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other stuff. You don’t have to do what you do. You been to the United States Military Academy. How come you just do gun work.”
    “Me and Virgil,” I said. “We’re good at it. Hell, Virgil may be the best there is at it.”
    “And you like that.”
    “It’s pleasing,” I said. “To be good at what you do.”
    “You like killing folks,” Emma said.
    I thought about that for a while.
    “Not so much killing,” I said. “But when we do it, and, Virgil would say, do it right, it’s like we say, This is us; this is who we are; this is what we do.”
    “And you like that.”
    “Guess we do,” I said.
    “You think I’m good at what I do?” Emma said.
    “Best in history,” I said.
    “Want me to do it again?”
    “One’s all I can afford,” I said.
    Emma rolled over on top of me.
    “On the house,” she said.

26
    N ICKY LAIRD had been dead for three weeks. I was in the Golden Palace explaining to a very drunk mule skinner why he couldn’t buy more whiskey on credit. He was kind of stubborn about it, so I hit him in the stomach with the butt of the eight-gauge and threw him off the front steps into Third Street.
    I came back into the saloon, and a man came in behind me. He was wearing a beaded buckskin shirt, an ivory-handled Colt on his hip, and a derby hat tilted forward over the bridge of his nose. He looked like somebody from a wild west show, except, somehow, I knew he wasn’t.
    “Nicely done,” the man said to me.
    He had black-and-white striped pants tucked into high black boots, and his skin was smooth and kind of pale, like a woman’s. He didn’t look like he spent much time outside. His hands were pale, too, with long fingers.
    “No guns,” I said, “allowed in the saloon.”
    “Oh,” he said. “Of course. Perhaps we could step out onto the veranda.”
    First time I ever heard it called a veranda. But we stepped out onto it anyway.
    “No wasted movement,” he said when we were outside.
    “Thanks,” I said.
    “Nice long gun, too,” the man said. “Eight-gauge?”
    “Yep.”
    “Makes a big hole,” the man said.
    “Does,” I said.
    “You work here?” he said.
    “Here and there,” I said.
    “I’m looking for a fella named Virgil Cole,” the man said. “Might you be he?”
    “Nope,” I said. “Name’s Everett Hitch.”
    “Chauncey Teagarden,” he said. “You’re with Cole, are you not?”
    He didn’t offer to shake hands. I didn’t, either.
    “I am,” I said.
    “Know where to find him?”
    “I do,” I said. “Why do you want to see him?”
    “Heard so much about him,” Teagarden said.
    I nodded. We were both quiet.
    “Seems to me,” I said after a short time, “that I’ve heard some ’bout you.”
    “All good, I hope.”
    “Heard you did gun work,” I said.
    “Some.”
    “What brings you to Appaloosa?” I said.
    “Just drifting,” he said.
    “Planning on staying?” I said.
    “Don’t expect to be here long,” Teagarden said.
    “Planning on any work while you’re here?” Teagarden smiled.
    “See if any comes my way,” he said. “I’d surely like to meet Virgil Cole.”
    “Probably sitting in front of the Boston House,” I said. “I’ll walk up with you.”
    “’Preciate it,” Teagarden said.

27
    W E LEFT the Golden Palace and turned up Main Street. Virgil was sitting where we sat, in front of the Boston House. He stood as we came toward him. There was nothing sudden in the movement. He was seated. Then he wasn’t. I’d never seen Virgil hurry, except that everything he did, he seemed to do it before anyone else.
    “Virgil Cole?” Teagarden said.
    “Yep.”
    “Chauncey Teagarden.”
    Virgil nodded. Neither man put his hand out.
    “You was up in Telford,” Virgil said.
    “Indeed,” Teagarden said.
    “Osage County War,” Virgil said.
    Teagarden nodded.
    “Pleasure,” Teagarden said.
    “Likewise,” Virgil said.
    Since they had come in sight, each had looked exclusively at the other.
    “Not doing law work,”