“Railroad station,” Cole said.

“Why?” I said.

“No idea,” I said.

A tall, thin young man in an undershirt stood up from a table near us and walked over to us. He wasn’t heeled that I could see.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said to Virgil. “Boys at my table got a bet. Some say you’re Virgil Cole. Some say you’re not.”

The young man hadn’t shaved lately, but he was too young to have much of a beard. His two front teeth were missing.

“I am,” Virgil said.

The boy looked over his shoulder at the others at his table.

“See that?” he said. “See what I tole you?”

Everyone stared at Virgil.

“Seen you in Ellsworth,” the kid said. “I was ’bout half growed up. Seen you kill two men slick as a whistle.”

“Slick,” Virgil said.

The others at his table were all turned toward us.

“How many men you figure you killed, Mr. Cole?”

“No need to count,” Virgil said.

Most of the room was looking at us now, including the bartender. The boy seemed to have run out of things to say. Virgil was silent.

“Well, uh, it’s been a real pleasure, Mr. Cole, to meet you. Can I shake your hand?”

“No,” Virgil said.

The boy looked startled.

“Virgil don’t shake hands,” I said to the boy. “He don’t see any good coming from letting somebody get hold of him.”

“Oh,” the boy said. “A’course not. I shoulda known.”

Virgil didn’t say anything. The boy backed away sort of awkwardly. When he got to his table, his friends gathered in tight and whispered together.

“No need to be explaining me,” Virgil said to me.

“Hell there ain’t,” I said.

Virgil smiled. The kid at the next table got up and went out without looking at Virgil. A fat Mexican girl in a loose flowered dress came to the table.

“Good time for joo boys?” she said.