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.”
Appaloosa / Resolution / Brimstone / Blue-Eyed Devil Page 4
