“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 Cafe 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.
