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    He woke up lying in a bed of straw on a packed-dirt floor. It was late, almost sundown, and green shadows filtered into the room through a crude window. When the wind blew, mesquite thorns scratched at the sill. Delicate leaf shapes focused and blurred on the mud wall over his head.
    Something rustled in the straw near his feet and he raised himself on one arm. It was only the chicken, tidying her nest. She eyed him a moment, then went back to work.
    How long had he been here? A week? Two? He was on his way to Mexico when he fell ill. The country was short on water and out of desperation he drank from a stagnant pool. The sickness was subtle at first, he simply lost his appetite. But then dizziness and headaches followed. He didnt remember fainting, falling out of the saddle, nor could he remember when the Mexican man and his grandchildren found him and carried him back to their jacal.
    The old mans wife was a curandera, a healer, and she knew immediately what was wrong. She sent her two grandsons to nearby canyons to find herbs and put the oldest, a granddaughter named Crescencia, to work chopping up some kind of flowering plant she afterwards brewed like tea in a clay pot. Other potions followed, with a strict diet which would eventually include eggs from the nest at the foot of his bed. The hen, according to the curandera, was a good omen.
    He was delirious at first and convinced the family was poisoning him. It was only later that he came to realize they had probably saved his life. Now he waited to be presented with a bill, in an amount, perhaps, equal to the worth of his horse or his saddle. Or both. Such generosity aroused his suspicion.
    Twilight darkened his room, and a smoky pink sky showed in the window through the mesquite fronds. From behind a wattled partition, he could hear old Dominguez and his family settling down to supper.
    Crescencia peeked into his room. Señor Tom? she said softly. She smiled when she saw he was awake and crept in with a bowl of soup. Kneeling next to his bed, she asked how he felt, or so he suspected-he understood little Spanish, and touched delicate brown fingers to his cheek. Then she laughed, saying something else in Spanish but, this time, he was certain she was congratulating him on having lost the fever.
    Youre looking very comely tonight, said Tom, knowing she didnt understand a word. He let her put the soup on a wooden box next to his bed before he grabbed her small, bare arms and pulled her violently towards him. A sweet little piece of goods, he said, inhaling the warm, leafy scent at the nape of her neck. Her eyes got wide and dark, but she didnt struggle or cry out. Instead, she became still, like a wounded animal. It embarrassed him, and he let her go. She backed away from his bed and rushed out of the room. Tom heard her speaking rapidly behind the partition and, after a moment, the old man came in.
    How are you doing, Señor, he said in English. Crescencia says you are feeling somewhat better.
    Tom said nothing.
    Can you eat your sopa? Would you like something else, perhaps? Some tortillas?
    Guilt was as foreign to Tom as Crescencias Spanish, so it took him a while to recognize the emotion. After Dominguez bowed and left him to his soup, he only knew he was beginning to experience a different kind of malaise. He was crazy, he told himself, the fever had softened his head, but the feeling persisted. When Crescencia didnt bring him a candle, as she had done this time every night, he lay miserably awake. In the morning, he prepared to go.
    The boys brought his horse, well curried and plump with feed. He had to tighten the cinch a notch, they had done the best they could with the big straps, otherwise everything was as hed left it, if not better. The family assembled in front of the jacal to say goodbye.
    What do I owe you? said Tom. But Dominguez only looked uncomfortable.
    Are you sure you are well, my friend? he said, finally.
    All cured up. Id like to pay. The food, all the trouble you and your wife went to& His eyes played on the pathetic hut, the skinny chickens scratching in the dirt yard, Crescencias brown, dusty ankles and shoeless feet.
    Dominguez said, Crescencia put some dried frijoles in your saddle bag. And some maiz. He glanced left and right and called out impatiently to the youngest boy, who came running from the back of the hut with the heavy canteen. This is sweet water, Señor. From the creek. Adios.
    They asked for nothing and knew him only as Señor Tom, which wasnt his real name. Hed dropped Max Barker, calling himself Tom Brown even before the reward had been posted in New Mexico. But Dominguez and his family never inquired anything beyond how he felt, if he was hungry, if he needed something. He turned in his saddle and looked back. Crescencia waved. Maybe she had forgiven him.
    For two days he didnt see another human being. Autumn was approaching and northerly clouds kept the sun from pressing down so relentlessly as it had in the high New Mexico territory. The balmy air and easy traveling allowed him to relax and think.
    His mother had died when he was a child and his father, not knowing what to do with a small boy, sold him to an itinerant skin trader for twenty dollars. By his sixteenth birthday, he had run away eleven times. For punishment, his adoptive father locked him in the tanning shed. After he carved a hole in the wall and escaped again, the skinner came after him with his Sharps rifle. Young Max Barker fought back and killed his first man.
