“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 s
aid.
“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 mar
e 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.”
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