Resolution

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I was in the Blackfoot Saloon in a town called Resolution, talking with the man who owned the saloon about a job. The owner was wearing a brocade vest. His name was Wolfson. He was tall and thin and sort of spooky-looking, with a walleye.

“What’s your name?” Wolfson said.

“Hitch,” I said. “Everett Hitch.”

“How long you been in Resolution?” Wolfson said.

We were at the far end of the big mahogany bar, sipping whiskey that I had bought us.

“’Bout two hours,” I said.

“And you come straight here?” Wolfson said.

“Ain’t that many choices in Resolution,” I said.

“There’s some others,” Wolfson said. “But they ain’t as nice. Tell me about yourself. What can you do?”

“Went to West Point,” I said. “Soldiered awhile, scouted awhile, shotgun for Wells Fargo, did some marshaling with Virgil Cole.”

“Cole?”

“Yep.”

“You worked with Virgil Cole?” Wolfson said. “Where?”

“Lotta towns, last one was Appaloosa.”

“And you were doing gun work,” Wolfson said.

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