    He would never forget that everyone, friend and stranger alike, had sympathized with the skinner. Although he wasnt imprisoned for the killing, he was from that day on a sort of damned soul, pointed out on street corners and shunned. His reputation always seemed to get where he was going before he did, so it was inevitable he would kill again.
    Only a year later, in Kansas, a card cheat called him out in a game of poker. He was seventeen, and the gambler figured he could scare a gawky youth out of his winnings. Instead of coming to his defense, the other card players sat back and watched like it was a sideshow. They enjoyed the gamblers witty insults and laughed out loud when the boys voice cracked from fear and rage. To this day, as often as he tried to erase it from his memory, details of the gamblers face were as clear as they had been all those years ago. He remembered the wiry black whiskers coiling out of his cheeks, the big pores, the wart at the corner of his eye, the dirty yellow teeth shattering when he shot him in the mouth. The gamblers hat had flown up to the ceiling and caught on a rafter.    
    People sided with the dead man. Tom spent a year in prison before a witness, someone he didnt know, came forward and told how the gambler had tried to bully him out of his fair winnings. Of course he never saw the money, but he was free again; or as free as it gets for a damned soul. Other scrapes followed. He never went looking for them, they were there waiting wherever he went, and the last one put a bounty on his head. One Thousand Dollars For The Capture Of M. Barker the poster read in big black letters. When he first saw it nailed to a livery door, fresh off the press and still smelling of printers ink, it took a moment to realize it referred to him; he hadnt used his real name for months and he couldnt remember what incident might have prompted it. Not that there had been more than the usual amount of trouble, he just couldnt recall any particular offense...unless it was Santa Fe. Now he was on the run. First to Texas, to escape New Mexico, then on to Old Mexico to escape Texas.
    As he rode into a valley bristling with spiny ocotillo and every species of sticking, scratching brush and cactus, instead of feeling oppressed by his situation and the harsh country, he began to feel strangely renewed. Was it the effect of old Dominguezs hospitality? He had been so reluctant to believe they had helped him for nothing that on the morning he left, when he had ridden out of sight of the jacal, he dismounted and rechecked all his gear; the saddlebags, every detail of his tack, even the bullets in his Colt pistol which hed kept in his belt, coiled up next to the straw bed. Everything was there, plus the corn and beans that Crescencia had added to his pack.
    Hed seen the poster in Tucumcari, so he couldve headed east and hit Texas in a day and a half. But that was a well traveled route, on the way to Amarillo. Even though it meant spending another week in New Mexico, thered be a lot less traffic going south. The trip was uneventful until he drank the bad water and fell ill in Texas, near Fort Davis. Now he reckoned, with good weather and nothing unforeseen, to make the river in three more days. It was possible officials in Texas were aware of the reward, a thousand dollars was real money anywhere, but in the Big Bend officials would be few and far between.
    The morning of the third day he rode down onto a vast plain of creosote. Hed spent the night in the Del Norte Mountains shivering beneath his only quilt. Now he broiled under a white-hot sky. By four oclock in the afternoon hed gone through the better part of his water and still hadnt reached the hills hed been riding toward all day. At last, the terrain began to break up into dry arroyos, and the occasional mesquite augured at least the possibility of a stream.
    He thought he heard a man cough. But the heat waves and blinding glare had already made him see things he knew werent real, so it was conceivable hed start hearing things, too. As he eased his horse down loose gravel into yet another dry wash, he saw the man and it was no hallucination. He was squatting in the meager shade of a scrub mesquite with his hands over his eyes. When Tom rode closer, he took his hands away and squinted up at him.
    Howdy, the man said, like he was greeting a passerby on the street.
    Tom nodded.
    Horse threw me. Twisted my ankle. Oh, shes around here somewhere, I just cant walk good enough to go after her. He was a fat-bellied man in striped pants like peddlers wore, held up by dirty galluses. His face was almost painfully red to an inch above his eyebrows where it turned pasty white above the hat line.
    Tom handed down his canteen and said, Which way she go?
    The man pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. He uncorked the canteen and took a long draft. Aaah, he said, licking his lips. She aint far. Somethin spooked her, I dont know.
    Tom left his canteen with the man and rode out of the wash to have a look around. His own horse was trained to come when he whistled, and he wondered how anybody could be unlucky enough, or fool enough, especially out here, to have a horse youd need another horse to catch. He found the animal less than a hundred yards away; an ugly, splay-footed thing with one brown and one blue eye. Tom didnt carry much rope and wasnt skilled with a lariat, anyway. After half an hour of playing tag, he got a hand on one of the trailing reins and led the mare back to her owner.
