“Hey,” he said, “Hitch. I heard you was up the north end of town this morning, looking at the pine trees.”

I looked straight at him and didn’t say anything.

“Heard somebody took a shot at your ass,” he said.

I kept looking.

“I was you I might not go walking around,” he said. “You know? I might stay right here in the saloon and hide behind my shotgun.”

Go right at ’em, Virgil used to say. There’s trouble, go right at ’em. Right now.

“You shoot at me?” I said.

“Me,” Wickman said.

He was playing to the audience that had begun to gather.

“Me?” he said. “Why would you think it was me?”

“’Cause you’re a back shooter,” I said.

The banter went out of Wickman’s voice.

“I ain’t no back shooter,” he said. “You don’t know nothing about me. Every man I killed was facing me straight up.”

“I know a back shooter when I see one,” I said. “I bet you never shot a man wasn’t drunk. This morning you missed me by five feet.”

“I missed shit,” Wickman said. “I wanted to I coulda put that bullet right between your ears.”

“So you was just thinking to scare me,” I said.

Wickman opened his mouth and closed it and backed away a step.

“Didn’t work,” I said.

“I’m just saying it was me shot at you I wouldn’ta missed.”

“Naw,” I said. “’Course you wouldn’t. You’da drilled me from behind, back shooter.”

“Don’t call me that,” Wickman said.

The audience began to spread out a little. I thumbed back both hammers on the shotgun and rested the butt on my thigh with the barrels pointing at the ceiling.

“You ain’t behind me now,” I said.

“You think I’m going up against that eight-gauge,” Wickman said.

“I ain’t pointing it at you,” I said.

The audience spread out farther.

“I’m pointing the shotgun at the ceiling,” I said. “Good gun hand should be able to clear leather and drill me ’fore I can drop the barrels.”