supposed to.”

“I want her to feel safe,” Virgil said.

“I’ll see that she does,” I said.

“No,” Virgil said. “You can’t. ’Cause you won’t fuck her and she can’t feel safe with no one ’less she’s fucking him.”

“I know,” I said.

“So, let her find somebody to fuck, if I go,” Virgil said. “And don’t kill him for fucking her.”

I nodded again.

“Work out better all around,” I said, “you don’t die.”

“Would,” Virgil said. “Wouldn’t it.”

53

AS THE TOWN BLOOMED, the Reclamation Commission bloomed along with it and, in time, was effectively running Appaloosa. Most of the running was done by Laird and Callico, who had come to seem to be almost a single entity. They built a big hall with offices for town government and a big meeting hall on the second floor. They called it Reclamation Hall. Callico moved his offices there from the jail. He and Laird set up offices for the Reclamation Commission there. At the end of a grand mahogany corridor on the first floor, they built a lavish office for the mayor. There was the Reclamation Commission. There was Callico and Laird. The rest of the offices were empty. There was no town government. There was no mayor.

“Bad mistake,” Virgil said, walking through the still-virgin offices.

“Building the office first?” I said.

“Longer it sits here,” Virgil said, “more pressure to have an election and elect a mayor.”

“Which will be either Callico or the general,” I said.

“Running against each other,” Virgil said.

I nodded slowly without saying anything.

“Ain’t ready for that yet,” Virgil said.

“Laird might be,” I said.

“Maybe he is,” Virgil said. “Maybe he ain’t. Callico ain’t.”

“Wants it too bad,” I said.

We walked out of the gleaming new office and down the broad corridor.

“Wants everything too bad,” Virgil said.

“Wants to be more than he is,” I said.

“Not the key to happiness, I’m thinking,” Virgil said.

“You’d settle for being what you are,” I said to Virgil.

“I have,” Virgil said.

“Would you settle for being Callico?” I said.

We opened the heavy front door and went out of the soap-smelling hall and down the stairs. The smell of the town was thick with sawdust and raw wood, horse droppings, and the smell of scorched wood from the steam saw. All drifted across Appaloosa on the easy breeze from the prairie, to which a vestige of sage smell still clung.

“No,” Virgil said.

54

THE RESTORATION of Appaloosa was complete by the time the fall rains arrived. But the town kept right on building.

On September 1, Amos Callico and General Horatio Laird both announced that they were running for mayor. On September 15, The Appaloosa Argus endorsed General Laird.

“Do you think he’d be the best?” Allie said.

“Don’t know, don’t care,” Virgil said. “Hate politics.”

“Well, they’re what’s running,” Allie said. “Who you gonna vote for, Everett?”

“Probably Callico,” I said.

“Even though the newspaper says it should be General Laird?”

“They probably think he looks like a mayor,” I said.

“He was a general, you know,” Allie said.

“Part of the problem,” I said. “He’s used to working inside a set of rules. And he’s used to people doing what he tells them to do.”

“I should think that would be good for a mayor,” Allie said.

Virgil was standing in the kitchen doorway, looking out at the dark rain soaking into his yard. The sound of it was pleasant. The smell of the new rain was fresh. The mud was probably six inches deep already.

“Not for mayor of a town like Appaloosa,” I said. “Never had a mayor before. Never actual like had a government before. Man’s gonna get things done in a town like this, hell, most towns, is a liar and a thief. Like Callico. He won’t keep his word. He won’t honor yours. He doesn’t care about you. He doesn’t expect you to care about him.”

“That’s a good mayor?”

“He’ll get things done,” I said.

“Maybe that’s not all he should do,” Allie said.

At the open door, Virgil turned and looked for a long moment at Allie.

“By God, Allie,” he said. “Maybe it ain’t.”

55

BUSINESS WAS GOOD in Appaloosa. Virgil and I kept busy buffaloing drunks, and occasionally a little more, in the saloons we serviced. When we weren’t busy we spent our time watching the mayoral election unfold in virgin territory.

The rain was meager today. Enough drizzle to keep the streets mucky but not to drive the voters away, and they stood in a damp cluster around the stairs to Reclamation Hall, where General Laird was explaining to them why they would be wise to vote him in as mayor.

“I have led men all my life,” he said. “I understand how to run an organization.”

“You understand how to run,” someone said loudly in the front row.

“I beg your pardon, sir?” Laird said.

“Whyn’t you tell ’em how you flat-out run away at Ralesberg,” the loud voice said.

“I did no such thing. We won at Ralesberg.”

“While you was running, you burned out a refugee camp and slaughtered a bunch of women and children,” another voice said just as loudly.

“Sir, that is a lie,” Laird said.

He stood very erect in a slightly shabby gray CSA general officer’s coat, the light rain drizzling down onto his bare head.

The two voices separated themselves from the front row. One belonged to a tall, raw-boned red-haired man with a weak and unimpressive beard. The other was shorter and thicker, with a dense black beard, wearing a Colt on a gun belt over bib overalls.

“You callin’ us liars?” the red-haired man said.

He carried a short-barreled breech-loading cavalry carbine. The people immediately around them moved away.

“Watch Chauncey,” Virgil murmured.

Chauncey had been leaning against the frame of the big front door, sheltered from the rain, watching the a ctivity.

“What you are saying, sir, is untrue,” Laird said.

“I say you are a back-shooting, barn-burning, gray-bellied coward,” the red-haired man said. “Anybody gonna tell me no?”

“I am,” Chauncey said.

“Who the hell are you?”

“General Laird is a gentleman,” Chauncey said. “He is not a murderous thug. He is not going to descend to a street fight with you.”

“And you?” the man with the black beard said.

Chauncey straightened lazily from the door frame and ambled out to stand maybe five feet in front of the two men.

“I am a murderous thug,” Chauncey said.

There was silence. Chauncey’s ivory-handled Colt, sprinkled slightly with raindrops, seemed to gleam in the low, gray light.