    Why, thanks, friend, the man said, when Tom returned with the horse. He was good at showing as little appreciation as possible, as if he didnt really want or need anyones assistance. After Tom helped him into the saddle, he handed down the canteen.
    You spill it? said Tom.
    The man looked puzzled. Huh? Oh, sorry, friend, I mustve drunk more than I thought. But, say, theres a saloon youll want to visit just down the road in Rosales. I mean, supposin youre goin that way, towards Old Mexico. Theyll fill your canteen with good seep water and sell you somethin to chase it down with, too. That where youre headed? Old Mexico?
    Tom was beginning to regret stopping. After all the trouble and the time lost, the man avoided any show of gratitude. Now he was sticking his nose where it didnt belong.
    Oh, I dont know, Tom said. "Maybe. Guess Im just looking around.
    Like hell, the man said, smirking. Then he sniggered to make it a joke. Names Hugo Dorfman. Didnt catch yours.
    Tom Brown.
    Uh huh, Hugo Dorfman said. Well, gotta be on my way, mister.
    Tom said, This saloon, in Rosales& That the nearest water?
    Fraid so. Bout twelve miles on the wagon road. Go left a little ways, youll see the road. Takes you all the way to the Rio Grande. Uh, thats the border, tween us and Old Mexico, case you didnt know. He smirked again and watched Tom ride out of the arroyo. Tom glanced back and the man was still sitting there, staring after him.
    What Dorfman had neglected to tell him was that, through the hills, there was a shorter route, almost ten miles shorter. And thats the one Dorfman followed, spurring his mare over the switchbacks as fast as she could go.
    Hugo had thought the face looked familiar when he first laid eyes on him. And the half hour resting in the shade, while the other man chased down his horse, was ample time to recollect where hed seen it. About a year ago, on a Santa Fe street, a barfly had pointed out a man and whispered, That theres Max Barker. Hes killed six men, including his own daddy. Dorfman wondered if Max Barker knew there was a telegram nailed up in the Presidio, Texas post office offering a thousand dollars for his capture.
    It took Hugo only twenty minutes to reach Rosales, giving him an hours lead on the other man. He went to the Paradise Saloon, hitched his mare and went inside to speak to the proprietress, Cordelia Mornay. His plan was to pay Cordelia to keep Max Barker occupied long enough for him to ride to Presidio and bring back Texas Rangers.
    Whats in it for me? asked Cordelia.
    Thats what I like about you, said Dorfman, youre pragmatic.
    Im not sure what pragmatic is, but you can take it to mean I dont work for free. Are you going to make me repeat the question? Cordelia Mornay was a striking thirty-seven. The sun had turned her skin a dark mahogany and made highlights in her thick brown hair. Years of self reliance had transformed an unremarkable girl into a quite handsome woman.
    Half, said Dorfman, uncertainly. Fifty-fifty. I wouldnt expect any less myself& Not that theres any risk on your part, at all.
    Cordelia frowned and shook her head. You ought to peddle snake oil, Hugo. Half of what?
    The rewards two hundred dollars, Hugo lied. Your halfs
    Up front, Hugo. My hundred dollars is up front, or I dont play.
    Dorfman got quiet and rubbed the stubble on his jaw. I didnt have time to go by my place. I mean, I just now left the man out on the wagon road. Hes gonna be here in an hour, and I got to ride all the way to Presidio. Ill bring your hundred when I come back with the Rangers. Thats the best I can do.
    Cordelia looked skeptical. What if it isnt him?
    Its him. I seen him in Santa Fe. Hes callin hisself Tom Brown. But heck, youll know him. Dorfman remembered something and laughed. Hes gonna be thirsty.
    Always happy to sell a man a drink, Cordelia said.
    Hell pay for a glass of water, time he gets here. Dorfman turned to go.
    One more thing, Hugo, said Cordelia as he headed for the door. No monkey business inside. You give me the high sign, Ill send him out for you. I cant allow any ruckus inside.
    Cordelia didnt trust Dorfman any further than she could throw him and the horse he rode in on, but a hundred dollars was a hundred dollars. She couldnt recall how many times shed told herself that for the price of a train ticket shed clear out and give the saloon back to the Mexicans and the rattlesnakes. One by one, Rosaless mud buildings had been abandoned and left to crumble; the Paradise would inevitably follow. The very occasional customer, Mexican farmer or hard-up cowboy, didnt have coin enough to keep her in mail-order stockings much less drinkable whiskey.
    She wasnt crazy about being a part of Dorfmans plot. The idea of trapping a man for bounty was naturally repugnant to her. Thinking of it as a sort of civic duty didnt make it go down any better; this Max Barker, whoever he was, hadnt done her any harm. But, a hundred dollars& She wasnt getting any younger. She didnt want to be left behind, thats how it felt. Rosales was turning into a ghost town and she had no desire to be one of the ghosts.
