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“It might as well be all. We can’t live on what’s left.”

“But I can’t help it. Can’t you see that? Harry got in a fight and we had to help him. It’s just one of those things that happens. You can’t help it.”

“But it seems a little silly, doesn’t it?”

“Mary Ellen, you don’t understand.”

“Doesn’t throwing away three months’ profit in one night seem silly to you?”

“You don’t understand.”

You can be married to a girl for almost a year and think you know her and you don’t know her at all. That’s it. You know how she talks, but you don’t know what she’s thinking. That’s a big difference. But there’s some things you can’t explain to a woman anyway.

He felt a little better. Facing her would not be pleasant—but it still wasn’t his fault.

He rolled over, momentarily studying the ceiling, then he let his head roll on the mattress and he saw the man on the other bunk watching him. He was sitting hunched over, making a cigarette.

Pete Given closed his eyes and he could still see the man. He didn’t seem big, but he had a stringy hard-boned look. Sharp cheekbones and dull-black hair that was cut short and brushed forward to his forehead. No mustache, but he needed a shave and it gave the appearance of an almost full-grown mustache.

He opened his eyes again. The man was drawing on the cigarette, still watching him.

“What time you think it is?” Given asked.

“About nine.” The man’s voice was clear though he barely moved his mouth.

Given said, “If you were one of them over to the Continental I’d just as soon shake hands this morning.”

The man did not reply.

“You weren’t there, then?”

“No,” he said now.

“What’ve they got you for?”

“They say I shot a man.”

“Oh.”

“Fact is, they say I shot two men, during the Grant stage holdup.”

“Oh.”

“When the judge comes tomorrow, he’ll set a court date. Give the witnesses time to get here.” He stood up, saying this. He was tall, above average, but not heavy.

“Are you”—Given hesitated—“Obie Ward?”

The man nodded, drawing on the cigarette.

“Somebody last night said you were here. I’d forgot about it.” Given spoke louder, trying to make his voice sound natural, and now he raised himself on an elbow.

Obie Ward asked, “Were you drinking last night?”

“Some.”

“And got in a fight.”

Given sat up, swinging his legs off the bunk and resting his elbows on his knees. “One of my partners got in trouble and we had to help him.”

“You don’t look so good,” Ward said.

“I feel okay.”

“No,” Ward said. “You don’t look so good.”

“Well, maybe I just look worse’n I am.”

“How’s your stomach?”

“It’s all right.”

“You look sick to me.”

“I could eat. Outside of that I got no complaint.” Given stood up. He put his hands on the small of his back and stretched, feeling the stiffness in his body. Then he raised his arms straight up, stretching again, and yawned. That felt good. He saw Obie Ward coming toward him, and he lowered his arms.

Ward reached out, extending one finger, and poked it at Pete Given’s stomach. “How’s it feel right there?”

“Honest to gosh, it feels okay.” He smiled looking at Ward, to show that he was willing to go along with a joke, but he felt suddenly uneasy. Ward was standing too close to him and Given was thinking: What’s the matter with him?—and the same moment he saw the beard-stubbled face tighten.

Ward went back a half step and came forward, driving his left fist into Given’s stomach. The boy started to fold, a gasp coming from his open mouth, and Ward followed with his right hand, bringing it up solidly against the boy’s jaw, sending him back, arms flung wide, over the bunk and hard against the wall. Given slumped on the mattress and did not move. For a moment Ward looked at him, then picked up his cigarette from the floor and went back to his bunk.

He was sitting on the edge of it when Given opened his eyes—smoking another cigarette, drawing on it and blowing the smoke out slowly.

“Are you sick now?”

Given moved his head, trying to lift it, and it was an effort to do this. “I think I am.”

Ward started to rise. “Let’s make sure.”

“I’m sure.”

WARD RELAXED