“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.”
&
nbsp; “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.”
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