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Not only had he made him deputy, but John Benedict had given him a pair of American boots and a pistol, free, which had belonged to a man who had been hanged the month before. Tio Robles had told him to destroy the hanged man’s goods, for it was a bad sign; but that’s all Tio knew about it. He was too much Mexicano. He would go on sweating at the wagonyard, grumbling, and drinking more mescal than he could hold. It was good he lived with Tio and was able to keep him out of trouble. Not all, some.

His head was down against the glare and he watched his booted feet move over the street dust, lost in thought. But the gunfire from up- street brought him to instantly. He broke into a slow trot, seeing a lone man in the street a block ahead. As he approached him, he angled toward the boardwalk lining the buildings.

SID ROMAN STOOD square in the middle of the street with his feet planted wide. There was a stubble of beard over the angular lines of his lower face and his eyes blinked sleepily. He jabbed another cartridge at the open cylinder of the Colt, and fumbled trying to insert it into one of the small openings. The nose of the bullet missed the groove and slipped from his fingers. Sid Roman was drunk, which wasn’t unusual, though it wasn’t evident from his face. The glazed expression was natural.

Behind him, two men with their hats tilted loosely over their eyes sat on the steps of the Samas Café, their boots stretched out into the street. A half-full bottle was between them on the ramada step. A third man lounged on his elbows against the hitch rack, leaning heavily like a dead weight. Jimmy Robles moved off the boardwalk and stood next to the man on the hitch rack.

Sid Roman loaded the pistol and waved it carelessly over his head. He tried to look around at the men behind him without moving his feet and stumbled off balance, almost going down.

“Come on… who’s got the money!” His eyes, heavy lidded, went to the two men on the steps. “Hey, Walt, dammit! Put up your dollar!”

The one called Walt said, “I got it. Go ahead and shoot,” and hauled the bottle up to his mouth.

Sid Roman yelled to the man on the hitch rack, “You in, Red?” The man looked up, startled, and stared around as if he didn’t know where he was.

Roman waved his pistol toward the high front of the saloon across the street. SUPREME, in foot-high red letters, ran across the board hanging from the top of the ramada. “A dollar I put five straight in the top loop of the P.” He slurred his words impatiently.

Jimmy Robles heard the man next to him mumble, “Sure, Sid.” He looked at the sign, squinting hard, but could not make out any bullet scars near the P. Maybe there was one just off to the left of the S. He waited until the cowman turned and started to raise the Colt.

“Hey, Sid.” Jimmy Robles smiled at him like a friend. “I got some good targets out back of the jail.”

Aiming, Sid Roman turned irritably, hot in the face. Then the expression was blank and glassy again.

“How’d you know my name?”

Jimmy Robles smiled, embarrassed. “I just heard this man call you that.”

Roman looked at him a long time. “Well you heard wrong,” he finally said. “It’s Mr. Roman.”

A knot tightened the deputy’s mouth, but he kept the smile on his lips even though its meaning was gone. “All right, mester. It’s all the same to me.” John Benedict said you had to be courteous.

The man was staring at him hard, weaving slightly. He had heard of Sid Roman, old man Remillard’s top hand, but this was the first time he had seen him close. He stared back at the beard-grubby face and felt uneasy because the face was so expressionless—looking him over like he was a dead tree stump. Why couldn’t he get laughing drunk like the Mexican boys, then he could be laughing, too, when he took his gun away from him.

“Why don’t you just keep your mouth shut,” Roman said, as if that was the end of it. But then he added, “Go on and sweep out your jailhouse,” grinning and looking over at the men on the steps.

The one called Walt laughed out and jabbed at the other man with his elbow.

Jimmy Robles