“Loudmouthed bastard,” he said and walked out of the bar.
The room stayed silent. I went back and sat down at the table with Allison. Her face was flushed, but her breathing, too, had slowed.
“My God,” she said.
“Virgil gets fractious when he’s annoyed,” I said.
“But he let you pull him away.”
“Part of my duties.”
“He’ll let you do that?”
“He wants me to,” I said.
“They didn’t do anything,” Allison said. “They were just drinking beer and having a good time. Why did he get so mad at the fat man?”
“He was mad at you,” I said.
I was keeping company with a clean, dark-haired young whore named Katie Goode, who was a quarter Kiowa, a quarter Mex, and half some sort of travelin’ Yankee. She and two other girls had a small house at the north end of town where they lived and conducted business. Katie had just finished conducting it with me, and we were lying in her bed in the back room.
“I heard the marshal almost killed Tub Gillis yesterday,” Katie said.
“Hit him a lot,” I said.
“I heard he done it for no reason,” Katie said.
“He had his reasons,” I said.
“I heard Tub wasn’t doin’ nothin’ but drinking some beer with Bertie Frye.”
“Virgil was annoyed,” I said.
“At Tub?”
“Mrs. French was raggin’ him a little,” I said.
“Her,” Katie said.
“Her?”
“You heard me. You think she’s such a sweet thing,” Katie said. “All you men. Girls know better. She should move up to the north end with the rest of us.”
“You think she’s a whore?”
“She’s wiggling her sweet ass for money just like the rest of us.”
“Except you,” I said. “With me.”
“Of course, Everett.”
“How do you know about Mrs. French?”
“I go in there. She sees me, she looks like she’s looking at a bug. But I see the way she is. She’s looking to get those hooks of hers into some man. Might be Marshal Cole.”
“He’s taken with her,” I said.
“How about you, Everett? Are you taken with her?”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” I said.
“Not a good idea what?”
“To be taken with her,” I said.
“ ’Cause of Marshal Cole?”
“Nope.”
“So you don’t think she’s such a prize cow, either, do you,” Katie said.
“I don’t know about her,” I said. “But I wish Virgil weren’t quite so taken up with her. “
“She have a husband?”
“She says so. Says he died.”
“Probably fucked him to death, be my guess,” Katie said.
“Not a bad way to go,” I said.
“You like the way she plays the piano?”
“No.”
“Me neither.”
“I don’t want you sayin’ nothing to Virgil about this,” I said.
“I don’t talk to him. I’m scared of him.”
“Yes,” I said. “Virgil can be a touch intimidatin’. And I don’t think he’s had as much experience with women as I have. But he’s got the right to fall for any woman he wants.”
“You got a lot of experience with women, Everett?”
“From Fort Worth to Cheyenne,” I said. “I got more notches on my pecker than a handsaw.”
“Well, you learned one thing good,” Katie said.
“I hope so.”
“You can do it again, for free,” Katie said, “if you want to.”
“I believe I do,” I said.
“Then go right ahead, Everett.”
“I believe I will.”
The teamster had a room at a place on Front Street, behind the livery. He was in his drawers when I went in, lying on an unmade bed against the wall. The room was hot. There was some air coming through the open window, but the air was hot, too. His face was badly swollen. One eye was shut up tight. The bruising had begun to darken all over him. When I came in, he sat up stiffly on the bed. His torso was bruised. I put a bottle of whiskey on the table in front of the window.
“Somethin’ to sip on,” I said. “Kill the pain.”
“Whatcha want?” he said.
His voice was strained through his swollen mouth. It was hard for him to speak. The one eye he could see out of looked frightened. It’s easy to be frightened when you’re hurt.
“Just want to see how you’re holdin’ up,” I said. “Bring you the bottle.”
The teamster opened the bottle and drank from the neck. He flinched when the whiskey went in. His mouth was probably cut up inside. And he shuddered when he swallowed. But as soon as he got the swallow down, he took another drink.
“How come he done that?” he said.
“Virgil was mad,” I said. “You was there.”
“I wasn’t doing nothin’.”
“Doctor seen you?” I said.
“Says my nose is broke.”
“Pack it with lint?”
“Ya. How come the marshal done that?”
“No accountin’ for things, sometimes,” I said. “Virgil says to tell you he’s very sorry ’bout it. Asked me to give you some money, pay the doctor, maybe buy some more whiskey.”
I put some money on the table next to the bottle. The teamster squinted at it.
“He shouldn’t a done that,” the teamster mumbled. “He gimme no warning.”
“Coulda been worse. Coulda shot you.”
“He shouldn’t a.”
“He knows that,” I said. “Why he sent me over.”
“Why didn’ he come?”
“Virgil don’t do things like that,” I said.
“He don’?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“He’s Virgil Cole,” I said.
The teamster nodded, and it hurt, and he stopped and took another pull on the bottle.
“Whiskey might help,” he said. “Can you get me ’nother bottle?”
“I will,” I said. “You need any food?”
“Jesus, no,” the teamster said.
“Anything else?”
“No. Yes. Whiskey.”
He drank some more.
“Help?” I said.
“Maybe,” he said. “Maybe help.”
“I’ll go get you another bottle,” I said. “And I’ll stop now and then, see how you are.”
“Thanks.”
“You rest up. When you can eat, I’ll bring you something.”
“Thanks.”
“Marshal and me are both real sorry,” I said, “that this happened.”
“Me, too,” the teamster said.
I was in the marshal’s office on First Street when Phil Olson came in. It was a hot day, and Olson’s pink face was damp.
“Cole around?” he said.
“Walkin’ the town,” I said.
“We need to talk.”
“Talk to me,” I said.
“Really should be him,” Olson said. “It’s about that teamster he busted up.”
“Might be better you talked with me about that,” I said. “Virgil can get grouchy sometimes when he done something he wishes he hadn’t.”
“You think he wishes he hadn’t?”
“He does,” I said.
“What happened?” Olson said.
“Virgil was kind of riled,” I said. “Teamster was a handy target.”
“He wasn’t even riled at Mr. Gillis?”
“That his name?”
“Yes. His employer came and spoke to me about it.”
“I been to visit him.” I said.
“Mr. Gillis?”
“Yes.”
“How is he?”
“Lotta swelling,” I said. “He’ll recover.”
“My God. Is he going to sue us?”
“Us?”
“The town. Mr. Cole is a town employee. Mr. Gillis’s employer said he was going to advise him to sue the town.”
“I’m not so sure he can do that,” I said. “When Judge Callison comes around, you oughta ask him.”
“Well, whether he can or not,” Olson said, “we can’t have our law officers beating people half to death for no good reason.”
I leaned back in my chair and shifted my hips a little so my gun wouldn’t dig into my side, and put my feet up on the desk and looked up at the tan-painted pressed-tin ceiling for a time without saying anything while I collected my thoughts.
“Thing is,” I said, “you got to see Virgil from all sides, so to speak. Takes a certain kind of man to be Virgil Cole. You hire him to do your gun work for you because you ain’t that kind of man. No need feelin’ bad about it. Most people ain’t that kind of man. But Virgil is, and what makes him that kind of man can’t always just be lit up and blowed out like a candle.”
