“You fucking broke my teeth,” the rider said, his hands to his face.

“Colt makes a heavy firearm,” Cole said. “That’s a fact. Who you riding for?”

The rider’s nose was bleeding, and there was blood on his mouth.

“Bragg,” he said.

“And why’s he want you riding round and round?”

“I don’t know. He just told me to do it. Mr. Bragg don’t tell you why.”

“Think Bragg’s attempting to frighten us, Everett?” Cole said.

“Be my guess,” I said.

“What’s your name?” Cole said to the rider.

“Dean.”

“Well, Dean, you may as well head back to Mr. Bragg and report that we ain’t too frightened.”

“Mr. Bragg ain’t gonna like it that you hit me,” Dean said.

“I don’t guess that you liked it all that much, yourself, Dean,” Cole said.

“That’s right.”

“So you and Mr. Bragg can, ah, co-… Everett, what word am I trying for?”

“Commiserate,” I said.

“Commiserate,” Cole said. “That’s the word. You and Bragg can commiserate each other.”

Riding downhill toward town, I said to Cole, “That fella wasn’t actually doing nothing illegal.”

“He was annoying the hell out me,” Cole said.

“That’s not illegal, Virgil.”

“No,” Cole said. “It’s personal.”

When it was possible, Cole would sit with his one glass of whiskey and nurse it and watch Mrs. French play the piano. She played with both hands, raising them high and bringing them down firmly with no difference that I could hear between the two. When she was through playing, she would come and sit with him. Cole wasn’t expecting trouble today. I sat with them, too.

“So, tell me, Mr. Cole,” she said. “How long you been killing people for a living.”