Resolution

19.

I’m having a drink with Eamon O’Malley this afternoon, ” Wolfson said to me. “Two o’clock. I’d just as soon you were there.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Bring the eight-gauge,” Wolfson said.

“Sure,” I said.

The eight-gauge and I were in the lookout chair by quarter to two. The saloon was nearly empty. Couple of teamsters who had already unloaded and had time to kill until they were reloaded. A rancher whose wife was probably running up a bill at the Blackfoot Emporium. Three lumberjacks who weren’t working for whatever reason they had. Wolfson came in through the hotel entrance and went to a table in the front of the saloon two tables from me. He saw me and nodded slightly. There was no one else near us. Patrick brought him a bottle and two glasses.

At two on the hour, Eamon O’Malley came in through the street entrance and walked straight to Wolfson. He didn’t have an eight-gauge. But he did have Cato and Rose walking in behind him. Eamon sat down with Wolfson. Cato and Rose leaned on the bar. Rose winked at me. Cato looked at me without expression.

“Amos,” Eamon said.

Wolfson nodded.

“Eamon,” he said, and gestured toward a chair.

O’Malley sat across from Wolfson.

“Whiskey?” Wolfson said.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Eamon said.

He picked up the bottle.

“By God,” he said, “Bushmills.”

“In your honor,” Wolfson said.

Eamon poured a full glass.

“Ain’t seen whiskey like this since I was in Cheyenne,” he said.

“Been saving it,” Wolfson said.

He poured a splash for himself.

It was like watching two stallions pretending they didn’t want the mares.

Eamon drank some whiskey and smiled.

“Long time,” he said, “long time since Ireland.”

He looked around the saloon.

“Nice little business you got here, Amos,” he said.

“It’s a living,” Wolfson said.

“Damn good one, if I’m any judge,” Eamon said.

“Ain’t no copper mine,” Wolfson said.

Eamon drank some more whiskey.

“Ahh,” he said. “Mining’s all overhead until it peters out. This place… people keep coming. Town grows, you grow. You got the saloon, the store, the hotel, the bank. Wasn’t for me and Fritzie, you’d own the whole place.”

“I’d own a lotta headaches,” Wolfson said.

Eamon finished his whiskey and poured some more. Wolfson took another very small sip of his.

“Well, you know, that’s funny,” Eamon said, “funny you should say that. ’Cause I’m here to talk with you about selling to me. You make a nice profit, you don’t have any more headaches. You’re free to go where you want, do what you want.”

Wolfson stared at him.

“You want to buy me out?” he said.

“Yes,” Eamon said. “Fair offer.”

“Everything?” Wolfson said.

“Saloon, store, hotel, bank, cattle brokerage, everything.” Wolfson stared at him some more.

After a while Eamon said, “Fair offer, Amos.”

Still, Wolfson looked at him.

Finally, Wolfson said, “And if I decline the offer?”

Eamon drank some whiskey and glanced over at Cato and Rose.

“Then we’d probably have to insist,” Eamon said.

As quiet as I could, I pulled back both hammers on the eight-gauge. Cato and Rose both heard it. Rose smiled faintly.

“We?” Wolfson said.

Eamon rolled his head to include Cato and Rose.

“Me and some of my friends,” he said.

I don’t know how. He didn’t make any noise. But all of us became aware suddenly that Virgil Cole was standing in the doorway from the hotel. He was motionless, leaning his left shoulder against the doorjamb. Cato Tillson shifted slightly at the bar so as to face Virgil. Rose stayed where he was, looking at me.

“Well, bucko,” Eamon said, “who’s this?”

It was Cato who answered.

“That’s Virgil Cole,” Cato said.

The atmosphere in the room had changed. The way it does sometimes before a storm. The uninvolved bystanders in the saloon looked up nervously. Virgil neither moved nor spoke.

Eamon was a little drunk now, which always seemed to me a bad way to do business.

“Well, Virgil Cole be damned,” he said. “You want to hear my offer, Amos?”

Wolfson picked up the glass of whiskey and drained it and put the glass down carefully in front of him. He looked at Eamon for a moment without speaking.

Then he said, speaking carefully, “Fuck you, O’Malley.”

Eamon’s hands were resting on the tabletop. He looked down at them as if they were something new and interesting.

Without looking up, he said, “You don’t even want to hear my offer?”

“Fuck you,” Wolfson said.

“Onetime offer, Amos,” Eamon said.

Wolfson didn’t say anything. O’Malley turned and looked over his shoulder at Cato and Rose. He shook his head slightly. Rose looked at me and grinned, and barely shrugged his shoulders. Then O’Malley stood.

“More than one way to skin a cat, Amos,” he said.

“Fuck you,” Wolfson said.

Eamon nodded thoughtfully for a moment, then he turned and walked out the front door of the saloon, with Cato and Rose behind him.