“What kind of man ain’t afraid,” Whitfield said.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I been with Virgil Cole a long time, and I don’t know much of anything about him.”

“You ever afraid?”

“I am.”

“But you don’t run.”

“Not yet,” I said.

“I was all right with the drunks and the sodbusters,” Whitfield said. “But first time it got tough, I run.”

“And you’re afraid you’ll do it again,” I said.

A lone rider came around the corner from First Street at the far end of town and began to ride down Main Street. Tilda scuttled past us on her way to work, furtive as a small desert animal.

“I guess maybe I am,” Whitfield said. “I hope I don’t. I don’t want to live like that all the rest of my life.”

The lone rider came closer. He was smallish, with big hands and a thick, unsightly blond moustache. He was chewing tobacco. Now and then he would lean out in the saddle so as to spit and not get it on the horse. I recognized him. It was Bragg’s foreman. He stopped when he came opposite the marshal’s office and sat his horse and looked at us.

I nodded.

He didn’t respond.

I said, “Howdy, Vince.”

He didn’t say anything. He looked at me briefly, and at Whitfield for a long time. Then he surveyed the office and the street and the buildings on each side of the office.

I could hear Whitfield’s breathing.

Vince leaned out away from the horse and spit his chew into the street. Then he straightened, took a large plug out of his shirt pocket and a jackknife out of his pants pocket, and cut off a chunk and fed it off the knife blade into his mouth. He folded the plug back up in its paper, closed the jackknife, and put it back in his pants. He sat straight now in his saddle, both hands resting on the saddle horn, and chewed the fresh cut of tobacco until it felt right to him. Then, without a word, he turned the horse slowly and rode on down Main Street and turned out of sight onto First.

Beside me, I heard Whitfield exhale.

“Know him?” I said.

“No, but he’s a gun hand,” Whitfield said. “I ain’t seen ’em like you have. But I seen enough to know.”

“Yeah,” I said. “He’s a gun hand.”

“He with Bragg?” Whitfield said.

“Un-huh.”

Whitfield didn’t say anything else. We both sat quiet. But I could hear the breath go in and out of him, and I could hear him swallow.

21

I spent more time guarding Bragg and protecting Whitfield than Cole did. Cole was building a house, and he spent a lot of time at it while I minded the store. He and Allie had picked out a lot on the corner of First Street and Front Street, which put them at the very edge of town and would give them a back-window view of the easy upslope of the hills. It was raining one day when Cole came into the marshal’s office, his hat pulled down, the collar up on his slicker.

“Allie’s been chewin’ on me like a young dog,” Cole said. “I don’t spend enough time with her. All I do is be a marshal and sit around with you, minding prisoners. She says I care more about marshalin’ than her. That I ain’t even brung you down to see the house.”

“House ain’t finished, is it?” I said.

“Nope.”

“I was figuring to come down when it was,” I said.

“Go on down and take a look at it,” Cole said. “Calm Allie down a little. Tell her you like it.”

“It’s raining like hell,” I said.

“Go ahead,” Cole said. “I’ll mind the prisoners.”

“I ain’t a prisoner,” Whitfield said.

“No, a ’course you ain’t,” Cole said. “I wasn’t thinkin’. I’m sorry about sayin’ it.”

“Got a roof on it yet?” I said.

“Sure has,” Cole said. “Tight one, too. I got me a carpenter used to build boats in Rhode Island.”

“Long as I don’t get a soaking while I’m admiring the work,” I said.

“You go on down there,” Cole said. “Allie’s down there with an umbrella, planning the furniture.”

Cole sat at his desk with his coat and hat still on. I put on my hat and slicker and went out into the rain. I stayed on the boardwalk. The street was mud by now, probably deep above my ankles. Enough to suck the boot right off your foot. I was all right until I got to Front Street. Cole’s house was on the other side, and I had to drag through the mud to get across. At the building site, I mucked a few more yards to the house and stepped up onto the first-floor decking. Allie was there, with her skirts tucked up, wearing a pair of men’s boots that was much too big for her, and carrying an umbrella, still open, even under the in-place roof. Cole had been right. It didn’t leak.

“Everett,” she said. “Oh, my God, look at me.”

She bent over and untucked her skirt, letting it fall over the big, wet boots.

“You look fine to me, Allie.”

“I must look like a drowned cat,” she said. “My hair all wet, and these boots…”

“You always look good, Allie.”

“You’re too kind, Everett.”

“House is hurrying right along,” I said.

“Yes,” Allie said. “It’s going to be very grand. If Virgil ever bothers to come live in it.”

“Pretty sure he will,” I said.

“Don’t pay no attention to the house,” she said. “Hell, Everett. He don’t pay no attention to me. Just sits up there in the jail with his gun, being marshal.”

“Well,” I said. “Been sorta lively of late.”

“It’s his job,” Allie said. “It’s not his damn life.”

“Well,” I said, “show me around. I’ll tell him about it.”

She had, as we talked, moved closer to me. Now she took my hand and began to lead me around the various rooms that had been studded off.

“We’ll have our parlor here,” she said, “where we can look out and see who’s coming to call. And this will be the kitchen.”

There’s always something sort of dreamish about being sheltered on a rainy day. The rain drummed pleasantly on the roof. And, as it fell outside, it formed a kind of silvery curtain around the open sides of the unfinished building. There was coziness inside under the roof, even though there were no walls. Allie still held the hand with which she’d led me through the small framing. Her shoulder touched my arm.

“You think it will be nice, Everett?”

“It’ll be elegant,” I said.

She rubbed her cheek against my shoulder.

“Will you come often and visit us?”

“Every time I’m invited.”

“I can cook, you know,” Allie said.

She had put her hand on my back and was beginning to move it up and down my spine.

“I never thought you couldn’t,” I said.

She turned in toward me and put both arms around my waist. She looked up at me, and her eyes looked sort of dazed, as if she wasn’t focusing too well.

“Do you think I’m pretty?”

“Yes.”

I sounded hoarse. I felt as if my throat had closed up a little. She tightened her arms around my waist and pressed herself against me, arching her back a little to look up at me. The movement made her pelvis press against me, and caused me some excitement.

“Allie,” I said.

“I want you to kiss me, Everett.”

“Allie,” I said again. “I think we ought to stop here.”

She slid her hands up my back and behind my neck and pulled herself up on tiptoes and bent my head down toward her a little and kissed me hard with her mouth open. She smelled good. I kissed her back. Then I forced her away from me and held her there at arm’s length.

“I’m with Virgil,” I said. “And so are you.”

“Virgil’s not here,” she said. “Mostly, Virgil’s never here.”

She was trying to press back against me.

“Ain’t true, Allie,” I said. “But even if it was, we ain’t with each other. We’re both with him.”

She was silent; her face had turned white. She was pressing hard against my hands as I held her away.

“Allie,” I said. “For Christ’s sake, we’re right out in the open here.”