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.

WHEN WE COULD, Virgil liked to take the horses out and run them so’s to keep their wind good. On Sunday morning, while Allie and Laurel were in church, we were in the hills back of Bragg’s old spread, which was now the Lazy L.

The Appaloosa stallion was still there with his mares. He looked at us, stiff-legged, as we sat our horses on the west flank of a hill. He tossed his head.

“Smells the geldings,” I said.

“Stallions don’t like geldings,” Virgil said.

“Wonder why?” I said. “Ain’t no competition.”

“Maybe he don’t know that,” Virgil said.

“But you and I both seen a stallion attack a gelding without no mares around. Gelding minding his own business.”

“Maybe the stud just don’t like the idea of geldings,” Virgil said.

“Can’t say I’m all that fond of it myself,” I said.

“Probably don’t smell like a mare,” Virgil said. “And don’t smell like a stallion, and he don’t know what it is.”

“Creatures don’t seem to like things they don’t know what it is,” I said.

The stallion moved nervously around his herd of mares. Head up, tail up, ears forward. One of the mares was cropping grass a few feet away, separate from the herd. The stallion nipped her on the flank, and she closed with the other mares.

“Stays right around here,” Virgil said.

“Why you suppose he keeps them here?” I said. “Lotta herds drift.”

“Good grass,” Virgil said. “Water, lotta shelter in the winter.”

“Not much competition, I’d guess.”

“I dunno, see a couple new scars on him,” Virgil said. “One on his neck there, and one on his left shoulder.”

“Could be wolves,” I said.

“Looks like horse to me,” Virgil said.

“Ain’t seen no other wild horses around here,” I said.

“Maybe somebody rides a stud,” Virgil said. “And it wandered.”

“Lotta work being a stud,” I said.

“It is,” Virgil said.

“Gets a lot of humping,” I said.

“Wonder if it’s worth it,” Virgil said.

“He keeps at it,” I said.

Another mare strayed, and the stallion dashed around the herd with his head low and his neck out flat, and drove her back.

“Worth it to him, I guess,” Virgil said.

THE FUNERAL for Nicky Laird was held on Monday morning. Virgil and I watched the procession from the window of Café Paris, where we were eating fried salt pork and biscuits and all four of the eggs the Chinaman had that day.

The Appaloosa police force in full uniform marched behind the hearse, and Chief Callico sat in the black funeral carriage with a starchy-looking old man who was probably General Laird.

“Callico appears to be a friend of the family,” I said.

“Seems so,” Virgil said.

There was a sturdy-looking Mexican woman in the carriage, too. She was crying.

“Not the mother,” I said. “The general didn’t marry no Mexican.”

Virgil shook his head.

“Don’t see no mother,” Virgil said.

“Probably the housekeeper,” I said. “Maybe raised the boy.”

“Must be hard burying a child,” Virgil said.

“Must be,” I said.

“Got no children, so I guess we can’t know,” Virgil said.

“Got Laurel,” I said.

“Be hard burying Laurel,” Virgil said.

“Would,” I said.

We drank our coffee. The funeral proceeded past.

“You had to kill him, Virgil,” I said. “Don’t see what else you coulda done.”

Virgil nodded.

“Killing don’t bother me,” Virgil said. “Long as I follow the rules.”

“You gave him a choice,” I said.

“He’s got to know what he’s up against,” Virgil said. “He’s got to have a chance to walk away.”

“He knew who you were. He was looking for a fight. He coulda chosen not to fight,” I said.

“He could,” Virgil said.

“That one of the rules?” I said.

Virgil always seemed clear on the rules, but I never exactly knew how the rules got made.

“Sometimes,” Virgil said.

“How ’bout the five men had Laurel and her mother,” I said. “Didn’t give them no chance.”

“The rule there was save the women,” Virgil said.

“How ’bout if somebody shoots first,” I said.

Virgil grinned.

“Rule there is save your ass,” he said.

“So, the rules change,” I said.

“’Course they do,” Virgil said. “Ain’t no one rule for everything.”

I said, “Which means sometimes you have to make one up pretty quick.”

“Sometimes the fight makes the rules for you,” Virgil said. “And you only know afterwards that it was a rule at all.”

“You do have some ideas,” I said. “You reading books again?”

“Still reading this Emerson fella,” Virgil said. “Mostly it’s mush, but sometimes he says something.”

“Say much about gunfight rules?” I said.

“Ain’t touched on that, so far,” Virgil said.

“How ’bout that drummer you shot, the one run off with Allie?”

“I broke the rules,” Virgil said.

“You shot him ’cause you were mad,” I said.

“I did. He hadn’t broken no law.”

“And you were the law,” I said.

“Yep.”

“So, the law was the rule then,” I said.

“Yep.”

“But now we ain’t the law,” I said.

“Hell,” Virgil said. “We’re on the other side of the law in this town.”

“But there’s still rules,” I said.

“’Course there are,” Virgil said. “Don’t you got any rules, Everett?”

“Don’t think much about it,” I said. “Mostly I just follow yours.”

Virgil smiled slightly and looked at me silently for a while.

Then he said, “Good.”