    And there was Danny to think of.
    The first day he walked into the Paradise hed said, Darlin, howd you like to go with me to California?
    Well, shed got that kind of fluff from a hundred men. It was automatic, not to say professionally expedient, to accept his attentions right along with his cash. But it wasnt long before he professed great love for her and went into enough detail about California to make his plans, for the both of them, sound convincing. The problem was hed blown his grubstake on whiskey. Dreaming about the good life and discussing it with Cordelia over drinks was a lot more enjoyable than looking for work. She knew this. She recognized his faults. At the same time, Danny Weaver and California were all she had, and she wasnt going to give up on them without a fight.
    The sun lingered on the horizon as if reluctant to give up the day. Then it dropped, all of a sudden, turning the sky red and immersing the road to Rosales in ruddy, violet-shadowed twilight. To rest his horse, Tom dismounted and continued on foot. The wagon ruts were easy enough to follow, but the residue of his illness and the days long ride had left him weak and discouraged. Holding the canteen under his arm, he cupped his hands and poured out the last of the water for his horse.
    Hed started the day on a positive note, feeling something close to hope or even optimism. The kindness shown him by the Dominguez family had softened something deep inside, just a little. No one had ever, that he could remember, treated him that way. The feeling stayed with him long enough to want to help the man whose horse had thrown him. Without question, if hed come upon Dorfman before the Dominguez experience, he wouldve tipped his hat and kept riding. Tom wondered if that wouldve been the better tack, after all. Helping Dorfman had left him cold. The man was a heel.
    Maybe fate was testing him. Tom shook that idea off, quickly. Just because the Mexicans were devout or, to his way of thinking, wildly superstitious, didnt mean today was the day Tom Brown got religion. Suddenly, a flock of noisy scrub jays flew over, diverting his thoughts, and a faint whiff of smoke told him hed at last reached the town.
    As he approached the scatter of adobe shacks, the crusty surface of the trail began to break up, and Tom felt his boots sink in fine sand. Wagon traffic had pulverized it, but it must have been a long time ago. Rosales looked deserted. The heavy silence hed become accustomed to in the open country was eerie here, among the abandoned and roofless buildings. He entered town from the north and had almost reached the southernmost end when he saw a bit of light in a doorway. Like the other structures, the Paradise was a crumbling box of mud brick. A stone trough was built into its plaster facade, and a burro was tied nearby. It was all he could do to keep his horse from dragging him to the water. While it drank, he walked noiselessly to the door and peered in.
    At first there seemed to be no customers. But then he saw on the left side of the room a man dozing in a chair tipped against the wall. On the right, a Mexican farmer kept himself company drinking from a clay jug. His straw sombrero sat on the little table in front of him.
    Hey!
    Tom jumped. The woman laughed good-naturedly and stepped into the doorway. She mustve been just the other side of the wall.
    Didnt mean to frighten you, mister. Thought I heard something out here. Wanted to make sure it wasnt a wild Indian. Why dont you come in and take a load off? She moved aside, making room for him to enter.
    He followed her sheepishly to the bar. The Mexican gave him a disinterested glance, but the man in the chair was sound asleep, snoring.
    I got half a barrel of Mexican beer and good American whiskey, she said over her shoulder. Whatll it be?
    Water.
    Smiling to herself, Cordelia reached under the bar for a cracked pitcher and filled a beer mug with water. Before she could put the pitcher away, Tom held out his mug for a refill.
    Lord, that tastes good, he said, pausing for breath.
    Seep water, said Cordelia, topping off the mug. Comes right out of a rock near here. I like it better than the stuff in the river. Too many carcasses floating by for my taste.
    Tom drank another half mug in one long draw.
    Youre not from around here, she said casually. She would give the outlaw the same treatment she gave any customer. Shed bat her eyes and make talk. Once he committed to the first drink, shed keep pouring more, drawing him out, laughing at his stories. You did want whiskey? Cordelia said, sliding a shot glass across the counter.
    Tom said, How about a whiskey and a beer.
    We can do that, Cordelia said. When she had his drinks in front of him she held out her hand. Im Cordelia Mornay. This is my place.
    Tom gave it a polite squeeze. Im Tom Brown.
    He drank down the shot and followed it with warm beer. When he set his mug down, he noticed Cordelia had already refilled the shot glass with whiskey.
    Whoa, not so fast.
    Second ones on the house, Cordelia said, hastily. You look thirsty.
