“That big tent across the way from them with the wood sides, Everett?” Virgil said. “That the chicken hole?”

“Think so,” I said. “Got some ladies’ stuff on top of that tent rope there.”

“That other fella at the spit there,” Virgil said. “You maybe recognize him as one of them you saw that day when they come riding by Hal’s?”

“Don’t,” I said.

Virgil watched for a moment.

“What do we do, Virgil?” Chastain said.

“Everett?” Virgil said.

“Might as well waltz in there, sort of quiet like,” I said. “Sit by the spit, see what comes up.”

“Got to start somewhere,” Virgil said.

“Good a place as any,” I said.

“It is,” Virgil said.

“Two stay back,” I said. “Keep cover.”

Virgil nodded.

“Two of us go in,” I said.

“Chastain,” Virgil said. “You and Eddie move up on either side of that tent there.”

The two of them nodded.

“Everett and me will do like Everett’s saying,” Virgil said. “We’ll walk in there and sort out what we can. See who’s interested in going to jail or who’s interested in dying.”

“Okay,” Chastain said.

“Eddie,” Virgil said. “You walk with me across the creek and come up on this side of the tent. You’ll have a better view of that fella over the spit.”

Eddie nodded.

“Everett,” Virgil said. “You and Chastain come up on that other side. Once I get the nod from Eddie, you walk in from that side of the tent and I’ll walk in from the other.”

“What if Eddie don’t identify him as one of the Cotters?” Chastain said.

“That’s a good point, Chastain,” Virgil said. “But like Everett said, we gotta start someplace.”

“What happens if all hell breaks loose and shooting starts?” Chastain said.

“Shoot straight,” Virgil said.

“But we’re after the seven,” Chastain said. “Not everybody.”

“I figure anybody with a gun that is using it is most likely going to be one of them.”

“And if they are not?” Chastain said.

“Then they got no goddamn reason to be raising arms on lawmen,” Virgil said. “So shoot and shoot straight.”

Virgil looked to each of us in turn, and we moved out.

We crossed the creek and when we did I thought about what Séraphine had said to me. About the warning she left me with, about my life in danger. About men running and that she saw me away, elsewhere from Appaloosa, and there would be water. Holy by God, water, I thought, as I crossed the shallow creek.

Chastain and I did as Virgil instructed. We posted at the back of the tent on the right side.

We could see Virgil and Eddie. They were at the rear of the tent on the left side.

Chastain and I watched Virgil. We waited on a signal, and after a moment, Eddie nodded. Virgil looked to me and nodded.

Here we go, I thought.

Virgil and I walked deliberately past the tent and directly over to the two men and the goat they were turning on the spit.

“Evening, fellas,” Virgil said.

They looked up.

“Who are you?” the man with the beard said.

“My name is Virgil Cole. The fella here next to me with the eight-gauge is Everett Hitch.”

I nodded politely.

“Everett and me are lawmen,” Virgil said.

I looked around to see if we were drawing any attention from anyone yet, and so far there was no one looking or coming in our direction.

“I’m a territorial marshal,” Virgil said. “And Everett here is my deputy marshal.”

The man with the beard shifted his eyes back and forth.

In an instant, his body shot up and across the campfire in an attempt to run, but I swung my heavy eight-gauge the way the baseball fellas go after the ball and caught him just under his chin. His feet flipped out from under him and he hit the ground so hard on his back it knocked the wind right out of him.

He grasped his throat, trying to get a breath.

The second man was much slower, and Virgil just put his Colt between his eyes.

“Just stay seated,” Virgil said.

I got the bearded man by his hair and propped him up near the fire. I put my boot to his chest with the eight-gauge barrels pointed at his head and pushed him back toward the flames lapping up from the spit.

“I think the combination of my eight-gauge hitting your throat and you hitting the ground hard like you did is making it difficult for you to breathe,” I said. “Regardless, I know some shit about you.”

I dug my boot hard into him, pushing him toward the fire.

“I’m gonna ask you a few simple questions. If you don’t answer, or if you lie to me, I’m gonna burn your face off in this fire. You try to move for some stupid reason, I’ll blow your head off with both barrels of this eight-gauge.”

The bearded man just looked at me as he tried to get his breath.

“First question is,” I said, “what is your name, but before you answer, just know, I know what your name is, so if for some reason it comes out wrong, I start burning your face.”

— 63 —

Fuck you,” he said.

I crammed my boot fast and hard under his neck and pushed him back to the fire. His hair started to burn.

“Ahha,” he rasped as he squirmed trying to worm out of the fire, “Ohhh . . . stop! Stop . . . Dee! Fuck. Dee. Name is Dee.”

“You murdered the sheriff and his deputies of Appaloosa?” I said. “Yes or no?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Dee said.

I shoved him back into the fire and he fought me, but I held him to it.

“Ahhh,” he cried.

I wanted to pull both triggers on my side-by-side and watch his face explode, but I took another tactic and let up on him.

“Oh, fuck,” Dee said, as I let him out of the fire.

“Oh, fuck . . .” he continued. “Oh, fuck . . .”

“This fella here with you and this goat?” I said. “He part of your rotten gang?”

Dee’s eyes were just wide with pain and madness.

“What’s your name, your real name?” I said to the man Virgil had his Colt leveled at. “You lie to me and I will burn you, too.”

“Dmitry,” he said.

Dee squirmed and I dug my boot into his neck.

“I ain’t done nothing,” Dmitry blurted out. “I didn’t kill nobody. Honest.”

Dmitry was a little man with a wool head cap. He had thin lips and slits for eyes.

“There’s gonna be a few options for you, Dmitry,” Virgil said. “One is you will die, the other is you will go to jail.”

“I didn’t do nothing to no one,” Dmitry said.

“How many are you, Dmitry?” I said.

“Fuck him,” Dee said.

Virgil looked around. I glanced around, too, and for the moment there was no one moving about except for the men fifty yards down the way in the darkness. The men were still chopping wood and they were unaware we were even in camp.

“How many are you, Dmitry?” I said.

Dmitry’s eyes worked back and forth.

“Talk,” Virgil said, as he pressed his Colt on Dmitry’s forehead.

“Seven,” Dmitry said, “There’s seven of us . . .”

Dee squirmed some more. He was clearly not liking the idea that Dmitry was forthcoming.

A hefty man wearing long johns walked out of the tent that was flanked by Chastain and Eddie. He saw Virgil and me, and Dee on the ground, and guns out. This sight was obviously a confusing and unexpected one.

“Wha . . . what’s going on out here?” he said.

“We’re just having a visit,” Virgil said.

“What?” the hefty fella said.

In an instant, Chastain was at his side with his rifle crammed into his ear.

“Down,” Chastain said quietly.

The man just looked to Chastain, and Chastain slapped him hard on the side of the head with the barrel of the rifle.

“Now,” Chastain said with a harsh hush.

The hefty guy did as he was told and got down on his knees. Chastain peeked quick into the tent, then looked to Virgil and me and shook his head, letting us know there was no one else inside. He put his boot in the middle of the hefty man’s back and shoved him hard face-first into the dirt.