“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.
7
IT WAS A DARK gray day, when Amos Callico came into the saloon, with four of his policemen. The four policemen all carried Winchesters.
“Like to sit with you boys for a minute,” Callico said.
We sat at a table up front near the bar. The four policemen ranged along the walls near us. The tables around us were empty. One of the bartenders brought a bottle and three glasses.
“Understand you hired on here,” Callico said.
He poured himself some whiskey and offered the bottle toward us. Virgil and I declined.
“That right?” Callico said.
“It is,” Virgil said.
“Bouncers,” Callico said.
“Correct,” Virgil said.
“Got you a big list of rules,” Callico said, and nodded without looking at the rules posted on the wall.
“We do,” Virgil said.
“Pretty much same rules you had for the town when you was marshal,” Callico said.
“Pretty much,” Virgil said.
“Just want to be sure you remember that you ain’t marshal now,” Callico said.
“I remember,” Virgil said.
Callico looked at me for the first time.
“You?” he said.