Resolution

15.

Virgil Cole arrived just after sunset on a Monday. He walked into the saloon, a tall man in a dark coat and white shirt wearing a big bone-handled Colt.

He walked to the chair where I was sitting and said, “Evenin’, Everett.”

“Virgil.”

“Thought I might drink some whiskey,” he said. “You care to climb down from there and join me?”

“I do,” I said.

Virgil ordered a bottle.

“Patrick,” I said. “The stuff that Wolfson drinks.”

Patrick nodded. Virgil and I sat at a table, and Patrick brought us a bottle and two glasses. Virgil poured.

“Go easy,” I said. “Might have to shoot somebody.”

“Always a happenstance,” Virgil said.

“Heard you left Appaloosa,” I said.

“I did,” Virgil said.

Wolfson came into the saloon and walked straight to our table.

“Virgil Cole?” he said.

Virgil nodded once.

“I’m Amos Wolfson. I own the place.”

Virgil nodded again.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Wolfson said. “I’m very proud to meet you.”

“How do you do?” Virgil said.

Virgil didn’t offer to shake hands. He never shook hands. No reason to let somebody get hold of you, he said to me once.

“What brings you to Resolution?” Wolfson said.

“Come to drink a little whiskey with Everett,” Virgil said.

Wolfson nodded.

“Bottle’s on me,” Wolfson said. “And if you’re interested in a job, I’d be pleased to offer you one.”

Virgil nodded briefly.

“Sure thing,” he said. “Right now I’m just going to drink a little whiskey with Everett.”

“Sure,” Wolfson said, “you bet. Everett, take your time, any trouble one of the bartenders will give a yell.”

I nodded.

“Hope to talk with you soon again, Mr. Cole,” Wolfson said.

“Thanks for the whiskey,” Virgil said.

Wolfson left the table.

“Hard man to look in the eye,” Virgil said.

I smiled.

“True,” I said.

“Why’s he want to hire me?” Virgil said.

“Not exactly sure,” I said. “Seems to feel there’s trouble coming. Maybe with a fella named Eamon O’Malley, runs a copper mine back a ways in the hills.”

“That why he hired you?” Virgil said.

“I don’t know, I was looking for work. Maybe he just needed a lookout. Maybe he was planning ahead.”

Virgil splashed a little more whiskey in his glass. He held the bottle. I shook my head. He nodded.

“Had any trouble?”

“Had to shoot a local gunny named Wickman,” I said. “Worked for O’Malley.”

Virgil nodded.

“Anything come of that?” he said.

“Nope.”

“Any law here?”

“Not really,” I said. “I’m told the sheriff sends a line rider down here every few months. I ain’t seen any.”

“O’Malley replace the fella you shot?”

“Cato and Rose,” I said.

Virgil sat back in his chair a little.

“My, my,” he said.

“My thought exactly,” I said.

“You talk with them?”

“Yep.”

“Anything come of it?”

“Nope.”

Virgil appeared to suck on one of his front teeth for a moment.

“Cato and Rose,” he said.

“My, my,” I said.

We drank a little more whiskey together.

Then Virgil said, “What time’s breakfast.”

“Kitchen opens up at five-thirty,” I said.

“Been a long ride,” he said. “I’ll turn in.”

“See you in the morning,” I said.

Virgil nodded and took the bottle and headed out the side entrance of the saloon and into the hotel. I knew he had things to say. But he wasn’t ready to say them yet.