Appaloosa

13

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.”

“What he did was crazy,” Olson said.

“Virgil is crazy. You think a man ain’t crazy will make his living as a gun hand? You ever been in a gunfight?”

Olson didn’t say anything.

“You ever?” I said again.

“No.”

“Gun’s right there looking at you, hammer’s back. You see the snouts of the bullets peeking out of the cylinder like reptiles in a hole. Most people can’t stand up to that. Most people start to feel their intestines loosen. Virgil don’t. Virgil been doing that for years, and he ain’t never backed down, and he ain’t never run, and he ain’t never lost,” I said. “Because he’s a little crazy. And crazy is what it takes.”

“Don’t give him the right to go around busting up innocent people,” Olson said.

“No,” I said. “It don’t. And mostly, innocent people don’t get busted up. And if they do, every once in a while, it’s because of who Virgil Cole is, and what he is, and you hired him to be Virgil Cole. You hired the craziness.”

Olson was silent for a time, thinking about what I said. I kept looking at the tin ceiling.

“You’re not crazy,” Olson said finally.

“Maybe, maybe not,” I said. “But whatever I am, I ain’t Virgil Cole.”

“But you been working with him for years. I saw you shoot that man, Bragg’s man, in the bar.”

“I ain’t Virgil,” I said. “I’m his helper.”

“And that makes a difference?” Olson said.

“All the difference,” I said.

“But,” Olson said. “Cole works for us. I feel we have the right to tell him when he’s done something wrong.”

“You got the right,” I said.

“But you think we shouldn’t.”

“I think you shouldn’t.”

“What would happen?” Olson said.

He wasn’t combative. He seemed more curious than anything.

“Make Virgil peevish,” I said.

“What would he do.”

“Hard to be sure,” I said. “But making Virgil peevish is never good.”

“But I can talk to you about it.”

“I tole you. I ain’t Virgil.”

“You’re his helper.”

“I am.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Olson said.

“No,” I said. “I’m not sure you do, either.”