Free Blue-Eyed Devil by Robert B. Parker Page B

fugitives.”
    “Can’t say we did,” Virgil said.
    “I got a mind to by God take this town apart until I find them,” Callico said.
    Rose’s voice became softer.
    “You’re the law in Appaloosa, Callico,” he said. “Me ’n Cato are the law here. Here you ain’t worth lizard scat.”
    Like Cato and Rose, we were spread out on our side of the street. I had the eight-gauge. Callico looked at us. Then back at Cato and Rose.
    “Cato and Rose,” Callico said. “I heard of you.”
    “Hell, Chief,” Rose said. “Everybody heard of us.”
    Callico looked back at us.
    “Thick as fucking thieves,” he said.
    I said, “Sorry we can’t be more helpful, Amos.”
    “I can shoot with any of you,” Callico said.
    “Probably not sitting on a horse,” Rose said.
    “Probably not,” Cato said.
    “Come on,” Callico said to his men, and headed his horse up Main Street at a gallop.

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    T HE GOING UNDERFOOT was slow on this stretch as we rode south toward Appaloosa. The horses knew they were going home and didn’t need guidance. We gave them their head and, with the reins hanging loose over the saddle horn, let them pick their way through the thorny ground runners and low sage.
    “Funny thing,” Virgil said. “’Bout the law.”
    On a long ride, Virgil, who often went hours without saying anything, was given to musing aloud.
    “What’s that,” I said.
    “Up in Resolution,” Virgil said. “With Cato and Rose, we was on the side of the law, and Callico was not. When we get back to Appaloosa, Callico’ll be the law, and we’ll be on the other side of it.”
    “True.”
    “But we ain’t changed,” Virgil said.
    “Nope.”
    “Did the law change?” Virgil said.
    “People who decide what it is changed,” I said.
    “Don’t seem right,” Virgil said.
    “Hell, Virgil, you made the law in every town we marshaled.”
    “I did,” Virgil said. “Didn’t I.”
    “You did,” I said. “Will again.”
    “But it didn’t keep changing once I made it,” Virgil said.
    “No, it didn’t,” I said. “Still don’t. Never does. When we’re marshaling you make rules and we call it the law. When we ain’t marshaling, you make rules and we call it Virgil Cole.”
    The horses waded halfway into a small stream and stopped to drink. While they drank, Virgil thought about that.
    “And you don’t care?” Virgil said.
    “Nope. Same rules.”
    We moved on across the stream and back into the rough scrub.
    “And it don’t bother you?”
    “Hell, Virgil,” I said. “You know I don’t worry much ’bout such things.”
    “You let me decide?” Virgil said.
    “Generally I agree with you,” I said.
    “And if you didn’t?” Virgil said.
    “Depends,” I said. “Can’t recall you ever asking me to do something didn’t seem like I should.”
    “But how you know if you should?” Virgil said.
    “Most people know what they should do, most of the time,” I said. “’Specially if they ain’t married.”
    “So, why you think I worry about it?” Virgil said.
    “Couple things,” I said. “You talk about it, but you don’t really worry about it. You don’t worry ’bout much of anything, ’cept maybe Allie.”
    Virgil nodded.
    “That’d be one thing,” Virgil said.
    “And you’re a good gun hand,” I said.
    “So are you,” Virgil said.
    “Yeah, I am,” I said. “But you are the best gun hand I ever seen. Maybe the best there is. There’s some weight goes with that.”
    Virgil was looking at some dragonflies hovering over a patch of flowers off to the right.
    “Can’t just kill somebody ’cause you’re quicker’n them,” he said.
    “No, you can’t,” I said.
    Virgil was quiet for a time as the horses moved carefully along.
    “And I don’t,” he said.
    “No,” I said. “You don’t.”

34
    V IRGIL AND I were at our post out front of the Boston House when Chauncey Teagarden strolled past us, wearing his ivory-handled Colt.
    “Afternoon, Virgil,” he said.