Blue-Eyed Devil

68

VIRGIL AND I sat alone on his porch in the thick darkness, drinking corn whiskey.

“Think the general wanted to die?” I said.

“Don’t think he cared,” Virgil said.

“Whatcha gonna do with that ranch?” I said.

“Give it to Pony and Laurel,” Virgil said.

“The whole fucking ranch?” I said.

“I ain’t no rancher,” Virgil said.

“And you think Pony is?”

“Chance to find out,” Virgil said.

“What if you give it to him and he loses it?” I said.

“Be his to lose,” Virgil said.

“Laurel might help him keep it,” I said.

“Might,” Virgil said.

There was a lamp lit inside the house, and it was enough for us to see each other. Virgil drank some corn whiskey.

“Pony’s going down to Buffalo Springs tomorrow to get her,” I said.

“Allie, too,” Virgil said.

“Think Allie’ll want the ranch?” I said.

“Sure,” Virgil said.

“But she won’t get it.”

“No,” Virgil said.

I poured a little whiskey from the jug. Above us there was still no moon, but the clouds had moved away and there were stars. I looked at them for a while.

“Couldn’t be with Allie,” I said, “could you? If you paid too much attention to what she wanted.”

“Allie wants everything,” Virgil said.

“Be jumping around like a grasshopper,” I said. “In July.”

“Would,” Virgil said.

“She’ll get over it,” I said.

“She will,” Virgil said.

Virgil sipped some more whiskey. I liked whiskey. I didn’t like how it tasted. But I liked the way it made me feel, unless I drank too much. Virgil, on the other hand, never seemed to feel different when he drank whiskey. It was as if he just liked the taste.

We didn’t want to sleep. A big gunfight is exhausting. Even if it’s short. And we were exhausted. But we didn’t want to let it all go yet. So we sat in the starry darkness with each other and the whiskey.

“Wonder if that stallion’s still up in the hills with his mares,” Virgil said.

“The Appaloosa?”

“Yeah.”

“Suppose he is,” I said.

“Strutting around stiff-legged with his tail up and his ears back.”

“If you come near the mares,” I said.

“Think he loves them mares?” Virgil said.

“They’re his,” I said.

“Likes to fuck ’em,” Virgil said.

“Sure,” I said.

“Think that’s all of it?” Virgil said.

I shrugged.

“They’re his,” I said.

Virgil nodded silently. He poured some whiskey, took a sip, then held the glass up and looked through the clear whiskey for a time at the lamplight from the parlor.

“So,” I said. “We ain’t gonna be ranchers.”

“Nope.”

“Don’t see no future to the barroom protection service,”lay I said. “Now that Callico’s gone.”

“Nope.”

“So, what do we do now?” I said.

“Figure the town might need couple of experienced lawmen,” Virgil said.

“Since we shot up the previous,” I said.

“Yep.”

“And we know how to do that,” I said.

“We do,” Virgil said.

“So, we sit tight,” I said. “See what develops.”

“Be my plan,” Virgil said.

He stood and carried his whiskey to the far corner of the porch and looked into the darkness.

“Remember the general talking ’bout power coming from the end of a gun?” Virgil said.

“Yep. Taught his kid that. I guess he wished he hadn’t,” I said.

Virgil was silent. Far out on the prairie, a coyote barked. Then silence.

“Thing is,” Virgil said. “He was right.”

“Depends on who’s holding the gun, don’t it?” I said.

“S’pose is does,” Virgil said.