Blue-Eyed Devil

12

A SHORT, fat man with a goatee, wearing a flat-crowned black hat, came into the Boston House in the late afternoon with Lamar Speck. He and Speck located Virgil leaning on the bar.

“Virgil,” Speck said. “This is Buford Posner.”

Virgil nodded.

“I own the Golden Palace,” Posner said, “down the street, and there’s trouble there right now.”

“I suggested you and Everett,” Speck said.

He was speaking very fast.

“Whaddya need?” Virgil said to Posner.

“A group of cowboys are causing trouble in my place,” Posner said. “They’ve run off my lookout, and Lamar tells me you’ve been successful with this sort of thing in the past.”

“Why not the police?” Virgil said.

“Like Lamar, I am not on good terms with the police,” Posner said. “I will pay you, of course.”

“Be a favor to me, Virgil,” Speck said.

Virgil looked at me.

“Everett?”

“Why not,” I said.

“They say they are going to destroy my saloon,” Posner said.

“Then we better hurry,” Virgil said. “Everett, bring your eight-gauge.”

The Golden Palace wasn’t much on the outside, but inside it was a fancy, fussy little place with murals painted on the walls and ornate plaster moldings. There were eight cowboys in there, drinking whiskey from the bottle. A couple were sitting on the bar, the rest at a pair of tables. The spittoons had been tipped over. There was broken glass on the floor, and someone had shot holes, kind of strategically, in the mural of a wood nymph.

Behind us, Posner said, “My God,” and backed out the door. Virgil and I went in without him.

One of the cowboys looked at us as we pushed into the saloon and said, “Who the fuck are you?”

“Name’s Virgil Cole,” Virgil said. “Big fella with the siege gun is Everett Hitch.”

“Want a drink?” the cowboy said.

He was young, probably no more than twenty-five, and he wore a big Colt with a black handle in a low-cut holster tied down on his right thigh.

“No,” Virgil said. “We’d like you boys to leave.”

“Leave?” the young cowboy said.

I moved away from Virgil, so that I was close to the saloon wall on Virgil’s right. He moved left, against the bar.

“Correct,” Virgil said.

The young cowboy jumped down from the bar and faced Virgil.

“What happens if we don’t leave?” he said.

“We shoot some of you,” Virgil said.

I thumbed the hammers back on the eight-gauge. It was a touch of theater, the sound of the hammers snicking back. We’d done it a hundred times before. But I also knew that Virgil was ready to shoot. He didn’t seem to have changed position, but I knew that he was balanced, knees bent a little, shoulders relaxed. He looked steadily at the young cowboy. It was a hard look to meet. But the young cowboy had the wild eyes you see sometimes in bucking horses, and he held the look. I knew Virgil didn’t care if the kid held his look or not. Virgil was in the place he goes to when it might be time to shoot. Everything registered and nothing mattered.

“You gonna shoot all of us?” the kid said.

“Depends,” Virgil said.

“On what?” the kid said.

The other cowboys had gathered behind him. All of them were heeled.

“On what you all do,” Virgil said. “You pull on me and I’ll kill you.”

“All of us,” the kid said.

“You first,” Virgil said. “Everett will get some with the scatter gun. Then we’ll see.”

The kid looked around for a moment at the other cowboys.

“Wanna go at ’em?” he said.

Somebody behind him said, “Lazy L don’t back down from nobody.”

The kid nodded. He looked back at Virgil.

He was going to try it.

You do this enough you can sense it. I knew he was going to try. Virgil knew. We maybe both knew before the kid really did.

The kid’s shoulders twitched, and Virgil drew his gun and had the hammer back before the kid reached his holster. I had the eight-gauge at my shoulder. We were far enough apart so that they’d have to decide which of us to shoot at.

The kid froze with his fingertips on the black butt of his Colt.

“Jesus Christ,” the kid said.

“Might want to back down from this one,” Virgil said.

“How’d you do that?” the kid said.

“Done it before,” Virgil said.

“For crissake, you didn’t even move fast,” the kid said.

“Fast enough,” Virgil said.

The kid slowly moved his hand away from his gun.

“I’m really fast,” the kid said.

The tension had gone out of the room.

“Sure,” Virgil said.

“You coulda killed me easy,” the kid said.

“Sure,” Virgil said.

The kid started slowly toward the door. The other cowboys followed.

Virgil turned slowly as they moved. I did, too, with the shotgun still at my shoulder.

When they were gone, Virgil holstered his Colt. I lowered the eight-gauge.

“Lazy L,” I said. “Could be General Laird’s place.”

“Could be,” Virgil said.

“If it is,” I said, “they might be getting tired of us.”

“Might,” Virgil said.

“If they are,” I said, “I s’pose they’ll let us know.”

“Probably,” Virgil said.

He found a couple of unbroken glasses on the bar and poured us each a drink. We were sipping it when the saloon doors opened a crack and Posner looked in.

“Everybody’s gone?” he said.

“They are,” Virgil said. “Care for a drink?”