The fourth book in the Virgil Cole and Everett Hitch series, 2010

LAW ENFORCEMENT in Appaloosa had once been Virgil Cole and me. Now there were a chief of police and twelve policemen. Our third day back in town, the chief invited us to the office for a talk.

He was tall and very fat in a derby hat and a dark suit, with a star on his vest, and big black-handled Colt in a Huckleberry inside his coat. Standing silently around the room were four of his police officers, dressed in white shirts and dark pants, each with a Colt on his hip.

The chief gestured for us to sit. Virgil sat. I leaned my shotgun on the wall by the door and sat beside him.

“Heard ’bout both of you,” he said. “Heard ’bout that thing, too. What’s it fire, grapeshot?”

“It’s an eight-gauge,” I said. “Good for grouse.”

“Or fucking hippopotamuses,” the chief said.

“Them, too,” I said.

“Name’s Amos Callico,” he said. “Thought we should have a chitchat.”

Virgil nodded.

“You’re Virgil Cole,” Callico said.

“I am,” Virgil said. “Big fella here with the eight-gauge is Everett Hitch.”

“I know who he is,” Callico said.

Virgil nodded again.

“What I hear ’bout you is mostly good,” Callico said.

Virgil looked at me.

“Mostly,” he said.

“Probably meant ‘all,’ ” I said.

Callico paid no attention. He took a cigar from a box on his desk, didn’t offer us one, trimmed it and lit it, and got it burning right. The four policemen stood silently, watching us.

“I know your reputation, Cole,” he said. “And I know that you ran the town, ’fore I got here. And I want you both to understand that you don’t run it now.”