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.
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.”