“You cocksucker,” he said. “You broke my fucking arm.”

I didn’t say anything.

“It feels broke,” he said.

I didn’t say anything.

“You got no right to be banging me with that fucking eight-gauge.”

I looked at him and didn’t say anything.

“I want my damned money back,” he said.

I didn’t say anything.

“Ain’t you gonna talk?” he said.

“Sure,” I said. “First, your arm ain’t broke. I can tell. Second, she fucked you, so you don’t get your money back. Third, you annoy one whore in this establishment, ever, and I’ll kill you.”

He stared at me. I stared back. He wanted to say something. But I had, after all, killed Koy Wickman. Still nursing his arm against his stomach, he turned and went to pick up his knife.

“Leave the knife where it is,” I said.

He stopped without looking back and stood still.

“I paid eight dollars for that knife,” he said finally.

I didn’t say anything. He took another step toward the knife on the floor. I cocked the eight-gauge. The sound was bright and clear in the room. He stopped again. I could see his shoulders heave as he took in some air. Then, without looking at me, he turned away from the knife on the floor and walked out of the saloon.

I let the hammers down easy on the shotgun. The pleasant hubbub picked up again. Billie stayed where she was behind my chair.

“What if he comes back,” she said.

“He won’t,” I said.

“What if he gets another knife and comes back. He’ll cut me, I know he will.”

I looked at her little girl’s face with too much make-up on it.

“Got a couch in my room,” I said. “You can sleep on it, if you want, till you get to feeling more comfortable.”

“I could sleep in the bed,” she said. “Be no charge.”