“If you’d like,” Chauncey said, “you get to pick where I shoot you.”

“Chauncey,” General Laird said. “I appreciate your support. But this is a democratic process. We cannot have people killed.”

“I’m not running for anything, General,” Chauncey said.

“You are with me,” General Laird said.

“Yessir,” Chauncey said. “I am.”

He smiled at the two hecklers.

“’Nother reason to vote for General Laird,” Chauncey said. “He just saved your lives.”

56

VIRGIL AND I were having breakfast in Café Paris when Allie came in with a tall woman in a fancy dress.

“Since you’re not willing to eat my cooking in the morning,” she said, “I decided to join you.”

Virgil and I both stood.

“Please do,” Virgil said.

“This is Amelia Callico,” Allie said. “Her husband, as you know, is chief of police here. She’s been dying to meet you.”lay

We both said we were pleased. Mrs. Callico tipped her head slightly and made the faint hint of a curtsy, and we sat. She looked around.

“How charming,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Virgil said.

“Do many women come in here?” she said.

“Mostly men,” Virgil said.

“We ladies lead such sheltered lives,” Amelia said. “Unless the men take us, we never go anywhere.”

“Lady can’t be too careful,” I said.

“Virgil and I met here,” Allie said. “I was alone and they wouldn’t give me biscuits, and he stepped in.”

“How gallant,” Amelia said, stressing the second syllable.

“Virgil was the marshal here then,” Allie said.

“I understand that he was,” Amelia said. “And what do you do now for work?”

“Odd jobs,” Virgil said.

“For some of the local saloons,” I said.

“How nice,” she said.

“Covers the cost of breakfast,” Virgil said.

“I’m sure,” Amelia said.

“That’s a beautiful dress, Amelia,” Allie said.

“Yes, thank you. I had it made for me in New Orleans.”

“You from New Orleans?” Virgil said.

“Yes,” she said. “I am. What’s good here.”

“I’d stick with the biscuits,” Virgil said.

“That’s all?” Allie said. “Why do you come here when all you eat is biscuits? I can make biscuits for you.”

Virgil’s face didn’t change expression, but something in the set of his shoulders shifted, and I stepped in.

“We eat food that ladies wouldn’t like,” I said. “Sow belly. Fried pinto beans.”

“So, for lady food,” Amelia said, “biscuits is what they offer.”

“’Tis,” I said.

“Then that’s what I’ll have,” she said.

The Chinaman took our order and went to get it.

“I never understand why they are so silent,” Amelia said.

“It’s as if they hate us.”

“Mostly don’t speak much English,” Virgil said.

“Well, they should,” Amelia said. “They’re going to come here and live and take our money.”

“Sure,” Virgil said.

“I wanted to meet you, of course, because of my friendship with Allie,” Amelia said. “But also I wanted to suggest an opportunity for you and your friend to make money, and do yourselves some good.”

“Open a lady-food café?” Virgil said.

Amelia smiled. She had a very convincing smile.

“Perhaps,” she said.

She was a good-looking, full-bodied woman with a mass of reddish-brown hair piled on her head.

“As you know,” she said, “my husband, Amos Callico, is running for mayor of Appaloosa. I am convinced that it is only a first step. Indeed, I am utterly convinced that it is the first step on a path that will lead him, ultimately, to become the President of the United States.”

I could see that Virgil was trying to look impressed, and I could see that it wasn’t working.

“You will certainly make a grand first lady,” I said.

“Thank you, kind sir,” she said. “I am hoping that you both would wish to join us.”

“How would we do that?” Virgil said.

“Help us get the truth out,” Amelia said. “There are facts about our opponent that need to be known.”

“He ran in combat?” Virgil said. “He slaughtered women and children?”

“Yes, that and more,” Amelia said. “There is much in General Laird’s past that is shameful.”

“And you want us to tell people?”

“The truth must be the basis of any election,” she said.

“Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am,” Virgil said. “But how do we know it’s the truth?”

“No pardon needed,” she said. “You have my word that anything we tell you is the truth.”

“Fellas that fronted up to the general outside Reclamation Hall yesterday?” Virgil said. “They get their information from you.”

“Yes, and it is good information. But Laird has a man working for him . . .”

“Chauncey Teagarden,” Virgil said.

“Yes. He is quite intimidating.”

Virgil nodded.

“From New Orleans, too, you know that?” Virgil said.

“I did not,” she said.

“Small world,” I said.

Allie smiled at me nervously. No one else paid any attention.

“You figure Teagarden won’t intimidate me ’n Everett,” Virgil said.

“I’m told that nothing does,” Amelia said.

“And if you helped them now, think what it would mean to us,” Allie said. “As Mr. Callico moved on up the ladder.”

Virgil looked at me. I shook my head. He nodded.

“Nope,” he said.

“We will pay you well,” Amelia said.

“Nope.”

“Why not?” Amelia said.

“Me ’n Everett don’t like your husband,” Virgil said.

She sat silently for a minute. The she stood.

“He will be disappointed to hear that,” she said, and stalked out of the café.

Allie looked as if she might cry.

57

I HAD A BEER with Chauncey Teagarden in a small saloon called Rabbit’s, near the new red-light section of town.

“You’re from New Orleans,” I said.

“Ah surely am,” he said, broadening the accent.

“Did you know that Callico’s wife is from New Orleans?”

Chauncey grinned.

“Amelia,” he said.

“You do know her,” I said.

“Know her,” Chauncey said. “She don’t know me.”

“Tell me ’bout her,” I said.

“Queen of Storyville,” Chauncey said. “Worked three, four cribs there, ’fore she met Callico and gave up honest labor.”

“Ever go to one of her establishments?”

“Hell, when she was first starting out she used to work the bedrooms herself,” Chauncey said. “I been to her.”

“Callico know that?” I said.

“No, she don’t even know that. She was a busy girl when I was going to her. And I didn’t shave yet.”

“But he knew she was a whore?”

