6

WE WERE DRINKING coffee at the bar with Willis

McDonough.

“Would you really have shot him?” Willis asked.

“Certain,” Virgil said.

“She’s a whore,” Willis said.

“She is,” Virgil said. “But she ain’t a slave.”

Willis nodded and looked like he didn’t get it, but he didn’t need to.

“Well, you bit a pretty big end off the plug,” Willis said. “His old man is General Horatio Laird. Took over Bragg’s place after”—Willis looked at me—“after he, ah, died. Bought that Scots bull, too.”

“Black angus,” I said.

“Yeah,” Willis said. “Them, and the cows, and made a killing with ’em. People back east was eatin’ them fast as Laird could slaughter the steers.”

“Rich man?” I said.

“Damn straight,” Willis said.

“What’s the ‘general’ for.”

“Confederate army.”

“Still hanging on to it,” I said.

“Proud of it,” Willis said. “Proud of a lot of things. But the kid ain’t one of them.”

“Nicholas,” Virgil said.

“The general must have done some bad stuff in his life, ’cause Nicholas is a big punishment,” Willis said.

Virgil didn’t seem to be listening. He scanned the room aimlessly. But I knew he heard everything. Just like he saw everything.

“Wild?” I said.

“Thinks he’s a gun hand,” Willis said. “Tell me he practices an hour every day with a Colt.”

“Ever shoot at live targets?” Virgil said.

“Heard he might,” Willis said. “ ’Specially he got some folks behind him.”

“Folks,” Virgil said.

“General’s getting on,” Willis said. “He’s tryin’ to let the kid run things, so he’ll be ready when the general steps off the train. Kid has hired himself some second-rate riffraff up there worse than Bragg had.”

“Be some bad riffraff,” Virgil said. “They shooters?”

“Most of ’em couldn’t hit a bull in the ass with a shovel,” Willis said.

“Useless, too,” Virgil said.