THE PAY was regular at the Boston House, and the work was easy. Most people in Appaloosa had heard of Virgil Cole.

When things were slow, Virgil and I would drink coffee with the whores in the back of the room, or lean on the bar and talk with the bartenders. When the place was busy we’d move through the room, making sure nobody was heeled and, occasionally, soothing a belligerent.

I was up front one evening, talking with Willis, when one of the whores yelled for Virgil. I looked. A man in a fancy frock coat had hold of the whore’s arm and was trying to drag her out of her chair. Virgil walked over. I picked up my eight-gauge and strolled up to where I could watch Virgil’s back.

The whore’s name was Emma Scarlet. She was a pleasant whore, and I liked her.

“I’m not going with you,” she said.

“You’re selling your ass,” he said, “and my money’s as good as anybody’s.”

“You don’t like to fuck,” Emma said to the man in the frock coat. “You like to hurt people.”

“You can let her arm be,” Virgil said to the man in the frock coat.

“Who the fuck are you?” the man said.

He was tall and slim with long, blond hair and a white shirt buttoned to the neck. I didn’t see a gun.

“Virgil Cole,” Virgil said.

“What makes this your business,” the man said.

“I’m not going to fuck with this,” Virgil said. “You let her go, or I’ll kill you.”

The man let go of the whore’s arm and took a step back, as if Virgil had pushed him.

“Kill me?”

“That’s better,” Virgil said.

“Kill me?” the man said. “Over a fucking whore in a saloon?”

“Got trouble with this whore, find another one,” Virgil said.

“Some other place,” Emma said. “Nobody here’s gonna let him do anything.”

Virgil nodded.

“Any of you ladies care to do business with this gentleman?” Virgil said.

No one said anything. Several of the whores shook their heads.

“Guess not,” Virgil said to the man. “Try down the street.”

“You’re kicking me out?” the man said. “Because the whores don’t like me?”

“I am,” Virgil said, and stepped aside to let him pass.

“You got no idea who I am, do you?”

“I don’t,” Virgil said, and nodded toward the door.

“My name’s Nicholas Laird,” he said. “That mean anything to you?”

“Means none of these ladies want your business,” Virgil said.

He took hold of Laird’s right arm with his left hand. Laird tried to shake it off and couldn’t.

“We’ll walk to the door,” Virgil said.

“You’re heeled,” Laird said. “And I’m not. And you got the shotgun over there.”

“Bad odds,” Virgil said.

“Next time you see me,” Laird said, “odds are gonna be different.”

Virgil’s face changed slightly. No one else probably could tell. But I knew he was smiling.

“Maybe not,” Virgil said.

WE WERE DRINKING coffee at the bar with Willis

McDonough.

“Would you really have shot him?” Willis asked.

“Certain,” Virgil said.

“She’s a whore,” Willis said.

“She is,” Virgil said. “But she ain’t a slave.”

Willis nodded and looked like he didn’t get it, but he didn’t need to.

“Well, you bit a pretty big end off the plug,” Willis said. “His old man is General Horatio Laird. Took over Bragg’s place after”-Willis looked at me-“after he, ah, died. Bought that Scots bull, too.”

“Black angus,” I said.

“Yeah,” Willis said. “Them, and the cows, and made a killing with ’em. People back east was eatin’ them fast as Laird could slaughter the steers.”

“Rich man?” I said.

“Damn straight,” Willis said.

“What’s the ‘general’ for.”

“Confederate army.”

“Still hanging on to it,” I said.

“Proud of it,” Willis said. “Proud of a lot of things. But the kid ain’t one of them.”

“Nicholas,” Virgil said.

“The general must have done some bad stuff in his life, ’cause Nicholas is a big punishment,” Willis said.

Virgil didn’t seem to be listening. He scanned the room aimlessly. But I knew he heard everything. Just like he saw everything.

“Wild?” I said.

“Thinks he’s a gun hand,” Willis said. “Tell me he practices an hour every day with a Colt.”

“Ever shoot at live targets?” Virgil said.

“Heard he might,” Willis said. “ ’Specially he got some folks behind him.”

“Folks,” Virgil said.

“General’s getting on,” Willis said. “He’s tryin’ to let the kid run things, so he’ll be ready when the general steps off the train. Kid has hired himself some second-rate riffraff up there worse than Bragg had.”

“Be some bad riffraff,” Virgil said. “They shooters?”

“Most of ’em couldn’t hit a bull in the ass with a shovel,” Willis said.

“Useless, too,” Virgil said.

IT WAS A DARK gray day, when Amos Callico came into the saloon, with four of his policemen. The four policemen all carried Winchesters.

“Like to sit with you boys for a minute,” Callico said.

We sat at a table up front near the bar. The four policemen ranged along the walls near us. The tables around us were empty. One of the bartenders brought a bottle and three glasses.

“Understand you hired on here,” Callico said.

He poured himself some whiskey and offered the bottle toward us. Virgil and I declined.

“That right?” Callico said.

“It is,” Virgil said.

“Bouncers,” Callico said.

“Correct,” Virgil said.

“Got you a big list of rules,” Callico said, and nodded without looking at the rules posted on the wall.

“We do,” Virgil said.

“Pretty much same rules you had for the town when you was marshal,” Callico said.

“Pretty much,” Virgil said.

“Just want to be sure you remember that you ain’t marshal now,” Callico said.

“I remember,” Virgil said.

Callico looked at me for the first time.

“You?” he said.

“I remember, too,” I said.

He looked at the eight-gauge leaning against the edge of the table.

“You haul that fucking blunderbuss around with you everywhere?” he said.

“I do,” I said.

“For God’s sake, why?” Callico said.

“Same reason you have your boys carry Winchesters in a saloon,” I said. “Folks get the idea you’re serious.”

Callico looked at me without expression for a moment. Then he turned back to Virgil.

“Why do you suppose Speck hired you?” Callico said.

“Keep order,” Virgil said.

“I’m the one keeps order in Appaloosa,” Callico said.

“Well, that’s by-God comforting,” Virgil said. “We run into trouble we’ll be sure to holler for you.”

“You should have hollered for me already,” Callico said. Virgil looked at me.

“You know any reason we should have hollered for the police?” Virgil said.

“Nope.”

“You threw Nicky Laird out of here, couple days ago, for a damn whore.”

“Several damn whores,” Virgil said.

“He’s a highly regarded citizen of this town, and his father is a close personal friend of mine.”

“Nice,” Virgil said.

“You embarrassed him in public,” Callico said.

“Man embarrassed himself,” Virgil said.

“Boys,” Callico said, and poured himself more whiskey. “This is exactly why I don’t want no vigilante law enforcing going on. There’s a distinguished citizen being insulted by some whores and you side with the whores.”

He stopped, drank some of his whiskey, and shook his head slowly.

“You boys know the county sheriff’s chief deputy,” Callico said.

“Stringer,” Virgil said.

Callico nodded.

“He was in town picking up a prisoner. Got a lot of regard for you boys.”

“Stringer’s a good man,” Virgil said.

“And I got a high regard for you both. I know your reputation,” Callico said. “But you can’t run a town with two different sets of law.”