Blue-Eyed Devil by Robert B. Parker

funeral carriage with a starchy-looking old man who was probably General Laird.
    “Callico appears to be a friend of the family,” I said.
    “Seems so,” Virgil said.
    There was a sturdy-looking Mexican woman in the carriage, too. She was crying.
    “Not the mother,” I said. “The general didn’t marry no Mexican.”
    Virgil shook his head.
    “Don’t see no mother,” Virgil said.
    “Probably the housekeeper,” I said. “Maybe raised the boy.”
    “Must be hard burying a child,” Virgil said.
    “Must be,” I said.
    “Got no children, so I guess we can’t know,” Virgil said.
    “Got Laurel,” I said.
    “Be hard burying Laurel,” Virgil said.
    “Would,” I said.
    We drank our coffee. The funeral proceeded past.
    “You had to kill him, Virgil,” I said. “Don’t see what else you coulda done.”
    Virgil nodded.
    “Killing don’t bother me,” Virgil said. “Long as I follow the rules.”
    “You gave him a choice,” I said.
    “He’s got to know what he’s up against,” Virgil said. “He’s got to have a chance to walk away.”
    “He knew who you were. He was looking for a fight. He coulda chosen not to fight,” I said.
    “He could,” Virgil said.
    “That one of the rules?” I said.
    Virgil always seemed clear on the rules, but I never exactly knew how the rules got made.
    “Sometimes,” Virgil said.
    “How ’bout the five men had Laurel and her mother,” I said. “Didn’t give them no chance.”
    “The rule there was save the women ,” Virgil said.
    “How ’bout if somebody shoots first,” I said.
    Virgil grinned.
    “Rule there is save your ass,” he said.
    “So, the rules change,” I said.
    “’Course they do,” Virgil said. “Ain’t no one rule for everything.”
    I said, “Which means sometimes you have to make one up pretty quick.”
    “Sometimes the fight makes the rules for you,” Virgil said. “And you only know afterwards that it was a rule at all.”
    “You do have some ideas,” I said. “You reading books again?”
    “Still reading this Emerson fella,” Virgil said. “Mostly it’s mush, but sometimes he says something.”
    “Say much about gunfight rules?” I said.
    “Ain’t touched on that, so far,” Virgil said.
    “How ’bout that drummer you shot, the one run off with Allie?”
    “I broke the rules,” Virgil said.
    “You shot him ’cause you were mad,” I said.
    “I did. He hadn’t broken no law.”
    “And you were the law,” I said.
    “Yep.”
    “So, the law was the rule then,” I said.
    “Yep.”
    “But now we ain’t the law,” I said.
    “Hell,” Virgil said. “We’re on the other side of the law in this town.”
    “But there’s still rules,” I said.
    “’Course there are,” Virgil said. “Don’t you got any rules, Everett?”
    “Don’t think much about it,” I said. “Mostly I just follow yours.”
    Virgil smiled slightly and looked at me silently for a while.
    Then he said, “Good.”

23
    V IRGIL AND I were thinking about lunch, and fearing that Allie would bring some, when a man on a tall gray horse rode alone up Main Street and stopped in front of the Boston House, where Virgil and I were sitting. He was a tall man, barrel-bodied, with a white beard and thick white hair, under the kind of gray slouch hat that Confederate cavalry officers used to wear.
    “I’m Horatio Laird,” he said to Virgil. “You killed my son.”
    “I’m sorry about that, sir,” Virgil said. “He left me no choice.”
    “I know you,” Laird said. “You’re a professional killer. My son was wild, but he was no gunfighter.”
    “He was drunk, sir,” Virgil said. “He pulled on me.”
    “He didn’t have a chance,” Laird said.
    “He did,” Virgil said. “I gave him one. He didn’t take it.”
    “He was a proud boy,” General Laird said. “Hotheaded, never a boy to back down.”
    Virgil nodded. The general’s voice thickened.
    “I . . . I taught him that,” he said.
    Neither Virgil nor I said