Virgil got into Bisbee late in the afternoon. Outside of Fetterman’s a drunk cowboy was staggering around the street running his mouth at passer-bys. He was young, dumb and mostly harmless, with spurs set low so they would jingle to announce his swagger. From time to time, his friends would hand him a liquor bottle and egg him on to greater stupidity. Virgil didn’t like him, mostly because he was jealous of carefree youth. He was sure whatever ranch or cattle drive this cowboy had been on had been hard. He was even willing to believe that this kid was brave and diligent on the job. But Virgil had never had a chance to be that young and foolish; to drink without care. If he had let his guard down when he was that age, he wouldn’t have gotten any older. “And he’s right to walk away,” the young cowboy barked as a scared man in a town suit skittered away from him. The Young Buck strutted in the street in front of the ramshackle bar across the street way Fetterman’s.“Few men, and none in these parts, can tangle with the likes of me without regretting it.” He wheeled and stared at Virgil, “Ain’t that right, mister?” He gave the Young Buck a tight smile and said what the kid wanted to hear, “When I see you coming, sir, I step aside.” Virgil made a show of stepping out of the Young Buck’s gaze. The kid turned his head to follow Virgil, staggered a little and recovered. “See, Bill? Man’s got good sense,” said the Young Buck. And by the time the kid turned back, Virgil was already in Fetterman’s. As the door closed behind him he heard Bill say, “Don’t you get it kid? He’s toying with you.” Ezra Fetterman looked up from behind his desk of fat pine boards on a trestle stand. “Virgil Miller! Well sir, what can I do for you?” “Release the seven tons of flour you owe me and I’ll be on my way.” “About that…” “Fetterman, they were due at my store two weeks ago.” “Well sir,” said Fetterman, pulling on the bottom of his vest, “As my note made clear, there has been an increase in price since last we conferred. And I’ll be needin’ more for that flour.” “Mr. Fetterman, we have a contract. So many tons of flour at such a price, and I expect you to honor it.” “Well, of course, Virgil,” said Ezra, “I wouldn’t dream of breaking a contract with you. You just show me where it’s written and I’ll honor it.” It had been a handshake agreement. Up ’til now Virgil thought a handshake was good with this man. He thought about pistol-whipping the man and taking what was his. But he didn’t need trouble. What he needed was flour. Fetterman saw the dark look on his face, and started speaking quickly, “We had a contract, yes. But the market broke it. Douglas is booming. Yes sir, just booming. They got hungry miners there too. And the Phelps-Dodge company has outbid you.” “I thought I had your word.” Ezra smiled and flinched like a hand shy dog. “I’m sorry. I don’t control the prices. It’ll be weeks before we could bring this before a judge. Be my word against yours. I expect you need flour to sell now, so seems to me best thing for you to do is pay the overage and be done with it.” “What’s this overage?” Virgil asked through his teeth. “Well on 5 1/2 tons of flour –“ “Seven. The contract was for seven.” “Now, Virgil, just calm down. All I got is 5 1/2 tons and that the God’s honest truth. I see you looking at me like that, and I wish I’d done things different. But I didn’t, and I’m sorry, and that’s that.” Through a red haze, Virgil saw the faces of the men he had killed earlier in the day. How many years had it been since the last time? He didn’t like to think of it. Who was the last man he killed before those “Indians?” Crawford? No. He had killed more since him. But he was the last one who had meant something. It scared him how easy it had been to kill those men. He would have thought