    To Tom, she was a welcomed sight. Her hair was piled attractively on her head, and he liked the way she wasnt afraid to look him in the eye. She wore a tight-fitting dress of shiny, dark green material and her high-top shoes were laced around slender, shapely ankles. He knew it was all business, designed to separate him from his money, but, as business arrangements go, Cordelia was looking like a pretty fair investment.
    So, whats to do in Rosales, Tom asked her.
    Other than what youre doing right now? Not a blessed thing, Cordelia answered.
    Any place to eat?
    Last restaurant closed three years ago.
    Tom hoped she would offer him something, anything, but she didnt. Hed finished off the last of Dominguezs corn and beans before dawn and hadnt eaten since. The whiskey was gnawing at his stomach.
    Maybe I got some cornbread, Cordelia said, finally. Hold on while I check the cocina. She disappeared in a doorway at the far end of the bar. He heard pottery clunking. Little cornbread, some pork I can let you have, she called from the other room. My leavings. That all right? Its cold.
    Tom said it was the best offer hed had all day. While Cordelia prepared the leftovers, he studied the cowboy slumped in his chair. There was nothing remarkable about him. Like Tom he was of medium build, a little taller than average, but the cowboy was thicker around the middle. The Mexican farmer gave him a friendly nod when his eyes brushed past, and Tom nodded back. Then both men quickly looked away.
    The light in the saloon was poor, with what there was coming from a half dozen candles, and Tom couldnt tell if the cowboy was awake or not. Hed stopped snoring, but his position hadnt changed. The chair was still tipped back against the wall, the hat tipped forward, obscuring his face in shadow. For an uneasy moment, Tom thought he saw a glint under the brim and wondered if the cowboys eyes were on him. Maybe he was awake but too drunk to move. The table in front of him was cluttered with smudged glasses and an empty tequila bottle. When Cordelia came out with the plate of food, Tom said, Whos the drunk?
    Her cheeks colored furiously. A friend of mine, Mister Brown, she said, banging the plate on the counter in front of him. She threw a knife and fork down beside it.
    Oops, said Tom, trying to smile. I didnt mean any offense, I just
    His name is Danny Weaver, she said. Hes had a hard day.
    Hard night, too, from the looks of things.
    Look, Mister
    Tom ducked his head over his plate and spooned up some cold beans. Until hed had another big mouthful and a bite of cornbread, he dared not look up.
    The remark about Danny stung Cordelia, coming as it did from a perfect stranger, but her show of temper belied what was foremost in her mind; that it wasnt in her interest to run the outlaw off, whatever his opinions. She gave herself a moment, then she said, Hope its not too cold. I figured youd rather have it now than wait for me to get a fire going in the stove.
    Thats right, said Tom. Its good. Mighty good. And, Im sorry about what I said. Shot my mouth off without thinking. He sliced a piece of lean pork off the bone and laid down the knife. He your gentleman friend?
    Cordelia looked away and cleared her throat. Petticoats rustled as she put her foot up on a box and rested her elbow on the bar. It was the first time she avoided his eyes.
    Anyway, Im sure hes a real nice fellow, Tom said.
    A glass shattered and they both looked around in time to see Danny rise unsteadily to his feet. He bumped into his table, coming out from behind it, and the tequila bottle toppled off. Cordelia! he growled. Need a whiskey.
    Cordelia cast a worried glance at Tom before she turned back to Danny. How about some coffee, honey. Ill whip up a fresh pot.
    Naw. The cowboy had taken two wobbly steps when he stumbled and got tangled up in a stool. He cussed and hopped around like a cat had hold of him before he kicked free and sent the stool clattering into a table. Tom couldnt suppress a grin.
    Whats so damn funny, Danny said, glaring at him while he used both hands to readjust his hat. He swayed on his feet like he was standing on a boat.
    Gotta watch out for these here stools, said Tom. Never can tell when ones gonna jump up and bite you. It was meant to be funny. Belligerent drunks could be troublesome, and Tom wanted to make him laugh. Apparently, Danny didnt see the humor. He drew his gun.
    Cordelia shouted, Danny, put that down! She turned to Tom who was already off his stool, moving away from the bar. Mister Brown, he doesnt mean anything! You can see hes drunk! Then, to Danny: Danny! Do as I say! Put the gun down! Mister Brown, please dont shoot! Danny! You dont know what youre doing! Put it down!
    Danny didnt hear a word. A fierce gale was blowing in his head and everything swirled. He licked his lips and squinted down the length of the wavering gun barrel. His target kept changing shape, getting closer, farther away. He jerked the triggerhad he forgotten to cock the hammer? The stranger kept flickering out of his sights. Stay still, damn it! Laughing at me! Laughing. The hammer was halfway back when his thumb slipped and the gun exploded. Did Cordelia scream? Incredibly, the stranger just stood there looking at him. He cocked the hammer again, almost dropped the gun. Something gripped his arm; he couldnt lift it. He yanked the trigger and the hammer went thup. His head snapped back and warm, salty liquid flowed down his throat. The heavy clatter was the noise of his own body hitting the floor.
