EVERY COUPLE OF HOURS, more often at night, Virgil or I toured the saloons we were hired to protect. The one not touring would be in place in front of the Boston House in case there was trouble and someone sent for us. On a pleasant evening, with a lot of starlight, I was on tour. As I came out of the Sweet Water Saloon, Tilda, the Boston House waitress, came running.
“Trouble,” she said. “Come fast.”
“Boston House?” I said.
“Yes.”
I went up Main Street at a run, carrying the eight-gauge.
In the Boston House, Virgil was in the doorway that led to the hotel lobby. He was leaning his left shoulder against the jamb. Standing across the room, with a half dozen of his ranch hands behind him, Nicky Laird was drunk. So were the hands.
“Sign says no guns,” Nicky said to Virgil.
“Does,” Virgil said.
“We got guns.”
“Yeah, you do,” Virgil said.
“Gonna try to do something ’bout that?” Nicky said.
“Have to ask you to leave,” Virgil said.
“We ain’t goin’,” Nicky said.
“Then I have to disarm you.”
“All seven of us?” Nicky said.
“Yep.”
“Even if you got a round under the hammer,” Nicky said. “You only got six.”
“Three choices,” Virgil said. “You leave, you take off the guns, or you pull on me. Anybody pulls on me, I kill you, too.”
Behind Nicky I thumbed both hammers back on the eight-gauge. It was a loud sound in the quiet room. Several patrons silently moved out of the line of fire.
Nicky glanced back at me.
“Your back-shooting friend,” he said to Virgil.
Virgil didn’t answer.
“Don’t change nothing,” Nicky said.
Virgil nodded gently. His shoulders were relaxed. He seemed almost a little bored.
“The Laird name gets respect,” Nicky said. “And if it don’t, somebody pays hell for it.”
“No reason it has to be you,” Virgil said.
“Man’s right,” one of the hands said. “The general won’t like this.”
“Fuck the general,” Nicky said. “I run things.”
“You’re a boy,” Virgil said. “And you’re drunk. I’ll take no pride in killing you.”
“Fuck you, too,” Nicky said, and went for his gun.
Virgil shot him and a man on either side of him before anyone cleared leather. Everyone else froze. I didn’t even have to shoot.
Someone said, “Jesus!”
“You boys leave the saloon,” Virgil said, “and take them three with you.”
The four men did as they were told. No one looked at Virgil or me. I let the hammers down on the eight-gauge. Virgil carefully took the spent shells from his Colt and fed in three fresh ones.
“Kid had choices,” Virgil said.
“Had three,” I said.
“Took the wrong one,” Virgil said.
“Kinda thought he would,” I said.
“Drunk,” Virgil said.
“And young,” I said.
“Too young,” Virgil said.
“Maybe,” I said. “But old enough to kill you, if you let him.”
“’Fraid so,” Virgil said.