He was quite the sport.

Win, who was sitting on a soft blue blanket watching me shoot, said, “You brought me up here to fire pistols?”

“Not entirely,” I said, and I came over and sat beside her on the blanket.

“You’re entering that shooting contest, aren’t you?”

“I am.” This was the first time I had admitted it to her.

“I figured as much. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Wanted it to be a surprise.”

“Isn’t much of one. It’s been as obvious as those ears on your head.”

“Not much gets by you.”

“We been together a short time, but I know you, and I think you know me.”

This was a lie. I never could completely figure Win out, and maybe that was the attraction, but I nodded because it seemed like the right and pleasant thing to do.

“You’re making big plans, and I must believe they include me,” she said.

“They do,” I said. “And Madame.”

I told her the whole thing, about Loving’s place down in East Texas, the money I hoped to collect.

“A white man left you all that?”

“He was a white man, a good man, like a second father,” I said, realizing I sounded like Bill; him talking about me being a credit to my race.

“I know precisely what you mean. Madame has been awfully good to me.”

Our talk didn’t go on too long before we were leaning in close, and my lips were touching hers. They trembled against mine like a struggling butterfly, and then they were soft and pressing.

She pulled me back on the blanket, said, “Show me how you can fire your own sweet pistol, but really take your time to aim and slowly pull the trigger.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said.

Later that day I went over to Mann’s No. 10, the saloon Bill liked to frequent and of course where I worked from time to time. It wasn’t much of a place—a shack, really, with a few boards hammered together to make a bar. I went there to draw my last pay for emptying the spittoons and hoped to find Bill at a card table. When I got there, Bill wasn’t in the room. There were three men at a table, and they eyed me the way you would a pile of buffalo chips on the floor. But no one said a thing to me, even though I came through the front door like a white man. They didn’t mind seeing me empty spittoons, but they weren’t crazy about me bellying up to the bar. I admit I was playing on Bill’s friendship there, because they knew me and him was friendly, but I could live with that. It gave me a chance to rub my black ass in their face.

I was standing near a spittoon I had emptied many times, talking to the bartender, Snuffy. He was a tall fellow in a dirty white shirt and striped pants. His hair was oiled down and parted in the middle.

“Where am I gonna get another nigger on short notice?” Snuffy said.

“You might try an Indian or a cripple,” I said. “Might even be a loose Mexican about, and I know there’s some Chinamen.”

“Ain’t the same, as you was the best spittoon emptier I ever had,” he said.

“Bullshit,” I said. “A blind bear could empty a spittoon if it took a mind to it and was willing to wear an apron.”

Snuffy studied on that a minute, perhaps trying to consider if a blind bear might be found around those parts—one that was willing to work, I mean.

“Ah, come on, Nat. You don’t need to quit.”

I had told him I was quitting but not that I was leaving Deadwood, and I kept it that way.

“Nope,” I said. “I’m done.”

Anyway, there I was taking the last of my back pay across the bar, and even ordering a sarsaparilla to irritate the men at the table, when Bill come strolling in. He was grinning when he saw me. He was dressed in blue pants and a leather jacket, had on a wide-brimmed, creamy white hat with a low crown. His revolvers was tucked in a wide red sash around his waist, near his hips, handles set forward so he could make with a cross-handed draw. Besides them two 1851 Navy pistols, he was carrying at the near center of his sash a Smith & Wesson Army .32 revolver with shiny bluing and rosewood grips. It wasn’t a gun he carried often; guess you could say it was his dress gun. His hair was combed out smooth and long, and his mustache had been waxed lightly. On his left hip he had a large bowie knife in a sheath dangling from under his sash, fastened most likely to a belt. He was all dressed up and had no place to go.

“Nat,” he said. “Let me stand you to a drink.”

“Thanks, Bill. You know I’m only for sarsaparilla.”

“That you are,” he said. “It’s a damn shameful girl’s drink, but if you must have it, dear sweetie, I will order it, and if I pay for three in a row, you have to lift your skirt for me.”

Bill, still grinning, leaned on the bar and propped his boot on the footrest beneath it. I could smell his breath, and it was stout as a mince pie; he had already been in the whiskey. He ordered us two swigs—me a refreshed sarsaparilla and him his usual poison, although from time to time he broke tradition and had a Champagne flip with fruit juice.

Snuffy, now that Bill had entered the room, was stepping lively, trying to look like he was the most pleasant, ass-kissing fellow on earth. He poured us a set. Me and Bill placed our backs against the bar, holding our drinks, looking over at the card table.

Bill was watching the game intently. He was a man who loved his gambling. He wasn’t near as good as some folks claimed, but he could play cards well enough to keep himself in whiskey and bullets, a steak now and again. I recognized the men at the table, including the owner of the place, Mr. Mann.

“Any minute now my shadow, Broken Nose, will come through that door,” Bill said. “He will most likely be snorting a little wind on account of when I first noticed he was trailing my scent I picked up my step. He will come in and act like he is my best friend that ever was.”

At just that moment, Jack did come in, blowing a little. He blinked a few times, seen Bill and me leaning against the bar, and came over. He stood in front of us, his bad eye wandering about in his head as if on a secret mission. He had on a ragged coat, a moth-eaten hat, and his boot heels had laid over on the sides due to wear.

Jack said, “Wild Bill, how are you, sir?”

“I am tight with life,” Bill said. “And how are you, Broken Nose?”

It seemed like an unnecessary insult, but Bill could be cruel.

“I am fine, sir.”

“Can I stand you to a drink?” Bill said.

“Well, sir, you have been most kind, and I could use one.”

There was something about Jack’s words that didn’t go with his tone or the look on his face. It was like he was trying to gleefully accept a turd and pretend it was a diamond.

“Pour this man a drink,” Bill said. “Some of the cheap stuff.”

“Yes, sir,” said the bartender. He brought out a bottle of whiskey, so watered you could see through it. He poured Jack a drink in a fly-specked glass. Jack took it and downed it. He brought out money of his own, said, “Give me another, and stand Wild Bill here, and even the nigger. Make it the good stuff.”

That went all over me, but Bill reached out and gently touched my arm. “Enjoy your drink, Nat.”

Bill picked up his glass when it was filled, said, “To the Union, and to the freedom of slaves. And to the snake that bit you. And may even drunkards, beggars, and cripples be saved by the all-merciful God. Unless they need killing.”

Jack’s hand trembled, but he dosed himself with his liquor, and Bill did the same. My glass had been filled with liquor this time, which I let be.

“Gentlemen,” Bill said, “and Jack, I am about to play cards.”

With that Bill moved away from us, over to the table. The chair available had its back to the entranceway, and Bill said to the man across the table, a fellow by the name of Charlie Rich, “Sir, would you change chairs with me? I have an aversion to sitting with my back to the door.”

“So do I,” said the man. It surprised me a little, as most folks were quick to give Bill his way. I remembered that table of men that night in the Gem, how they had given us their table so we could have a private talk. I didn’t know if Bill’s reputation was slipping or if Charlie Rich was just one of his constant card buddies, but it made me kind of proud of that fellow for standing up like that against the fastest and best shot there was.