ROBERT PARKER - Appaloosa

“I am the new city marshal,” Cole said. “Put it away or lose it.”

“Hey, Bronc,” Chalk said. “They got a new marshal.”

The other two men, who’d been leaning on the bar, straightened a little and moved slightly apart.

“Didn’t they have another marshal, ’while ago?” Bronc said.

“They did.”

“Keep using them fuckers up, don’t they?” Bronc said.

“Got no use for them anyway,” Chalk said.

Cole didn’t seem to mind the small talk. He seemed entirely relaxed, almost friendly, as he stood just inside the doorway from the lobby.

“Put them ugly little contraptions away,” he said. “I’m going to walk you down to the jail, and I don’t want to scare the horses.”

No one stirred in the room. It was like one of those high-plains days in the summer, when it’s hot and still and a storm is coming and you feel the tension of its coming long before it gets there. Both men buttoned up their pants. It’s easier to be dangerous with your breeding equipment stowed.

“You ain’t walking us nowhere, Virgil Cole,” Bronc said.

He was squat and muscular, wearing a little short-brimmed hat. His gun was butt-forward on the left side, almost in the middle. The walnut handle looked worn. Chalk stepped a little way from Bronc and loosened his shoulders. His Colt was in a low holster, tied to his thigh. It had a silvery finish with curlicue engravings. Chalk thought he was a fast-draw gunman.

“You pull on me, either one, and I’ll kill you both,” Cole said.

At the other end of the room, behind Cole, a thin man with no beard and limp, black hair took out a short revolver and held it on the tabletop.

Chalk and Bronc stared at Cole. Then Chalk laughed.

“Bullshit,” he said and dropped his hand.

Thoughtfully, Cole shot him before his hand ever touched the gun’s butt, and he was already beginning to fold as the man at the back table raised his gun. I shot him. Bronc had his gun just clear of the holster when Cole’s second shot hit him in the face and he fell backward against the bar and slid to the ground next to Chalk. The noise of the gunfire still rang in my ears. Cole was looking slowly around the room. No one moved. The fourth man held his hands high in the air; his face was pale, so the web of broken veins showed clear.

“I ain’t shootin’,” he said. “I ain’t shootin’.”

I walked over and took his gun out of its holster and handed it to the big, red-faced bartender.

“I warned them,” Cole said, and opened the cylinder on his Colt, replaced the two expended shells, closed the cylinder, and put the gun away. It was one of Cole’s rules: Reload as soon as the shooting is over. I put a fresh bullet in my own piece and put it back in its holster. Cole walked to each of the three down men and felt for a pulse. None had one.

Cole and I rode up north of town one morning to look at the wild horses in the hills, a little west of where Randall Bragg had his ranch. They were there for the same reason Bragg was, because of the water. We sat our animals on top of a low hill and watched the herd graze in the sun on the eastern flank of the next hill. Seven mares, two foals, and a gray leopard Appaloosa stallion that looked to be maybe sixteen hands. The stallion raised his head and stared at us. His nostrils were flared, trying to catch more scent. His tail was up. His skin twitched. He pranced a couple of steps toward us, putting himself between us and the mares. We didn’t move. The stallion arched his neck a little.

“They hate the geldings,” I said.

“Stallions don’t like much,” Cole said.

“They like mares,” I said.

The stallion went back to grazing, but always between us and the mares.

“Virgil,” I said. “I’m not minding it, but why are we up here, looking at these horses?”

“I like wild horses,” Cole said.

“Well, that’s nice, Virgil.”

Cole nodded. The horses moved across the hillside, grazing, their tails flicking occasionally to brush away a fly, the stallion now and then raising his head, sniffing the wind, looking at us. There was no breeze. Occasionally, one of the mares would snort and toss her head, and the stallion would look at her rigidly for a moment, until she went back to grazing.

“Easy life,” Cole said. “They get through here, there’s another hill.”

“Stallion looks a little tense,” I said.

“He’s watchful,” Cole said.

“Don’t you suppose he gets worn down,” I said, “all the time watchful? For wolves and coyotes and people and other stallions?”

“He’s free,” Cole said. “He’s alive. He does what he wants. He goes where he wants. He’s got what he wants. And all he got to do is fight for it.”

“Guess he’s won all the fights,” I said.

In a cluster of rocks on top of one of the hills west of us and the horses, several coyotes sat silently, watching the herd with yellow eyes.

“Foals better not stray,” I said to Cole.

“The stud knows about them,” Cole said. “See how he looks over there. Foals are all right long as they stay with the herd.”

The sun was quite high now. Maybe eleven in the morning. Our own horses stood silently, heads dropped, waiting.

“Virgil,” I said after a time, “these are very nice horses, but shouldn’t somebody be upholding the law in Appaloosa?”

Cole nodded, but he didn’t say anything. And he didn’t move. To the east of us, a thin stream of dark smoke moved along the horizon. The stallion spotted it. He straightened, staring, his ears forward, his tail arched. Small in the distance, barely significant, more than a mile away, a locomotive appeared from behind the hill, trailing five cars. The stallion stared. I could see his skin twitch. The train moved along the plain, toward Appaloosa. Then the stallion wheeled toward the herd and nipped at one of the mares and the herd was in motion, the stallion behind them, herding them, the foals going flat out, all legs and angles but keeping up.

We watched as they disappeared west over the hill, away from the train. And Cole stared a long time after them before he turned his horse east toward Appaloosa.

We had a jail, but when there was nobody in it, Cole liked to sit in the saloon and watch what was going on. He liked to nurse a glass of whiskey while he watched, and so did I. We’d sit together most of the time. But if there might be trouble, we sat on opposite sides of the room. It was Cole who decided. It was one of his rules. Today we were on opposite sides of the room. While we were sitting and nursing, inside on a hot, bright morning, Randall Bragg came to see us. He walked into the saloon with half a dozen men, and paused inside the door and looked around while he waited for his eyes to adjust. Then he nodded his men toward the bar, and walked over to where Cole was sitting. His spurs jangled loudly in the suddenly quiet saloon.

“My name’s Randall Bragg,” he said.

“Virgil Cole.”

“I know who you are,” Bragg said. “We need to talk.”

Cole nodded toward a chair. Along the bar, Bragg’s men had spread out, watching Cole. Bragg sat down.

“I see the big fella across the room with a shotgun,” Bragg said.

“Eight-gauge,” Cole said.

“Good idea, spreading out like that.”

“It is,” Cole said.

Bragg gestured toward the bar, and one of Bragg’s men brought him a bottle of whiskey and a glass. Bragg poured himself a shot and looked at it, like he was thinking about it. Then he drank the shot down and poured himself another one.

“You a drinking man?” he said to Cole.

“Not so much,” Cole said.

“And Mr. Eight-gauge over there?”