Blue-Eyed Devil

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LAW ENFORCEMENT in Appaloosa had once been Virgil Cole and me. Now there were a chief of police and twelve policemen. Our third day back in town, the chief invited us to the office for a talk.

He was tall and very fat in a derby hat and a dark suit, with a star on his vest, and big black-handled Colt in a Huckleberry inside his coat. Standing silently around the room were four of his police officers, dressed in white shirts and dark pants, each with a Colt on his hip.

The chief gestured for us to sit. Virgil sat. I leaned my shotgun on the wall by the door and sat beside him.

“Heard ’bout both of you,” he said. “Heard ’bout that thing, too. What’s it fire, grapeshot?”

“It’s an eight-gauge,” I said. “Good for grouse.”

“Or fucking hippopotamuses,” the chief said.

“Them, too,” I said.

“Name’s Amos Callico,” he said. “Thought we should have a chitchat.”

Virgil nodded.

“You’re Virgil Cole,” Callico said.

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