“Oh, sure,” Chauncey said. “He went to her, too. Called herself the Countess. That was her trick, always wore a fancy dress. Nothing under it.”

“How’d she meet Callico?”

“Don’t know,” Chauncey said. “Don’t know too much about Callico. For a while, I know, he was a trick shooter at a carnival, used to play around New Orleans. Saw him once. Man, could he shoot.”

“Clay pigeons?” I said.

“Yep. Fancy ones sometimes. Made of glass.”

“Pigeons ever shoot back?”

“Nope.”

“Unlikely to,” I said.

“God, he was fast, though. And accurate.”

“She work the carnival?” I said.

“Doubt it,” Teagarden said. “Mighta been a bouncer in one’a her joints and then something clicked and they went off together. ’Cept I heard she took up with a fella by that name, I never thought anything about either one of them until I got here. I recognized her. And when I seen him, I remember him shooting. Ain’t all so many fellas named Callico you’re gonna run into.”

The doors to the saloon were open, and outside the sky was low and dark and there was a sense of something coming. Most people were off the street.

“Something coming,” Chauncey said, looking out at the dark street.

“A lot of it,” I said.

We carried our beer glasses to the doorway and stood, looking out at the empty street where the wind was beginning to kick a little trash around.

“This thing between Callico and the general is going to turn into something bad,” Chauncey said.

“If it does, you’re with the general,” I said.

“I am,” he said.

“You and the general against Callico and his policemen,” I said. “He’s got a fair number of hands.”

“Yeah, but mostly cowhands,” Chauncey said.

“You’re not a cowhand,” I said.

“No,” Chauncey said. “I am not.”

“So, he needs you to run the tactical command, so to speak.”

“I’d say so.”

“You didn’t come here to fight a war,” I said.

“Things change,” Chauncey said.

“Forever?” I said.

“Till after the war.”

“Then?”

“I do what the general hired me to do, if he still wants it done.”

“He don’t seem like a man changes his mind much,” I said.

“No.”

“General’s kid required it of Virgil,” I said.

“I’m sure he did,” Chauncey said. “Virgil Cole don’t go around shooting people ’cause he can.”

The wind was picking up as we stood, watching in the doorway. It pushed tumbleweed up the street past us. Far to the west, lightning flashed, and in a moment the sound of thunder came to us. No rain yet, but the tension of its pending arrival filled the air.

“Soon,” I said.

“I have to go against Virgil,” Chauncey said. “I assume that includes you.”

“Does,” I said.

“Still got that eight-gauge?” Chauncey said.

I smiled.

“Do,” I said.

“Won’t make it easier,” Chauncey said.

“I’ll come straight at you,” I said. “I don’t back-shoot.”

“Well, never lost yet,” Chauncey said.

“Neither has Virgil,” I said.

A single raindrop splattered into the still-dusty street in front of us.

“I know,” Chauncey said. “Sorta what makes it worth trying.”

58

THE RAIN when it arrived was everything it promised to be. It came down, slanted by the wind, hard and cold and steady. The Callico election rally that had been scheduled for Main Street was moved inside the saloon at the Boston House, with Callico standing on a chair near the bar and half the Appaloosa police department ranged along the outside walls.

“I promise you safe streets in Appaloosa, and open saloons, and more of the same kind of money and development that has been flowing in through my efforts these last months.”

Wearing a slicker buttoned to his neck and a confederate cavalry hat pulled down over his eyes, General Laird pushed into the saloon. Chauncey Teagarden came behind wearing a slicker, too. He kept his unbuttoned, holding it closed with his left hand until he got out of the rain. The two men stood in the crowd toward the front of the room.

“My opponent, who, incidentally, has just arrived in the room,” Callico said, “will tell you he is qualified to lead because he has been a military man, a commander. Albeit of a rebel power? Don’t we then have the right to ask what he commanded his soldiers to do? Would that not tell us what kind of civic leader he might make? Recently some of my supporters spoke publicly of his pusillanimity at Ralesberg. Of his brutality toward woman and innocent children, as he fled the field of battle.”

Beside me, Virgil said, “‘Pusillanimity’?”

“Cowardice,” I said.

“My supporters,” Callico said, “decent, honest men, both of them, were confronted by General Laird’s hired gunman in an attempt to repress the truth.”

“Ain’t that ‘suppress’?” Virgil said.

“I’d use ‘suppress,’” I said.

“And you went to the U.S. Military Academy,” Virgil said.

“So I must be right,” I said.

Virgil nodded.

“But the truth will not be repressed,” Callico said. His voice was loud now, and up a pitch. His face was red.

“The commander was a coward at Ralesberg,” he shouted,

“and a coward at Tyler Creek. His victories were against unarmed women and children who had the misfortune to be in the path of his retreat.”

As Callico talked, the general worked his way through the crowd until he stood right in front of Callico. He’d taken off his gloves and held them in his right hand.

“You lie,” he said.

His voice sounded like the crack of a bullwhip.

He stepped one step closer and reached up and slapped Callico across the face with the gloves in his right hand. It almost knocked Callico off the chair he stood on. He made a move toward his shoulder holster and stopped himself and got stabilized on the chair.

“Mr. Teagarden is my second,” the general said. “I will meet you anywhere. Pistols or sword.”

“A duel?” Callico said. “You’re challenging me to a fucking duel?”

“I am,” the general said.

“A goddamned duel,” Virgil murmured to me. “The general’s got some sand.”

Callico glanced across the room.

“Sergeant Sullivan,” he said. “Take this man into custody. Use any requisite force.”

Virgil looked at me.

“ ‘Requisite’ means necessary,” I said. “Required.” Virgil nodded. Sergeant Sullivan and five policemen assembled in a small squad and pushed through the crowd to General Laird, standing in front of Callico. Chauncey Teagarden moved slightly to the side of the group and looked at General Laird.

“Chauncey takes them on,” I said. “We gonna help?”

Virgil stared at the scene silently.

Then he said, “Yes.”

