As we got closer, I could see Pike standing on the boardwalk in front of the Palace.
“Ah, but I do, my friend,” Pike said.
J.D. and Kirby stood on the boardwalk with him. All three wore Colts.
“You broke Charlie’s arm,” the cowboy said.
“I did,” Pike said. “Keep yammering at me, I might break yours.”
The door to the Palace opened and a fourth man came out wearing a gun.
“Choctaw,” Virgil said to me.
He quickened his pace.
“He wasn’t doin’ anything,” the cowboy said.
“He was messing up my saloon,” Pike said. “I don’t tolerate anybody messing up my saloon.”
“Well,” the cowboy said, “we don’t tolerate nobody hurting our friend.”
The man’s voice had risen. I could hear the whiskey in it.
But we weren’t close enough.
“Well, then, my friend,” Pike said. “You best make your move.”
Virgil yelled, “Hold it.”
But it was too late. The cowboy fumbled at his gun and a couple of men beside him did the same. Pike shot three of them before they got anywhere near clearing their holsters. One bullet each. The rest of the cowboys froze. J.D. and Kirby and Choctaw had their guns out but didn’t shoot.
“Fast,” I said.
“And eager,” Virgil said.
Then he raised his voice.
“Everything stops,” he said.
We were close enough now. The men stood poised and motionless, as if posing for a photograph.
Then Pike smiled and said, “Virgil.”
I veered off across the street with the eight-gauge and stood behind the cowboys. Virgil stepped up onto the boardwalk.
“Seen you coming up the street,” Pike said. “Glad you’re here.”
“You can put it away now,” Virgil said.
Pike smiled some more.
“Glad to,” he said.
He opened the cylinder of his Colt, ejected the three spent shells, added three fresh ones from his coat pocket, closed the cylinder, and slid the Colt softly into its holster.
“You saw him pull on me,” Pike said.
“I did,” Virgil said.
“And those other boys,” Pike said.
“Yep.”
“They pulled on me, too,” Pike said cheerfully.
“And you shot three drunks,” Virgil said.
“That made it easier,” Pike said.
The cowboys had gathered silently around the three dead men. None of them knew what to do.
“They’re dead,” Virgil said to the cowboys. “There’s an undertaker down past the livery corral on Second Street. One of you go roust him out. Tell him I want him up here.”
The cowboys stared at Virgil and looked at the dead men in the street and at one another. Then they began, as a group, as if for mutual support, to drift on down toward the livery.
“Fella with the broken arm,” Virgil said. “There’s a doctor right next to the undertaker.”
Pike grinned.
“Convenient,” Pike said.
Virgil turned back to the men on the boardwalk.
“You all seen it the same way,” he said.
“We did,” J.D. said.
Kirby nodded. Virgil looked at Choctaw. Choctaw met his gaze silently.
“ ’ Course you did,” Virgil said.
The three men went back inside the Palace, leaving Virgil and Pike on the boardwalk. I came across the street and joined them.
“Good to see you, Everett,” Pike said.
I nodded. Everything was quiet. And except for us and the three dead men bleeding in the street, the town seemed empty.
“Pretty quiet night,” Pike said. “All things considered.”
“Pretty quick with that Colt,” I said.
“I am,” Pike said. “Good you come along when you done.”
“Yeah, you mighta shot ’em all,” I said.
“Mighta had to,” Pike said.
“Four gun hands against a bunch of drunks,” I said.
“Drunks with guns,” Pike said. “A lucky shot will kill you just as dead.”
I nodded.
“I got no problem killing people. No more than you fellas. Done it before. Probably do it again. But these boys pulled on me.”
“They did,” Virgil said. “You ain’t broke no law.”
“Good,” Pike said with a wide smile. “Musta been a long night for you boys. Have a drink on me?”
“No thanks,” Virgil said.
“Offer stands,” Pike said. “Good talking with you boys.” He turned and went back into the Palace.
“Don’t seem too upset,” I said to Virgil as we walked up toward the sheriff’s office.
“Nope,” Virgil said.
“Too bad we didn’t get here a little sooner,” I said.
“Too bad,” Virgil said.
We unlocked the sheriff’s office and went in. The two drunks were still asleep in their cells. I leaned the eight-gauge in the corner. Virgil sat and put his feet up on the desk.
“Choctaw,” Virgil said. “Wonder what Choctaw was doing there.”
22
THE SUN WAS SHINING. The streets were quiet. The town was back in rhythm. Brother Percival and his followers were holding forth outside of a saloon called The Silver Bullet. Virgil and I stood across the street watching. There were eight or ten of the faithful outside the saloon, and anytime someone wanted to go in or out, they had to push through the crowd of Percivalians and listen to warnings of eternal hellfire and lifelong shame. Leaning against the wall of the saloon, just behind the group, was Choctaw Brown.
“This is hell’s mouth,” Percival bellowed. “Inside this door, women give up their womanhood for money. Inside this door, men trade their manhood for whiskey. Inside this door begins the slippery, desperate slide to hell.”
The church members with him chanted, “Amen, brother.” And no one chanted it as loudly as Allie. Most of the men pushing in and out paid very little attention, looking at the ground as they eased through among the prayers of the vigilant. One man was jostled as he went through them, and, annoyed, shoved Brother Percival as he went past. Percival took hold of his shirt front and picked him up and threw him into the street.
“Do not put your hands on a man of God!” Brother Percival said.
It wasn’t a bellow. It was like the soft growl of a mountain lion. The man in the street gathered himself for a moment and then stood up and took a knife from his boot.
“You sonovabitch,” he said.
