I was up front one evening, talking with Willis, when one of the whores yelled for Virgil. I looked. A man in a fancy frock coat had hold of the whore’s arm and was trying to drag her out of her chair. Virgil walked over. I picked up my eight-gauge and strolled up to where I could watch Virgil’s back.

The whore’s name was Emma Scarlet. She was a pleasant whore, and I liked her.

“I’m not going with you,” she said.

“You’re selling your ass,” he said, “and my money’s as good as anybody’s.”

“You don’t like to fuck,” Emma said to the man in the frock coat. “You like to hurt people.”

“You can let her arm be,” Virgil said to the man in the frock coat.

“Who the fuck are you?” the man said.

He was tall and slim with long, blond hair and a white shirt buttoned to the neck. I didn’t see a gun.

“Virgil Cole,” Virgil said.

“What makes this your business,” the man said.

“I’m not going to fuck with this,” Virgil said. “You let her go, or I’ll kill you.”

The man let go of the whore’s arm and took a step back, as if Virgil had pushed him.

“Kill me?”

“That’s better,” Virgil said.

“Kill me?” the man said. “Over a fucking whore in a saloon?”

“Got trouble with this whore, find another one,” Virgil said.

“Some other place,” Emma said. “Nobody here’s gonna let him do anything.”

Virgil nodded.

“Any of you ladies care to do business with this gentleman?” Virgil said.

No one said anything. Several of the whores shook their heads.

“Guess not,” Virgil said to the man. “Try down the street.”

“You’re kicking me out?” the man said. “Because the whores don’t like me?”

“I am,” Virgil said, and stepped aside to let him pass.