I had begun to carry the eight-gauge again as tension had begun to develop in town. I nodded, picked up the eight-gauge from where it leaned against the wall, and moved slowly along the wall to get myself opposite Virgil, so we’d have a nice crossfire if we needed to shoot.

Chauncey saw me move. He nodded his head slightly and looked at General Laird.

“General?” he said.

Laird shook his head.

“Not yet, Chauncey,” he said. “It may come to that. But not yet.”

I think Callico saw me move, too. He looked at me for a moment and then at Virgil for a moment.

“You are charged with assaulting a police officer,” Callico said. “You will be taken to jail and held for hearing.”

I saw Chauncey move his shoulders slightly, as if to loosen them.

“My lawyer will bail me out in the morning,” the general said. “Not yet, Chauncey.”

59

CALLICO SENT one of his many policemen to invite us to come to his office in Reclamation Hall. With its ornate furniture and its dim light, the office had a solemn quality. Callico had lit no lamps, and the rain streaking the big windows filtered what light had made its way through the dark overhead. He sat behind a big desk in the arched bay that looked out over the length of Main Street. At the other end of the long office, two on either side of the door, sat four policemen.

“How many law officers you got now, Amos?” Virgil said.

“We have grown to twenty-five,” Callico said. “Including my personal team.”

“Palace guard,” I said.

Callico shook his head with a smile.

“You don’t see the chief of police in Chicago or New York strolling about without escort,” Callico said.

Virgil nodded slowly.

“What was it you wanted to see us about?” he said.

“Seen you at the saloon today,” Callico said.

“Yep.”

“Virgil,” Callico said. “Everett. You boys know this town never elected a mayor before.”

“Yep.”

“I’m not sure it’s ready.”

Virgil and I said nothing.

“You seen what it was today. I’m trying to tell the truth and my opponent is talking ’bout shooting me.”

“Or you him,” I said.

“It’s barbaric,” Callico said. “We cannot have an election when one candidate threatens the life of the other.”

“So, what do you do?” I said.

“I may have to cancel the election.”

“And who’d run the town?” Virgil said.

“I would,” Callico said.

Virgil looked at me and smiled.

“I’ll be damned,” he said.

“Where’d you get all that information on the general being a coward and a baby killer?” I said.

“Very reliable person,” he said.

“That being?” I said.

Callico paused, thinking about it.

“I can’t tell you,” he said.

“Figured you couldn’t,” Virgil said. “What was it you wanted from us?”

“Looked to me this morning, when the balloon was sort of getting ready to go up, that you boys was getting ready to side with Laird.”

“We was going to side with anybody, be Teagarden,” Virgil said. “He helped us out with your Indians.”

Callico stared at Virgil.

“For crissake, Virgil,” he said. “He’s here to kill you.”

“I know,” Virgil said.

Callico stared at Virgil some more. He didn’t get it. I did. We owed Chauncey for the Indians. And he wasn’t here to kill Virgil yet. But I’d been with Virgil a long time. Like so many others before him. Callico had never met anybody like Virgil Cole. No one said anything.

“I think this is going to get pretty bad,” Callico said finally.

“Sounds like it to me,” Virgil said.

“Meanwhile,” he said, “I’m prepared to make you boys special deputies reporting only to me. I’ll give the same deal to your friend Teagarden.”

“Everett?” Virgil said.

“Don’t want to be a special deputy,” I said.

“Me, either,” Virgil said. “Can’t speak for Chauncey, but it don’t seem probable.”

“Will you side with Laird?” Callico said.

“Don’t know,” Virgil said. “You know, Everett?”

“I don’t,” I said.

“He’ll lose,” Callico said. “I got twenty-five men. I’ll close Appaloosa down and run it like conquered territory until the town is mine and knows it.”

“Then what?” Virgil said.

“Then we move on.”

“What happens to Appaloosa?”

“Don’t know,” Callico said. “Won’t care. I won’t be moving on to something worse.”

Callico looked at both of us and shook his head slowly for a while.

“It’s sad, really,” he said finally. “You boys had a chance to get on board something important here, and you’re too dumb to see it.”

“Maybe it ain’t dumb,” Virgil said.

Callico gave a humorless laugh.

“What else could it be.”

“Aw, hell, I dunno,” Virgil said. “Probably dumb.”

He stood. I stood, and we walked down the long office past the palace guard and out the front door.

60

WHEN WE CAME back to Virgil’s house in the late afternoon, Chauncey Teagarden was sipping whiskey on the front porch and watching Allie flirt with him.

“Mr. Teagarden has been entertaining me with tales of New Orleans,” Allie said when we sat down.

“Entertaining fella,” Virgil said, and poured himself a little whiskey.

“He says he knew Mrs. Callico in New Orleans,” Allie said.

“The Countess,” I said.

“Did you know her, too, Everett?”

“Nope, just what Chauncey has told me.”

“Was she really a countess?”

Chauncey glanced at Virgil. Virgil shrugged faintly. And nodded even more faintly.

“Was a whore,” Chauncey said.

“A whore?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” Allie said. “Just because you’ve been a whore doesn’t mean you’re always a whore.”

“No,” Chauncey said.

“People can change. They can grow. And they do,” Allie said. “She’s turned into a fine lady.”

“Surely has,” Virgil said. “Also the one that says Laird ran from combat.”

“Amelia?” Chauncey said. “How the hell would she know.”

“Probably don’t,” Virgil said.

“You think she made it up?” Chauncey said.

“I do,” Virgil said.

“You think Amelia Callico is telling lies about the general?” Allie said.

“Yep.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Get her husband elected mayor,” Virgil said.

“You and Everett gonna have to take a side here ’fore it’s over. Too much shooting gonna be done, and you boys are too good at it not to get pulled in.”

“Callico’s got twenty-five policemen,” I said. “You got how many?”

“Me and Laird’s hands,” Chauncey said.

“How many gun hands?”

“Me.”

“What do you think, Everett?”

“Never liked Callico,” I said.

“Hard to like,” Virgil said.