    Dannys gun was still attached to Toms left hand where the hammer had snapped harmlessly on the web of flesh between his thumb and forefinger. Tom had used his right to put Danny on the floor. Now, he stepped over the prostrate form and gave the gun to Cordelia. Better put this in a safe place, he said, rubbing the little blue spot where the firing pin had bruised it. It just pinched me. His other hand was in worse shape; the skin torn from the knuckles and the fingers already swelling.
    The color had drained from Cordelias face; she trembled as she took the pistol.
    Hell be okay, Tom said wearily. I guess I hit him kind of hard. His own weapon hadnt left its holster.

* * * * *
    Hugo Dorfman raced his mare back to Rosales. He flayed her with a barbed quirt, gouging the hide on her rump and terrorizing her into a breakneck run. She heaved and whistled, but he didnt care if her heart burst as long as she got him to Rosales first. The treacherous night ride to Presidio had been all for naught; the two Rangers were gone to Austin and wouldnt be back until the early hours of the morning. What made it even more galling was that the flunky he awakened at the Ranger office gave his important news short shrift. Hugo wanted him to send riders out the Austin road to flag the Rangers and bring them back in a hurry, but the tin-horn bureaucrat only laughed at him-then slammed the door in his face.
    So, Hugo Dorfman would have to handle it himself. He couldnt recall if the wanted notice had specified alive, but surely a dead outlaw would bring something; enough to make it worth an honest citizens trouble. Killing him wouldnt be much work, but all this mileage to Presidio and back and renting a mule to haul the body; that would add expenses to the operation.
    As he neared the halfway point on the trail between Presidio and Rosales, he thought of a man who lived close by and had an idea. He could use some backup, and there wasnt much this character wouldnt do for a bottle of cheap hooch and a nickel cigar. Cinco was one crazy Yaqui vaquero, and he lived less than a half mile off the road. There might even be a fresh horse in the deal.

* * * * *
    With Cordelias help, Tom dragged Danny over to the wall and propped him up. He wedged his hat behind his head for a cushion, and Cordelia got busy with a damp rag, wiping the blood off his jaw. Shed hung his pistol on a peg behind the bar.
    I guess Ill pay what I owe you, hit the road before he comes to, said Tom.
    Her back was to him, so he couldnt see the sudden, anxious change in Cordelias face. This one isnt going to make any trouble for awhile, she said, with forced pleasantness, I think you saw to that. Why dont you have another drink with me before you go? She tossed the rag on the floor, stood up and wandered over to the table where the Mexican farmer had been. Hed fled when Danny started waving his gun around, but nobody saw him go. She collected the sotol jug and a few coins. What do you say? I owe you for not killing him.
    You dont owe me, said Tom, dispiritedly. I wasnt going to kill him.
     Cordelia tilted her head and gave him a quizzical look. But, you could have.
    You dont know anything about me, lady, Tom said. Ill have that drink with you, but then Im climbing on my horse and
    crossing the river? Cordelia smiled shrewdly. The time had come for confidences, a few heartfelt intimacies at close quarters. She remembered a bottle of perfume in the kitchen; a drop or two in the right place and, not only would Tom Brown stick around, shed have to peel him off when they came for him. But when were Dorfman and the Rangers going to arrive? Soon, she hoped. Her half of the reward was close to walking out the door.
    Tom said, Second time today Ive heard that.
    Only reason a man gets down this way, any more, Cordelia said, wondering where hed heard it the first time. She led him back to the bar. But instead of going around behind it, she stood next to him on the customer side. Oh, theres the occasional out-of-work cowhand. I dont think youre one of them.
    No.
    What are you wanted for? Cordelia let it drop casually, but she knew shed got his attention. It was all part of the performance. Ruffle his feathers, smooth them down; she hadnt met the man who could resist it.
    What am I what? Tom said.
    You wouldnt be down here if you werent intending to cross into Mexico. You wouldnt be crossing into Mexico if you werent wanted. Its so obvious you might as well have a sign on your back. Lucky theres just us chickens, huh, Tom Brown?
    She poured two whiskeys and handed him one. Before he drank, he leaned away from the bar and looked past her to see if Danny had stirred. Cordelia shrugged. Dont worry about him, she said. She lifted Toms hat off and set it on the bar.
    Ive got to go, he said.
    Oh, simmer down, Tom, said Cordelia, moving in close, laying a hand on his arm. Come back to the kitchen with me.
