The cowboys stared at Virgil and looked at the dead men in the street and at one another. Then they began, as a group, as if for mutual support, to drift on down toward the livery.

“Fella with the broken arm,” Virgil said. “There’s a doctor right next to the undertaker.”

Pike grinned.

“Convenient,” Pike said.

Virgil turned back to the men on the boardwalk.

“You all seen it the same way,” he said.

“We did,” J.D. said.

Kirby nodded. Virgil looked at Choctaw. Choctaw met his gaze silently.

“ ’ Course you did,” Virgil said.

The three men went back inside the Palace, leaving Virgil and Pike on the boardwalk. I came across the street and joined them.

“Good to see you, Everett,” Pike said.

I nodded. Everything was quiet. And except for us and the three dead men bleeding in the street, the town seemed empty.

“Pretty quiet night,” Pike said. “All things considered.”

“Pretty quick with that Colt,” I said.

“I am,” Pike said. “Good you come along when you done.”

“Yeah, you mighta shot ’em all,” I said.

“Mighta had to,” Pike said.

“Four gun hands against a bunch of drunks,” I said.

“Drunks with guns,” Pike said. “A lucky shot will kill you just as dead.”

I nodded.

“I got no problem killing people. No more than you fellas. Done it before. Probably do it again. But these boys pulled on me.”

“They did,” Virgil said. “You ain’t broke no law.”

“Good,” Pike said with a wide smile. “Musta been a long night for you boys. Have a drink on me?”

“No thanks,” Virgil said.

“Offer stands,” Pike said. “Good talking with you boys.” He turned and went back into the Palace.

“Don’t seem too upset,” I said to Virgil as we walked up toward the sheriff’s office.

“Nope,” Virgil said.

“Too bad we didn’t get here a little sooner,” I said.

“Too bad,” Virgil said.

We unlocked the sheriff’s office and went in. The two drunks were still asleep in their cells. I leaned the eight-gauge in the corner. Virgil sat and put his feet up on the desk.

“Choctaw,” Virgil said. “Wonder what Choctaw was doing there.”

THE SUN WAS SHINING. The streets were quiet. The town was back in rhythm. Brother Percival and his followers were holding forth outside of a saloon called The Silver Bullet. Virgil and I stood across the street watching. There were eight or ten of the faithful outside the saloon, and anytime someone wanted to go in or out, they had to push through the crowd of Percivalians and listen to warnings of eternal hellfire and lifelong shame. Leaning against the wall of the saloon, just behind the group, was Choctaw Brown.

“This is hell’s mouth,” Percival bellowed. “Inside this door, women give up their womanhood for money. Inside this door, men trade their manhood for whiskey. Inside this door begins the slippery, desperate slide to hell.”

The church members with him chanted, “Amen, brother.” And no one chanted it as loudly as Allie. Most of the men pushing in and out paid very little attention, looking at the ground as they eased through among the prayers of the vigilant. One man was jostled as he went through them, and, annoyed, shoved Brother Percival as he went past. Percival took hold of his shirt front and picked him up and threw him into the street.

“Do not put your hands on a man of God!” Brother Percival said.

It wasn’t a bellow. It was like the soft growl of a mountain lion. The man in the street gathered himself for a moment and then stood up and took a knife from his boot.

“You sonovabitch,” he said.

Virgil and I started across the street. Choctaw stepped away from the door and in front of Brother Percival. He didn’t draw his gun, but his hand hovered over it. He said nothing. The man with the knife looked at Choctaw, and past him at Percival.

“Choctaw,” Virgil said.

Choctaw nodded faintly.

“Hold the knife,” Virgil said.

The man with the knife stopped and looked back at Virgil.

“Aw,” the man with the knife said. “Fuck it.”

He turned and walked away down the street, with the knife still in his hand, dangling by his side as he went. Virgil was still looking at Choctaw. Choctaw had no expression as he looked back at Virgil.

“Virgil,” Allie said. “Everything’s fine now.”

She stepped away from the group and put her hands on Virgil’s chest and looked up at him.

“Everything’s fine,” she said. “Please.”

Virgil was looking past her at Choctaw. Then he nodded.

“Sure,” he said.

He turned away from her and walked down the street in the same direction that the man with the knife had gone.

“Keep your hands off the civilians,” I said to Brother Percival.

“I answer to God,” Percival said. “Not to you.”

“Long as you are in this town,” I said, “you answer to me and Virgil.”

Choctaw Brown grunted.

“Don’t blaspheme,” Brother Percival said.

“Please, Everett,” Allie said. “We’re only trying to help people save their souls. I’m trying to save my soul.”

I looked down at her. She had her hands flat on my chest now, looking up at me, just as she had looked up at Virgil.

“Perhaps you should consider your own soul,” Brother Percival said.

I grinned at him.

“Too late,” I said. “Right, Choctaw?”

Choctaw made a small derisive sound. No one else said anything. I patted Allie on the cheek and left. As I walked down Arrow Street I heard Allie leading her colleagues in singing a hymn I didn’t recognize. I didn’t know whether I failed to recognize it because it was not a hymn I knew or because they sang it so badly it was unrecognizable.

I walked a little faster.

THE DROVERS WERE GONE. The cattle had been shipped. There wasn’t all that much for me and Virgil to do except sit in a couple of chairs, tilted back against the wall, outside the office, and watch what passed before us. It was a hot morning, with a high sky and an occasional white cloud. Freight wagons moved slowly up Arrow Street. The railroad surrey shuttled between the hotel and the railroad station. Women and children went in and out of shops. A few men, starting early, went in and out of the saloons.

“What do you think ’bout Allie,” Virgil said.

“She’s looking good again,” I said. “Filled out nice.”

Virgil nodded, looking at the street.

“You see her at the house,” Virgil said. “Cooks our supper, serves it, won’t sit down herself.”

“Yep.”

“Cleans up afterwards,” Virgil said. “Don’t say nothing.”

“True,” I said.

“Does the wash, irons, cleans…”

“I know,” I said.

“Like last night, she’s serving supper, and I say to her, ‘Why don’t you sit down and join us, Allie?’ And she don’t.”

“I know,” I said. “I was there, too.”

“When she ain’t cleaning and sewing and fucking up my shirts, and cooking bad,” Virgil said, “she’s reading the Bible, or she’s in church, or she’s sashaying down to the saloons to save souls with Brother Percival.”

“I know.”

“She was outside the Paiute Club yesterday evening, telling everybody she had defilled herself for money.”

“Defiled,” I said.

“Defiled.”

“Virgil,” I said. “Why you telling me all this. I know all this.”

“I ain’t telling you nothing,” Virgil said. “I’m discussing it with you.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Why don’t she settle down,” Virgil said. “Be like she used to be.”

“Maybe she don’t want to be like she used to be,” I said.

“Well, no,” Virgil said. “Maybe not the bad parts. But…” He shook his head. “You know, she used to be a lotta fun.”

“Sometimes,” I said. “You and she doing anything in bed?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to,” Virgil said.

“Ever?”