“Pony’s in Buffalo Springs,” I said. “I could ride down and get him.”

“That’d be three of you,” Chauncey said. “And me makes all we need.”

I looked at Virgil. He nodded.

“I’ll ride on down and get Pony Flores,” I said.

Allie was listening to this as if a new universe was opening up. She poured herself some whiskey and drank it.

“Bring Laurel back, too,” she said. “For a visit.”

“No,” Virgil said. “He’ll bring you down there to stay with Laurel. I don’t want either of you around town for a time.”

“Just like that?” Allie said. “Go gallivanting off with Everett for a two-day trip.”

“You can make it in a day,” Virgil said. “And keep your hands off Everett.”

Allie blushed.

“Virgil,” I said. “You spoil everything.”

61

I LEFT ALLIE to stay with Laurel in the little shed next to the livery corral, where she and Pony lived while he wrangled the livery string and broke an occasional mustang.

“She talk?” I said.

“Some,” Pony said.

“Enough?” I said.

“Yes.”

It was cloudy and gray riding north, but there was no rain.

“She mind you going?” I said.

“When see you, she know why you here,” Pony said.

“She say she understand.”

“Does she?”

“Yes.”

“Wish Allie did,” I said. “She bitched the whole way down here yesterday.”

“Why she bitch?”

I did a high-voiced imitation of Allie.

“ ‘What if he’s killed? What happens to me? This isn’t his fight. . . . Why is he involved at all. . . . If he loved me, he wouldn’t . . .’ ”

Pony looked at the dark sky.

“Apache man warrior,” he said. “Apache woman proud.”

“I know,” I said.

Pony grinned.

“In land of Blue-Eyed Devil, not so simple,” he said. “Man can’t always be warrior. Man get to be cowboy and store man and saloon man. And man who sit in office. Not warrior, I just man who saddle horse. Pitch hay. Pick up horse shit. But I go with you and Virgil, I warrior.”

“Not everybody wants to be a warrior,” I said.

“No. But nobody want to be pick-up-horse-shit man, either,” Pony said.

“Some people like it ’cause it’s safe, I guess.”

“Life not lived to be safe. Safe make you weak,” Pony said. “Make you slow. Make you tired.”

We pretty much gave the horses their head, keeping them pointed north but letting them pick the trail. Half a day on the trail and it began to rain again. Not too hard but steady. The horses paid no attention. We put on our slickers and buttoned them up and pulled the brims of our hats down and hunched a little forward over the necks of the horses.

“Things turn out the way they heading,” I said, “you ain’t gonna be tired for a good while.”

62

ON THE FOLLOWING MONDAY, Callico declared a state of martial law to exist in Appaloosa, and called off the election.

The office of the chief of police is now the highest authority in Appaloosa, the proclamation read. It was signed Amos A. Callico, chief of police.

“Ain’t martial law supposed to be the Army?” Virgil said.

“Twenty-five policemen in a town this size is an Army,” I said.

“That’s a fact,” Virgil said.

The rain that had been coming down steadily for more than a week was tapering, and as we sat drinking coffee in Café Paris, it had stopped completely.

“Question is,” I said, “what’s the general going to do?”

“Yep.”

“Which,” I said, “will then lead to the question what are we going to do?”

“You didn’t go down and get Pony,” Virgil said. “’Cause we needed a fourth for whist.”

I nodded.

Chauncey Teagarden came in with his slicker unbuttoned. He hung his white hat on the rack and sat down at our table.

“Ain’t raining,” he said.

“Will again,” I said.

“Often does,” Chauncey said. “The general would like you boys to come out and see him, soon’s you can.”

“The election?” I said.

“You boys heard about that,” Chauncey said.

“We did,” I said.

“General says he can’t do that,” Chauncey said.

“He can do what people will let him do,” Virgil said.

“Think that’s what he might want to talk about,” Chauncey said.

“In fact,” Virgil said, “might just as well ride back on out there with you when you go.”

“That’ll be soon’s I finish my coffee,” Chauncey said.

“Okay,” Virgil said. “Everett, bring the eight-gauge. Looks impressive.”

63

THE RAIN had picked up again by the time we got to the Lazy L. We hung our coats and hats in the front hall and went into the living room to sit by the big stone fireplace and let the fire dry us out.

The houseboy poured whiskey.

“Fine-looking decanter,” Virgil said.

He loved learning a new word and tried to use it as often as possible. The results weren’t always pretty, but he got this one right.

“I’m going after Callico,” the general said.

“So I understand,” Virgil said.

“I employ cattle hands. Not gunmen. They were ready to fight the Indian raid, self-defense. They are not ready to fight Callico and his police force.”

“No volunteers,” Virgil said.

The general drank some whiskey.

“None,” he said.

“Bad odds,” Virgil said.

The general nodded.

“They’re cowboys,” he said. “That’s what they signed on for.”

“And what did you sign on for?” I said.

“You remember what they taught us at West Point about honor and duty and country.”

I smiled.

“Vaguely,” I said.

“I fought on the wrong side in the wrong war because I felt to do otherwise would have been dishonorable. I still think so.”

“That war’s over,” I said.

“I cannot let this bandit take over the town like some Mongolian warlord,” the general said.

“Not sure Appaloosa’s worth dying for,” I said.

“We’ll help you,” Virgil said.

“I will pay you well,” the general said. “And any men you can enlist.”

“This one’s free,” Virgil said.

“Our history will be put aside for the duration,” the general said.

I was looking at Virgil. He generally had the moral scruples of a tarantula. And he declined to work for free.

“You work for free, you’re just a gunman,” he always said. “You do it ’cause you like it.”

Which was maybe some kind of moral scruple.

“Chauncey,” Virgil said. “You’re in.”

“Surely am,” Chauncey said.

“Pony?”

“Sí.”

“Everett and me, that’s four.”

“I am five,” the general said.

Virgil almost spoke but held it back.

“You think Cato and Rose might come down from Resolution for this?”

