“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.”
28.
Wolfson’s army was sleeping in his hotel, eating in his dining room, and drinking in his saloon. Except for Cato and Rose, who stayed in town upstairs at the Excelsior, O’Malley’s forces were domiciled at the mine. They didn’t have anything to do until the fight started, so they spent a lot of time in the New Excelsior. From across the street, O’Malley’s army didn’t look like much of an improvement on ours.
“Be a kindness to the world,” Virgil said, “to let them fight to the death.”
“Wouldn’t be a loss,” I said.
We were sitting on the front porch of the hotel, with our feet up on the rail.
“So,” Virgil said. “Wolfson’s got his army and O’Malley’s got his army. What happens now?”
“I don’t think they know,” I said. “Either one of them.”
“And the sodbusters?” Virgil said.
“They say they’re backing O’Malley.”
“That mean,” Virgil said, “they’re buckling up, riding on in?”
“Don’t know,” I said. “Don’t think they know.”
“They can’t keep paying these people to sit around and get drunk,” Virgil said. “Somebody going to have to do something.”
“I know.”
“Sodbusters were smart, they’d stay out of it until they see who wins,” Virgil said.
“They ain’t smart,” I said.
“Neither is anybody else,” Virgil said.
The Chinese cook came out of the hotel carrying biscuits and coffee on a tray. He put the tray down on the floor between us and went back in. I poured us some coffee.
“Chink ever say anything?” Virgil said.
“No,” I said.
“Does what he does, and keep his mouth shut,” Virgil said.
“He does,” I said.
“He’s smart,” Virgil said.
Across the street, Cato and Rose came out of the New Excelsior and sat down on its porch. Rose pretended to shoot us with his forefinger. Cato simply looked at us. I nodded at them.
“Why do you suppose they’re in town?” I said.
“Keep their troops from trashing the saloon,” Virgil said.
I nodded.
“It’s a problem,” I said.
Henry Boyle came walking up the street from the livery stable and turned into the saloon. He didn’t look at us as he passed.
“Speaking of problems,” I said.
“I embarrassed him at the can shoot.”
“You were trying to warn him,” I said.
Virgil shrugged.
“Now he gotta prove something,” Virgil said. “To me, to himself, to his friends. Maybe all of that.”
“Could be we’ll have to kill him,” I said.
“Probably will,” Virgil said.
We drank coffee. The cook had sweetened it already.
“Maybe we should fold it up here, Virgil,” I said. “And go to Texas.”
He shook his head.
“Why?” I said. “What do you care. You’re just helping me out.”
Virgil shook his head again. I looked at him for a moment.
“You want to see it through,” I said.
“Might as well,” he said.
I looked at him some more.
“You’re figuring yourself out,” I said.
Virgil shrugged.
'Instead of enforcing the law,” I said, “you’re helping out your friend.”
“Might be,” he said.
“Rules of friendship instead of the rules of law.”
“I guess,” Virgil said.
“You slick sonovabitch,” I said. “You’re using this fight to see what you are when you’re not a lawman.”
“Useful to know,” Virgil said.
“And after that,” I said, “we’ll go to Texas.”
“Sure,” Virgil said.
He looked at me for a long moment. Then he said, “Friendship’s real.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I know.”
“Wouldn’t work if it wasn’t,” Virgil said.
I nodded.
“Know that, too,” I said.
29.
Between engagements, Billie liked to stand by the street door and keep an eye out for clients. It was early in the evening, still light outside, and Billie at the door, when there were a couple of shots fired in the street.
“Everett,” Billie shouted. “There’s trouble outside.”
“Not my problem,” I said.
“No, but you might want to watch,” she said. “Fancy Guns Boyle just put a couple bullets through the front window at the Excelsior.”
“My goodness,” I said, and got down from my chair and walked over and stood.
In the street was Henry Boyle, obviously drunk, with four more of our army, also obviously drunk. He was waving his gun at the saloon.
“Fuck the Excelsior,” Boyle hollered. “Fuck O’Malley and the Excelsior.”
He had some trouble saying “Excelsior.” While he was struggling with it, Frank Rose came out of the Excelsior, and Cato Tillson behind him. Rose moved right a few steps, Cato left.
“You doing the shooting?” Rose said.
“You bet your ass,” Boyle said. “Me, Henry Hackworth Boyle.”
Rose looked amused, and without taking his eyes off Boyle, he said to Cato, “Hackworth.”
Cato nodded.
