Chalk turned toward Virgil, his equipment still fully exposed, like his partner’s.

“Step a little closer, Virgil Cole,” he said. “And I’ll piss in your pocket.”

Chalk was a skinny guy with a hard little potbelly that pushed out over his gun belt. He had a meager, shabby beard, and it looked, from where I stood, like he needed to trim his fingernails. His pal was tall and thick and had long hair like Bill Hickok, except Hickok’s was clean.

“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.