23

VIRGIL AND I were thinking about lunch, and fearing that Allie would bring some, when a man on a tall gray horse rode alone up Main Street and stopped in front of the Boston House, where Virgil and I were sitting. He was a tall man, barrel-bodied, with a white beard and thick white hair, under the kind of gray slouch hat that Confederate cavalry officers used to wear.

“I’m Horatio Laird,” he said to Virgil. “You killed my son.”

“I’m sorry about that, sir,” Virgil said. “He left me no choice.”

“I know you,” Laird said. “You’re a professional killer. My son was wild, but he was no gunfighter.”

“He was drunk, sir,” Virgil said. “He pulled on me.”

“He didn’t have a chance,” Laird said.

“He did,” Virgil said. “I gave him one. He didn’t take it.”

“He was a proud boy,” General Laird said. “Hotheaded, never a boy to back down.”

Virgil nodded. The general’s voice thickened.

“I . . . I taught him that,” he said.

Neither Virgil nor I said anything.

“God help me,” the general said.

His big-boned gray was a stallion, with a black mane and tail. I wondered if he was the one that had been after the Appaloosa’s mares. He was so big a horse that the general was high above us, the reins slack over the saddle horn, hands folded on top of them, the knuckles white with effort. He didn’t seem to be carrying a weapon.

“He thought he was faster than he was, sir,” Virgil said.

The general was shaking his head slowly left, right, left, right.

“Wasn’t me,” Virgil said. “It was gonna be somebody.”

“He died standing up,” I said. “Facing the man who killed him.”

“You . . . think . . . that matters . . . to . . . me?” the general said.

“No, sir,” Virgil said. “Probably don’t. But there ain’t much else to say.”

He shook his head some more. Left, right. Left, right.

“My son’s dead, Cole, and you’re not,” the general said.

“That ain’t right.”

He seemed to be having trouble with his breath.

“I could, I’d kill you where you’re sitting. But you’re too fast.”

His breath was harsh.

“But I’ll make it happen,” he rasped, “if I have to shoot you in the back.”

Nobody spoke. The general struggled with his breath for moment, and then wheeled the stallion and rode off down the street.

“Think he means it?” I said.

“Not about shooting me in the back,” Virgil said. “I expect he can’t. Man like him. Be against the rules.”

“Those rules again,” I said.

“He pretty surely got more than I do,” Virgil said. “He’ll find another way.”

“Hire somebody?” I said.

“S’pect he might,” Virgil said.