“I’d say they owe us,” I said.

“That’d make seven,” Virgil said. “Anybody got anybody else?”

No one spoke.

“Okay, twenty-five to seven,” Virgil said. “And since the seven is us, odds ain’t bad.”

He held his glass out.

“Reach me that there decanter, Pony,” he said.

Pony looked at him blankly.

“That there fancy bottle,” Virgil said. “Called a decanter.”

Pony nodded and poured Virgil a drink. Everyone else had a second.

“You have, I assume, engaged in this kind of operation before,” the general said.

“Yes, sir,” Virgil said.

“Do you wish my help in the planning?”

“No, sir,” Virgil said.

“I rather thought you wouldn’t,” the general said. “What’s the first step?”

“Pony’ll ride up and get Cato and Rose,” Virgil said.

“Do you have a plan?” the general said.

“Need to get an idea of Callico’s plan, and adjust to it,” Virgil said.

“A strategy, then?”

“Kill Callico and not get killed doin’ it,” Virgil said. “But first we gotta let him know we’re coming and see what preparations he makes.”

“How you going to do that?” the general said.

Virgil looked at me. I grinned.

“We’ll tell Allie,” I said.

64

WHEN PONY came back from Resolution with Cato and Rose, he brought them straight to the house. Virgil introduced Allie. She curtsied and went for the jug of corn whiskey.

“Pony tell you anything on the ride down?” Virgil said.

Rose laughed.

“Riding down here with Pony and Cato can be lonely business,” he said.

“Okay,” Virgil said. “What you see drinking whiskey at the table is what we go to war with.”

Cato and Rose both looked at Chauncey.

Rose said, “Frank Rose. This here’s Cato Tillson.”

“Chauncey Teagarden,” he said.

“Like your shirt,” Rose said.

Chauncey nodded.

“Like yours, too,” he said.

“Besides the six of us,” Virgil said, “there’s a general got to be in on it.”

“A general?” Rose said.

“From the Confederate states army.”

“Long-in-the-tooth general,” Rose said.

“Yes.”

“He think he’s in charge?”

“No,” Virgil said.

“He think you’re in charge?” Rose said.

“Yep.”

“No disrespect, Everett,” Rose said. “But Virgil ain’t in charge, me and Cato go back to Resolution.”

“I’m in charge,” Virgil said.

“Got a plan yet?” Cato said.

“We’re developing one,” Virgil said. “Tell ’em, Everett, if you would. You being a West Point graduate.”

“Allie here is a close friend of Callico’s wife, Amelia, the Countess of Storyville.”

“Storyville,” Rose said.

“Yep. But Allie don’t care—they are pals. So she lets it slide that we’re coming after Callico and tells her to warn Callico but not tell who we are.”

“And she thinks the Countess will do that?”

“No,” I said. “Allie’s playing dumb. We know Mrs. Callico will give us away.”

“But then,” Virgil said. “He got two choices: comes right after us or, two, he sets up for us to come after him.”

“Either way we’re setting ourselves up,” Rose said.

“’Cept they don’t know we know they know,” Virgil said. “So we watch them watching us.”

“You think they’ll come for us?” Cato said.

“No,” Virgil said. “Man wants to be president. Looks better if he defeats a bunch of ruffians who attacked him.”

“How ’bout the wife?” Rose said.

“Lady Macbeth,” Chauncey said.

“Who?” Rose said.

“Bad woman in a play,” I said. “She wants him to be president, too.”

“How good are his constables?” Cato said.

“Don’t know yet,” I said. “Pretty sure not as good as us.”

“But pretty sure twenty-five to six,” Rose said.

“Seven,” Virgil said.

“The general,” Rose said.

“Yeah.”

“Twenty-five to six, and a geezer,” Rose said.

“He’ll carry his weight,” Virgil said.

“He better,” Frank said.

“He will,” Chauncey said.

65

IT WAS LATE. Chauncey went back to the Lazy L. Cato and Rose went to sleep in Virgil’s shed. Allie was cleaning up, and Virgil and I sat on the porch and looked at the first clear sky we’d seen in two weeks. There were stars.

“Allie,” I said.

“Odd,” Virgil said. “Ain’t it.”

“She worships Amelia Callico,” I said. “She thinks Amelia Callico is the Queen of New Orleans.”

“She gets faint if the Countess looks at her,” Virgil said.

“And she don’t want this fight to happen,” I said.

“She don’t,” Virgil said.

“But she sets the trap on her ’cause you asked her to.”

“Allie loves me,” Virgil said.

“Except when she doesn’t,” I said.

Virgil sipped his whiskey.

“She always loves me,” he said. “Sometimes other stuff gets in the way.”

“She wants to be more than she is,” I said. “She cheats on you. She gets so sucked up into her self that she can’t see you for a while. She gets lost. You go find her. She strays off. You bring her back. You love her.”

“I do,” Virgil said.

“Why?”

“Don’t know,” Virgil said.

We poured ourselves more whiskey.

“But you do,” I said.

“Yep.”

“You ever spend time thinking about it?”

“Nope.”

I grinned.

“No,” I said. “You wouldn’t.”

“I like it,” Virgil said. “It works for me. Why fuck around with it.”

“Don’t spend much time figuring yourself out, either,” I said.

“Same thing,” Virgil said.

“You like yourself,” I said.

Virgil grinned.

“So, why fuck with it?” he said.

“You know why you’re getting into General Laird’s fight?” I said.

“Killed his kid,” Virgil said.

“Feel guilty ’bout that?”

“Nope,” Virgil said. “Kid gave me no choice. Don’t mean I can’t help his old man out.”

“And we don’t like Callico, do we?” I said.

“No,” Virgil said. “We don’t.”

“And we do kind of like putting together a little fire-fight like this.”

Virgil drank some corn whiskey and held it in his mouth and looked up at the stars. He nodded slowly.

“We do,” he said.

66

NEW MOON,” General Laird said. Six of us sat our horses back from the ridgeline in the near-perfect darkness above Appaloosa.

