I nodded. At this range, with the eight-gauge, I might get two at a time.

“Virgil,” Allie said. “What is it.”

“Nothing to worry about,” Virgil said.

Allie looked for the first time at the men across the street.

“Oh my God, Virgil, it’s Pig.”

“That his name?” Virgil said.

“Don’t let him take me back.”

“Nope,” Virgil said.

“Everett…”

“We’re fine, Allie,” I said. “We’re fine.”

Pig was carrying a big old Navy Colt in a gun belt that sagged under his belly. There was dried blood on his shirt. It appeared that he hadn’t changed it since Virgil hit him. The left side of Pig’s face was swollen and dark, with a long scab where Virgil’s front sight had dragged across the cheekbone. The five men with him were all carrying. I thumbed back both hammers on the eight-gauge.

We kept walking our parallel walk. Allie held tight to Virgil’s left arm. At the end of the street was the Barbary Coast Café, and across the street from that the railroad station, and beyond that the river. And nothing else. It was obvious where we were going.

“I need you to let go of my arm now, Allie,” Virgil said.

His voice was quiet. He could have been asking her to pass him the sugar. He was Virgil Cole again. Even with the stakes as high as they would ever get for him, he was now Virgil Cole. It was a relief. At the end of the street we stopped and the six men stopped across from us. The railroad station was on their side. We looked at one another. Pig was at the far left end of the line that now faced us.

“Hey, Whoreman,” Pig shouted. “Whatcha gonna do now?”

“Same deal,” Virgil said to me. “Pig goes first. You start at the right end.”

“Yep.”

“Allie,” Virgil said. “Any shooting, you lie flat down in the street, you unnerstand?”

“Virgil…”

“Unnerstand?” Virgil said again.