Robert Parker - Resolution

Rose looked over at the Blackfoot Saloon and saw us and smiled and made a thumbs-up gesture. I nodded. Then he went back up onto the porch, and he and Cato went back into the Excelsior.

“Too bad,” Virgil said to me. “Somebody’s gonna have to kill him. Woulda been convenient if it was them.”

Her last client had left, and Billie’s evening was over. She sat with me and Virgil in the back of the Blackfoot and drank some whiskey thinned with water.

“How come that fool did that,” Billie said.

“Henry Boyle?” I said.

“Yes. How come he tried to go up against Cato and Rose.”

“Drunk,” I said.

Virgil shook his head.

“Scared,” he said.

“Scared and drunk,” I said.

Virgil nodded.

“Probably a connection,” he said.

"But if he was sacred,” Billie said, “why did he start trouble?”

“Seen a lot of kids like that,” Virgil said. “Killed some. They grow up scared and they think if they had a gun maybe they wouldn’t be scared. So they get a gun and they half learn to use it, and maybe they shoot a couple of drunks more scared than they are, and they think they are gunmen. They ain’t. What they are is still scared.”

“If I could shoot like you,” Billie said, “either one of you, I would never be scared of nothin’.”

Virgil grinned.

“I wasn’t scared ’fore I ever had a gun,” he said.

It startled me. Not the business about being scared and not scared. I understood that. It was just that I couldn’t imagine Virgil without a gun. As long as I’d known him, Virgil had been exactly what he was. Which was Virgil Cole. I couldn’t imagine him as anything else.

“I bet I’d feel a lot safer with a gun,” Billie said.

“And you’d have reason to,” Virgil said. “But you ain’t brave without a gun, you ain’t brave.”

“But Henry Boyle don’t know that,” I said to Billie. “You make a living doing gun work, you got to accept the possibility somebody gonna shoot you dead.”

“No matter how good you are?” Billie said.

“No matter how good,” I said.

Billie nodded.

“So you have to be brave anyway,” she said.

Virgil and I both nodded.

“Or at least calm,” Virgil said. “Calm’s probably better than quick, and scared don’t make you calm.”

“Henry can shoot a lot better than most,” I said. “’Cause most can’t shoot at all. But it’s not enough for him. Unless he can be the best, he has no peace of mind.”

“And he’s not the best,” Billie said.

“Nowhere near,” I said. “And if he ain’t the best, then he ain’t safe. Somebody might kill him.”

“He got embarrassed at target practice the other day. So he got drunk and went off on Frank Rose and Cato Tillson. It coulda got him killed. But instead it got him humiliated again. Now he’ll have to do something else, ’cause he can’t stand feeling the way he does.”

“Why?” Billie said.

“Don’t know,” Virgil said.

“Most of the people start trouble like that are scared,” I said. “Wickman was scared.”

“It’s funny, you know? If you boys are right, then the way you know a guy’s not scared is if he don’t start trouble. And the way you know he is is if he does.”

“Some truth to it,” Virgil said. “You know what you can do, and you know that you’re willing to do it, and you don’t have to show anybody anything. It’s kind of calming.”

“I don’t know, though,” Billie said. “I’m scared. I get humiliated. I don’t start a lot of trouble.”

“Maybe you ain’t as scared as you think,” Virgil said.

“And you ain’t a man,” I said.

“I wasn’t sure you knew that,” Billie said.

"Being a man in these parts can pressure you some,” Virgil said.

Virgil sat alone near the back of the saloon sipping a beer, looking at nothing, and seeing everything, the way he did. Wolfson was eating supper at the bar. He seemed in a hurry to finish. After he finished his supper, Wolfson strolled over to me in the lookout chair.

“Want you to be sure and stay close tonight,” he said. “Cole, too.”

“Can’t speak for Virgil, but I’ll be here.”

“Which means he’ll be here, too,” Wolfson said. “Maybe you could speak to him when we’re through talking here.”

I nodded and said, “You expecting trouble?”

Wolfson smiled and leaned closer to me.

“Sent some boys out to O’Malley’s to hit him tonight,” Wolfson said, “when he ain’t ready for it.”

“And Cato and Rose are at the Excelsior,” I said.

“Yep.”

“And you kept me and Virgil here?” I said.

“Case it doesn’t work, I’ll need protection.”

“What are the boys planning on doing when they get there?” I said.

“Killin’ every last soul,” Wolfson said.

“Who’s leadin’ ’em?”

“Boyle,” Wolfson said.

I didn’t say anything.

“He’s perfect for the job,” Wolfson said. “Couldn’t wait.”

“Bet he couldn’t,” I said.

“I mean, ain’t every man ready to go out and kill twenty people for no reason ’cept I told him,” Wolfson said.

“Probably a good thing,” I said.

“Oh… yeah,” Wolfson said. “Sure. Boyle’s a fucking lizard. But when you’re at war with a bunch of fucking lizards, fella like him is handy.”

“You know Cato Tillson backed him down on the street the other night,” I said.

“Heard about that,” Wolfson said. “Boyle claims he was too drunk to see, let alone fight.”

I nodded.

“Probably so,” I said.

“Okay, stay close,” Wolfson said. “Might have some high celebrating later on.”

“What about the miners?” I said.

“A few could get hurt, I suppose,” Wolfson said. “Can’t be helped if they do. We’re in a fucking war, you know.”

“Right,” I said.

“I’ll be here in the saloon, until the boys come back,” Wolfson said. “Speak to Cole. I want you and him watching me tight.”

“Sure,” I said.

Wolfson gestured to Patrick, who handed him a bottle and a glass. Wolfson took it and sat near the bar at a table where I could see him.

Wasn’t a bad plan, if you don’t mind back-shooting twenty men, who would probably have back-shot you first if they’d thought of it before you did. If it worked, it would end Wolfson’s troubles right then, and leave him in charge of the town with twenty gun hands to back him.

I climbed down from the chair, took the eight-gauge with me, and went to talk with Virgil.

Henry Boyle came into the Blackfoot about an hour later. His eyes were big and his face was flushed. He held the saloon doors open and behind him came the two buffalo skinners carrying a body, which they dropped on the floor near the bar. Wolfson walked over and looked down. It was O’Malley.

“What the fuck are you bringing that in here for?” Wolfson said.

“Thought you’d want to see him, prove that he’s dead,” Boyle said.

His voice had a high, strained tone to it.

"Okay,” Wolfson said. “He’s dead. Now get him the fuck out of my saloon.”

“You heard the man,” Boyle said in his odd voice. “Throw him in the street in front of the Excelsior.”

The two skinners dragged the body out through the rest of Boyle’s mob, which came boiling in through the door.

“We wiped ’em out,” Boyle said to Wolfson. “Ones ain’t dead are heading for Texas.”

He made a sound that might have been a giggle.

“And running hard,” he said.

Wolfson nodded absently.

“We lost two hands.”

“Good work, Henry,” Wolfson said.