“Yep,” Virgil said.

“Knew that when you planned this,” the general said.

“Did,” Virgil said.

Almost noiselessly, Pony Flores guided his horses up from the right slope and in beside Virgil.

“How’s he do that?” Chauncey said to me. “I know he’s quiet, but how’s he make the horse quiet?”

Pony heard him.

“Chiricahua,” he murmured to Chauncey.

“Or Mex,” Chauncey said.

“Or both,” Pony said.

“How is it down there?” Virgil said.

He never got nervous, but he did focus sometimes, and this was one of those times.

“Done what you say he do, Jefe,” Pony said.

“Set up an ambush,” Virgil said.

“Sí.”

Downslope a ways five extra horses were tethered. They would blow softly now and then in the darkness.

“Where’s he got ’em?” Virgil said.

“I show,” Pony said.

We moved down slope a little and dismounted. I got a lantern going, and we crouched together, watching, while Pony scratched out a sort of map in the dirt.

“Have two on second floor, Boston House,” Pony said, and marked it.

“One on roof of Golden Palace.” He drew an X.

“Three in livery corral. Behind wagon.” He drew three X’s.

When Pony was finished Virgil counted the X’s.

“I get fifteen,” he said.

“Five alone,” I said.

“We can take them out?” Virgil said to Pony. “Quiet?”

“Sí,” Pony said. “The one’s alone. Maybe two on roof at jail.”

“You think you can take out two men in the dark without making any noise.”

“Chiricahua,” Pony said. “Kill many men on roof.”

“Chiricahua better not fuck this up,” Virgil said. “Blow the whole goddamned project if there’s noise.”

“Sí.”

“On the jail roof,” I said.

“Sí.”

“I won’t tell you how to do your work,” Virgil said.

“We pull it off, he’ll have a lot fewer men than he thinks he’s got,” I said.

“Where’s the rest?” Virgil said.

“Jail,” Pony said.

“Right below Pony,” I said.

“With Callico?” Virgil said.

“Sí.”

Virgil studied the sketch in the dirt for a bit. Then he stood and remounted and rode to a spot just below the ridgeline. It was too dark to be seen, but Virgil was always careful. He sat and looked down at Appaloosa for a while.

“We get the first part cleaned up and settle in,” Virgil said. “Then just before dawn the horses go in.”

“Somebody gotta drive them,” I said.

“I’ll do that,” General Laird said.

“Good chance you don’t survive,” Virgil said.

“No need,” the general said. “I’m seventy-seven years old. My son is dead. I’m the one you can spare for this. No need to survive.”

Nobody said anything.

“I’ll stick here with him,” Teagarden said.

“Okay,” Virgil said. “Just before dawn. We pull this off and we’re all in place. You bring the horses in, bunched up together so they can’t really tell if there are riders. When they start shooting, you get down in the saddle and get the hell out of there.”

“Okay,” he said. “We may as well start. Who wants the Golden Palace?”

“I know the place,” Cato said. “I’ll take it.”

“Before you begin,” Laird said.

We waited.

“I am seventy-seven,” Laird said again. “All I have left in the world is my ranch. I was going to leave it to my son. But Virgil Cole killed my son. Because I was a powerful man, I told my son he was a powerful man. I was a soldier all my life. Power, I told him, comes from the muzzle of a gun. He took it to heart. Because I was powerful, my son thought he was powerful. Because I was powerful, people treated my son as if he were powerful. I thought he was. He thought he was. And it got him killed by Virgil Cole.”

Nobody spoke in the darkness. The horses stood quiet, waiting, the way they did.

“That is my fault,” Laird said. “Virgil Cole did what he had to do.”

We were still.

“Chauncey, I don’t want you to kill him,” Laird said.

“Hell, General, Callico probably gonna kill us both, anyway,” Chauncey said.

“I want you men to witness this,” Laird said. “My only connection to my son is through the man who killed him. And he’s a good man. If I die here, or when I die somewhere, I want Cole to have the ranch.”

“Virgil?” I said.

“Yes.”

“You understand what you’re doing?”

“Yes,” Laird said.

There was a moment more of silence.

Then Laird said, “And so does Virgil Cole.”

In the darkness, Virgil said, “I do.”

“We’re all witness,” I said.

“Then let’s get to it,” Virgil said. We all dismounted, took our spurs off, and began down the hill toward town. Being silent in the dark made it slow going.

My man was behind the Chinese laundry, barricaded behind some big wash cauldrons, with, in daylight, a clear line of sight at the open space in front of the jail.

I remembered moving in on a Comanche camp through a dark Texas night. The horses held by squad back from the scene, the troopers spread out on each side of me, the silence so pressing that you didn’t want to breathe. Except this time I was alone. I stashed the eight-gauge on the far wall of the laundry. It would be in my way for what I had to do now. But it would be very handy later.

I took the bowie knife from its scabbard. I don’t enjoy knives much, but there didn’t seem any other way. I went very slowly, feeling my way with the toe of my boot through the littered laundry lot. It took so long that I was afraid dawn would arrive before I got to him.

But it didn’t.

And I cut his throat soundlessly before he ever knew he was dead, and took his place behind the wash pots.

67

SO FAR NO NOISE. The silence was as thick as the darkness. I edged my way back to the side wall of the laundry and retrieved my eight-gauge. Then I inched back to my spot next to the dead man behind the laundry kettles. Somewhere off to my right, out a ways on the incipient prairie, some sort of night animal snuffled for a moment. Then, again, nothing. To my left, I knew, in Chester Hamlin’s Dry Goods were two of Callico’s riflemen. Across the street were two more on the roof of Rockenwagner’s Hardware.

I listened to my own breath going in and out softly. In the east the sky was less black. I heard the horses. In the first dim light of morning they came, bunched up tight together, little more than a dark, moving mass as they came up Main Street toward the jail. And paused. A shot exploded from the jailhouse, and one of the horses reared and screamed and went down. I waited, watching the muzzle flashes as Callico’s men opened up from their rooftops and storefronts. The jail doors opened, and the rest of Callico’s men poured into the street, shooting into the cluster of surging horses fanning out around them.

