Behind us, Posner said, “My God,” and backed out the door. Virgil and I went in without him.

One of the cowboys looked at us as we pushed into the saloon and said, “Who the fuck are you?”

“Name’s Virgil Cole,” Virgil said. “Big fella with the siege gun is Everett Hitch.”

“Want a drink?” the cowboy said.

He was young, probably no more than twenty-five, and he wore a big Colt with a black handle in a low-cut holster tied down on his right thigh.

“No,” Virgil said. “We’d like you boys to leave.”

“Leave?” the young cowboy said.

I moved away from Virgil, so that I was close to the saloon wall on Virgil’s right. He moved left, against the bar.

“Correct,” Virgil said.

The young cowboy jumped down from the bar and faced Virgil.

“What happens if we don’t leave?” he said.

“We shoot some of you,” Virgil said.

I thumbed the hammers back on the eight-gauge. It was a touch of theater, the sound of the hammers snicking back. We’d done it a hundred times before. But I also knew that Virgil was ready to shoot. He didn’t seem to have changed position, but I knew that he was balanced, knees bent a little, shoulders relaxed. He looked steadily at the young cowboy. It was a hard look to meet. But the young cowboy had the wild eyes you see sometimes in bucking horses, and he held the look. I knew Virgil didn’t care if the kid held his look or not. Virgil was in the place he goes to when it might be time to shoot. Everything registered and nothing mattered.

“You gonna shoot all of us?” the kid said.