    Tom hesitated.
    Come on, I want to show you something. She took hold of his shirtsleeve and led him around the far end of the bar and through the kitchen door. A little vial of purple liquid sat on a shelf among combs and hairpins. Cordelia took it down and removed the stopper. Lilac, she said. Its supposed to be autumn, but, I swear, it hasnt showed up here. I find this cools me a little. She spotted some on her wrists and dabbed her neck. Smell, she said, turning her head slightly and lifting her chin.
    I can smell it from here, said Tom, retreating out the door.
    Cordelia hurried after him. Wait a minute!
    Tom rounded the bar, Cordelia on his heels. He threw some coins on the counter and picked up his hat. Listen, miss, he said. Something isnt square. You just got done thanking me for not hurting your boy, there. Remember? I dont know what, but youre up to something.
    Cordelia flushed. I havent the slightest
    You were right when you said I was on the run. I am. But that isnt really the reason Im going across that river. Not now, anyway. Somewhere, theres got to be people who wont think they know me before I even walk in the door.
    Really, I
    The minute I saw you I thought, 'this here is a square gal, I can tell just by looking at her.' The thing youre doing doesnt flatter you, Miss Mornay. Couple a days ago, it might have fooled me, but this old man, this girlI guess they sorta turned on a light and opened my eyes.
    Hes raving, thought Cordelia. What are you trying to say, Mister Brown? 
    I was sick. They took me in. They didnt care who I was. They werent after anything. Well, my eyes are open, now, and I can see lies and deception clear as water. You said it yourselfits obvious. Just like that sign on my back.
    Oh, I understand. Saintly peons, Cordelia said, rolling her own eyes heavenward. Some little Juanita gave you a flower and now youre born again. Seen the light, have you, Mister Brown? A lofty sermon, coming from a wanted man, slithering away from justice quick as a snake can crawl. If youre just misunderstood, why dont you turn yourself in?
    Because I know Ive already been judged and found guilty. Funny thing is, Tom said, smiling sadly, I dont even know what for. 'Somebody shot somebody, lets blame it on Barker.
    Who?
    My real name, Miss Mornay. My real name is Max Barker.
    Despite herself, Cordelia was growing uneasy with the situation. The outlaw confessing so readily, without waiting for her to coax it out of him, put an odd slant on things. And as much as she tried to resist it, doubt had begun to eat away at her motives. When were the damn Rangers coming?
    So, Ill bid you goodbye, Miss Mornay, said Tom, turning to go. Instinctively, he glanced at the peg behind the bar where she had hung Dannys pistol. It wasnt there. Danny was still propped against the wall, but he had crossed his legs, and the pistol was cradled in his lap.
    Hey, there, friend, he said, grinning. Blood on his lips made his smile black and ghoulish. Keeping the gun trained on Tom and using the wall for support, he got to his feet. He was still a bit shaky, but Tom could see the gun hand was steady enough to kill him. You laugh at me and then you make a play for my girl. You sorry
    Danny, said Cordelia, stepping tentatively from behind the bar. Its not worth it, honey. You dont know who youre dealing with.
    Shes right, said Tom.
    Were going tomorrow, Danny, Cordelia said, measuring her words like a tonic, to California. Just like we talked about. Were really going to do it.
    You know we aint got the money, said Danny.
    We do now. Soon. But, you have to behave yourself. Mister Brown only wants to drink his whiskey and rest awhile.
    I was leaving, said Tom.
    Dannys eyebrows knotted in boozy concentration. After a moment, he said, Youyou leaving, then?
    Tom said yes.
    Right now? For sure?
    For sure.
    Danny relaxed his grip on the pistoljust as Dorfman and his Yaqui Indian burst into the room.
    Tom was at the bar, behind Cordelia. It was Danny whom theyd startled, who swung around with a gun in his hand. The vaquero was tall and bird-legged in skin-tight britches. His eyes were slightly crossed, as if he were concentrating on the five-cent cheroot in his mouth; a picture of fun, if he hadnt been hiding behind a hog leg Colts. It is understandable that he would mistake Danny for the man they had come for and start shooting. Danny was hit instantly, but he shot back and the vaquero went down. As Cordelia rushed over to him, Danny took aim at Dorfman.
    No! Not you, Danny! Not me! Hugo cried, stumbling backwards, cocking both hammers on his double-barrel ten-gauge. But, before he could squeeze the triggers, he took a bullet through the neck. By jumping onto a stool, Tom had got a clear shot.    
    Cordelia shouted over and over to Danny that he was okay, he was going to be okay, though he wasnt going to be okay with a hole in his stomach and the slug lodged against his spine. Dorfman fought for air, gagging on his own blood.