I felt bad about the horses.

From the roof of the jail, Pony Flores started shooting down into the crowd of policemen in the street below him. The rest of us, from our own storefronts and rooftops, began firing. Callico’s people were confused, then panicked. They didn’t know who was shooting or where it was coming from. On the roof of the dry goods store the two shooters stood up, looking to see what was happening. I picked one off with each barrel of the eight-gauge. It’s easy to hit things with an eight-gauge shotgun.

In front of me, the street was littered with struggling horses and fallen men. Thick smoke drifted over them. From somewhere, one of us picked off the two men on Rockenwagner’s roof. The sound of gunfire was steady. Some of the horses screamed. Some of the men screamed.

And then it stopped. The chaos was too much for Callico’s men. They broke and ran, and in barely a minute, the street in front of the jail was empty of fighting. It wasn’t silent. Too many men and animals were hurt. But there was no gunfire, and it seemed almost still because of it.

It was daylight.

Virgil Cole walked out of the alley near the bank, and in his almost stately way walked down to the jail. In the middle of the wounded horses and men, he paused and squatted down. With the eight-gauge loaded, I walked out and joined him. He was sitting on his heels beside Chauncey Teagarden, who was sprawled protectively over the body of General Laird, with both Colts still in his hand.

“Couldn’t get him down in time,” Chauncey said, and sat up, and rolled back on his heels and stood. “Not sure he wanted to.”

He put both of his fancy handguns back into their holsters.

“You did what you could,” Virgil said.

Chauncey nodded.

“I did,” he said.

Pony came down from the jail’s roof and stood with us. Cato and Rose appeared. There was a thin line of blood on Rose’s cheek, as if a bullet had kicked up a splinter.

He looked around at the street.

“Damn,” he said. “We’re good.”

Virgil walked to the open door of the jail.

“Callico,” he said.

From inside Amos Callico said, “I’m not shooting with you, Cole.”

“Come out here,” Virgil said.

“I’m not shooting,” Callico said. “My hands are empty.”

He came through the door with a gun in his hand and got off one shot at Virgil before Virgil killed him.

Callico had a clean shot from a short distance, and he missed. I have always thought it was because he was shooting at the great Virgil Cole.

“Blue-Eyed Devil,” Pony said, “not speak from heart.”

“Sometimes they don’t,” Virgil said.

68

VIRGIL AND I sat alone on his porch in the thick darkness, drinking corn whiskey.

“Think the general wanted to die?” I said.

“Don’t think he cared,” Virgil said.

“Whatcha gonna do with that ranch?” I said.

“Give it to Pony and Laurel,” Virgil said.

“The whole fucking ranch?” I said.

“I ain’t no rancher,” Virgil said.

“And you think Pony is?”

“Chance to find out,” Virgil said.

“What if you give it to him and he loses it?” I said.

“Be his to lose,” Virgil said.

“Laurel might help him keep it,” I said.

“Might,” Virgil said.

There was a lamp lit inside the house, and it was enough for us to see each other. Virgil drank some corn whiskey.

“Pony’s going down to Buffalo Springs tomorrow to get her,” I said.

“Allie, too,” Virgil said.

“Think Allie’ll want the ranch?” I said.

“Sure,” Virgil said.

“But she won’t get it.”

“No,” Virgil said.

I poured a little whiskey from the jug. Above us there was still no moon, but the clouds had moved away and there were stars. I looked at them for a while.

“Couldn’t be with Allie,” I said, “could you? If you paid too much attention to what she wanted.”

“Allie wants everything,” Virgil said.

“Be jumping around like a grasshopper,” I said. “In July.”

“Would,” Virgil said.

“She’ll get over it,” I said.

“She will,” Virgil said.

Virgil sipped some more whiskey. I liked whiskey. I didn’t like how it tasted. But I liked the way it made me feel, unless I drank too much. Virgil, on the other hand, never seemed to feel different when he drank whiskey. It was as if he just liked the taste.

We didn’t want to sleep. A big gunfight is exhausting. Even if it’s short. And we were exhausted. But we didn’t want to let it all go yet. So we sat in the starry darkness with each other and the whiskey.

“Wonder if that stallion’s still up in the hills with his mares,” Virgil said.

“The Appaloosa?”

“Yeah.”

“Suppose he is,” I said.

“Strutting around stiff-legged with his tail up and his ears back.”

“If you come near the mares,” I said.

“Think he loves them mares?” Virgil said.

“They’re his,” I said.

“Likes to fuck ’em,” Virgil said.

“Sure,” I said.

“Think that’s all of it?” Virgil said.

I shrugged.

“They’re his,” I said.

Virgil nodded silently. He poured some whiskey, took a sip, then held the glass up and looked through the clear whiskey for a time at the lamplight from the parlor.

“So,” I said. “We ain’t gonna be ranchers.”

“Nope.”

“Don’t see no future to the barroom protection service,”lay I said. “Now that Callico’s gone.”

“Nope.”

“So, what do we do now?” I said.

“Figure the town might need couple of experienced lawmen,” Virgil said.

“Since we shot up the previous,” I said.

“Yep.”

“And we know how to do that,” I said.

“We do,” Virgil said.

“So, we sit tight,” I said. “See what develops.”

“Be my plan,” Virgil said.

He stood and carried his whiskey to the far corner of the porch and looked into the darkness.

“Remember the general talking ’bout power coming from the end of a gun?” Virgil said.

“Yep. Taught his kid that. I guess he wished he hadn’t,” I said.

Virgil was silent. Far out on the prairie, a coyote barked. Then silence.

“Thing is,” Virgil said. “He was right.”

“Depends on who’s holding the gun, don’t it?” I said.

“S’pose is does,” Virgil said.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Appaloosa

Resolution

Brimstone

Blue-Eyed Devil