“And him,” Whitfield said, and nodded at Bragg.

“He ain’t pleasant,” Cole said. “But he can’t do you no harm.”

“What if his men come back?”

“They won’t come back,” Cole said.

People believed Cole when he talked. He was always clear on what he knew. He never claimed anything he didn’t know, and he always meant what he said.

“Could I maybe stay in the hotel?”

Cole shook his head.

“That splits us up,” he said. “Means one of us got to go with you and the other one got to stay here with Bragg.”

“But if they won’t come back?”

“Maybe somebody else,” Cole said.

“You think they’ll send somebody?”

“Don’t matter what I think. You ever hear of this fella Clausewitz?”

“Who?”

“Clausewitz, German fella, wrote a book about war. This Clausewitz says you got to prepare for what your enemy can do, not what you think he might do.”

“Clausewitz?”

“What I’m saying is splitting our forces ain’t to our advantage.”

“You been reading Clausewitz on war?” I said.

“Certainly. You ever read it?”

“I read it at West Point,” I said.

“Good book,” Cole said.

I nodded. Whitfield looked lost.

“Virgil,” I said, “you are a surprising man.”

25

Judge Elias Callison came to town on an early-evening train with his law clerk and four sheriff’s deputies. And after they got settled into the Boston House, the law clerk, whose name was Eaton, and the lead deputy, fella named Stringer, came down to the marshal’s office to talk with Cole. Stringer had a deputy’s star on his shirt and wore a long-barreled Colt butt-forward on the left.

“That him?” Stringer said.

“That’s Bragg,” Cole said.

Stringer went to the cell and looked in.

“Tall,” Stringer said.

“Fella in the other cell is Whitfield, the witness.”

“How come he’s in jail?”

“Fears for his life,” Cole said. “So me ’n Everett here are lookin’ after him until we finish with Bragg.”

Stringer nodded slowly. He was a tall, thin man with a big moustache and the sort of leatherish look of a man who had spent a lot of time in the saddle. Whitfield’s cell door was ajar, and Whitfield was sitting on his bunk, reading his Bible, his lips moving slowly as he puzzled it out. Stringer left Bragg and looked in at him.

“You gonna testify?” Stringer asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“If he don’t die a’ fright first,” Bragg said from his cell.

“I’ll testify,” Whitfield said.

Stringer nodded.

“I know you will,” he said.

“Bragg got a lawyer?” Eaton asked.

“Nope.”

“He needs a lawyer,” Eaton said.

He was short and plump with a round face. He didn’t look like he rode horses much.

“Surely does,” Cole said.

“No, I mean we ain’t going to just ride over here and convict him,” Eaton said. “Judge Callison’s a real bear on the law. Got to be a fair trial. He’s got to have a lawyer, and there’s got to be evidence.”

Cole stared at him as if he’d never heard such a thing in his life, which wasn’t true. He probably knew more about trials than Eaton did.

“Hear that, Bragg,” Cole said. “You gotta get you a lawyer.”

“I don’t know no lawyers,” Bragg said.

“There’s a justice of the peace,” I said. “Name of Mueller. Over in Little Springs. I can ride over there, see if he’ll do it.”

“I ain’t paying no damn lawyer to help you hang me,” Bragg said.

“What do we do about that?” I said to Eaton.

“County’ll pay for it,” Eaton said.

“I ain’t talking to no fucking lawyer,” Bragg said.

“Doesn’t matter, Mr. Bragg,” Eaton said. “County’ll give you one. Up to you if you talk or listen.”

“Whyn’t you ride on over there,” Cole said to me.

“We’ll help with Bragg and Whitfield,” Stringer said. “Sooner that JP gets here, the sooner we have the trial. And the sooner I take him down to Yaqui Prison and watch him hanged.”

“You know what he done,” Cole said.

Stringer nodded.

“I know what he done.”

26

I brought Mueller back from Little Springs, and Judge Callison set a trial date in one week, so counsel could prepare a defense. The judge also ordered the deputies to take charge of the prisoner until then. Since there wasn’t no place to take charge of him except where he was, the deputies sort of moved into the marshal’s office, so Cole and me spent more of our time sitting around in the Boston House in the saloon, or watching them doing the finish work on Cole’s house.

We were drinking coffee in the saloon one morning when I saw Cole sit up a little straighter and drop one hand lightly into his lap near his gun’s butt. I looked where he was looking and saw two men who looked like each other leaning on the bar. One of them nodded at Cole. He nodded back. The other one grinned.

“You know them?” I said.

“Shelton brothers,” Cole said.

“Can’t say I know them.”

“ ’Fore you was doing this work,” Cole said.

“They troublesome?” I said.

“Yes.”

“They ain’t packing,” I said. “That I can see.”

“You’ll know when they’re packing,” Cole said.

“Good?”

“Excellent,” Cole said.

“Good as you and me?”

“Might be,” Cole said. “Don’t know that they ain’t.”

“One of ’em shoot better than the other?”

“Can’t say. Ring’s the older brother, on the right. Other one’s name is Mackie.”

“Do look alike,” I said.

“They are alike. And they’re close. Never seen nobody closer. See one, you see ’em both.”

“Fight one?” I said.

Cole nodded.

“Fight ’em both,” he said.

“They do law work?” I said.

“They do gun work,” Cole said.

“So what would they be doing here?”

“Might have something to do with Bragg.”

I looked at the Shelton brothers for a while. Ring had taken his hat off when he had come in, and set it on the bar. He didn’t have much hair, except for a kind of long fringe that looked like it was turning gray. He had a thick neck and longish arms and sloping shoulders that looked strong but not all that wide. His legs were bowed some, and it made him shorter than he might have been otherwise. Mackie had his hat still on. He was taller than Ring, and his legs were straighter. The hair that showed under his hat was sort of reddish. But he had the same thick neck and long arms. There was a bottle of whiskey on the bar between them, and each of them had a glass. Ring picked up the bottle, and he and Mackie came to the table.

“Virgil,” Ring said.

“Ring.”

“You remember my brother,” Ring said.

Virgil nodded.

“Mackie.”

Mackie said, “Virgil.”

“This here is Everett Hitch,” Virgil said.

We all nodded.

“Can we set?” Ring said.

Virgil gestured toward the empty chairs. Ring put the whiskey bottle on the table, and the Shelton brothers sat down.

“Want a taste?” Ring said.

Virgil shook his head and tapped the marshal star on his shirt.

“Still doin’ that,” Ring said.

Virgil nodded.

“Well, we ain’t,” Ring said.

He poured some whiskey into Mackie’s glass and some into his own. He sipped some of his and smiled.

“Good,” he said. “Think it’s corn.”

He looked at me.

“You as good as Virgil with a gun?” he said.

“Never been tested,” I said.

“I hear you been with him for a while.”

“I have.”

“So you seen him work; what would you guess, you and him was to go at it?”

“Never seen no one better than Virgil,” I said.

“But you ain’t saying you’re not as good.”

“I ain’t discussing it, the truth be told,” I said. “How ’bout you?”

“Like you,” Ring said. “Never seen no one better.”