    The killer hired for the price of a cigar, Cinco, was the only silent casualty. His wound entered his heart and exited through the plumage of a caracara embroidered on the back of his vest. His cheroot smoldered where it fell, the wet end having picked up sand from the floor. A haze of gun smoke hung in the room. With his ears still ringing, Tom told Cordelia if there was a doctor, he would go fetch him.
    No&no doctor&too far, was all she said. She cradled Dannys head in her lap, pressing a fistful of her green dress against the hole in his stomach. Dannys eyes already had a hard-lidded, half-open stare. Not knowing what else to do, Tom poured a mug of water from the cracked pitcher and brought it to her.
    Can he drink? Tom asked hesitantly. But he knew he couldnt. His jaw was slack, his chin sunk into his chest. His breath came in agonized gulps.
    Cordelia lifted her eyes to Tom, her face streaked with tears, her hair wild, Dannys blood on her cheek. Just go, she said in a hoarse whisper. Get away. They were coming for youRangers.
    These arent Rangers. I saw this one today, Tom said, pointing to Dorfman. Chased down his horse for him.
    Cordelia shook her head. He went to get them. He recognized you. He went to get Rangers in Presidio.
    Dorfman wasnt so far gone he couldnt understand what she said. He beseeched Tom with his eyes and twitched his wet, bloody fingers.
    Tom regarded Dorfman a moment, then stepped over him and walked to the door. He looked out into the cold, early-morning gloom. Sunrise was still hours away. His horse stirred behind the water trough. Hugo and the Yaqui had tied their horses down the street. He went outside and took his canteen off his saddle, brought it in to fill from the pitcher, then came back and lingered next to Cordelia.    
    Im sorry, he said.
    Without looking up, she said, Me, too. But, before he reached the door, she called after him. Mr. Brown, I owe you. Even though&
    Tom shook his head.
    Maybe theres something...
    He turned around a final time. There isnt anything. Anyway, you dont owe me. He stepped outside.
    Tom, Cordelia called out again, more urgently. What happened here, it was mywhat I mean to say is, it wasnt your fault.
    Hugo Dorfman lasted until an hour before sunrise, outliving Danny who died in Cordelias arms, just after three oclock. At some point, after Danny had breathed his last, she got up, laid his head on a handkerchief and moved to a chair. All the candles in the place had long since guttered out, and she sat in the dark and the cold, oblivious to any discomfort. The front door faced east, and when the sun came up long shafts of light fanned into the room, transfiguring the suspended dust. Cordelia heard a rooster crow, then hoof beats approaching in the deep sand of the street. There were mens voices, footsteps scraping on the stoop.
    Good God Amighty, said a big, broad man as he stomped dust off his boots and ducked under the door. Another man, a little smaller, lumbered after him. Texas Rangers.
    Maam, the big one said, stooping and frowning in Cordelias face. What happened here?
    She told them how Hugo Dorfman and the vaquero had come after Max Barker, hoping for the reward. "Well, then everybody started shooting, and this," she said with a listless wave of her arm, "was the result."
    Dang! both men exclaimed.
    You all right? the small Ranger thought to ask.
    Cordelia shrugged her shoulders.
    Uh, so& did he get away, said the big one, this Max Barker?
    Something made her hesitate before she could answer or even nod her head. Sooner or later, he would want to come home. They always did, the men who tried to leave their troubles on the river bank. Maybe Tom Brownto her, the name suited him better than his real onedeserved the chance. Avoiding the Rangers eyes, she wiped her face with her dress.
    The big man fumbled with a handkerchief folded in his vest pocket and handed it to her. Maam?
    What? she said, as if hearing him for the first time. Why, no, they shot him. Of course he was quick enough to take those two down with him, sure, but no, thats Max Barker right there, Cordelia said, pointing to Danny Weavers body. He told me who he was. Bragged about it. And that man over there, Hugo Dorfman, recognized him from Santa Fe, New Mexico.
    Yeah, we understood that much. They told us at the office in Presidio hed come inquiring about the reward.
    Cordelia nodded her head. Two hundred dollars.
    Well, actually its a thousand, said the big man. His partner was looking over the bodies, wrinkling his nose and muttering things like gawlee and shee-yikes.
    But its a New Mexico reward and, anyway, they wanted him alive, he said. Im gonna wire and tell them they can take this Barker off their books, but I dont know that therell be any reward to it, anymore. You have an interest? You want me to find out? If theres anything coming, Ill sure see that you get it.
    He rolled the vaquero over with his foot and called for his partner to give him a hand. "Round up some men with shovels," he told him. For God's sake, help this poor woman clean up her saloon.

*~*~*~*~*

Copyright © 2001 J. Ross Brown. All rights reserved.