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of thought were spinning in his head.
    He thought about the Randalls, and the way they'd acted, or the way the preacher had acted, mostly.   Leaving his wife just lyin' there like that.   Vincent had never seen anything quite like it.
    And Miz Morales and her quite assurrance that her son had not done anything.   It seemed like that family was doomed to trouble.   First the father, now the son.
    But what worried him most was that he believed Paco and his mother.   He was almost convinced that the boy was innocent.
    And what was wrong with that? he thought.
    Nothing, except that there were four or five others who were equally sure Paco was guilty and who were spoiling for trouble, the kind of trouble that Vincent had done his best to avoid, the kind of trouble that could get people killed.
    He swung his legs off the desk and the chair hit the wood floor with a thump.   He would just have to mosey on over to Bigby's and see what the doc had found out about the way the girl had died.   He hated to leave his prisoner, but he figured that the boy would be safe that night.   If anyone got worked up enough for a necktie party, it wouldn't be until later.   At least he hoped so.
    Meantime, maybe Bigby could tell him something.   Like that it had all been a mistake and the girl died in a fall.
    He locked the front door of the jail as he left.

9.

    Hank Moran had drifted into Sharpsville a couple of days before, not on his way to anywhere in particular, just looking for a place to hang his hat and play cards for a day or two.   Sharpsville was close to a place called Dry Springs, a place where he'd had a spot of bad luck a few years back, but that didn't bother him.   He was superstitious about a lot of things, but not about killing a Mexican.
    There were only three other men left in the saloon, the bartender and the two men at Moran's table.   The bartender was ready to close the place up, and he stood behind his long bar, polishing and repolishing it with a greasy rag.
    The other two were not as eager to leave.   There was a pile of their money in front of Moran, and they wanted to get it back.   It seemed to both of them that something was slightly wrong with the way the game was going, but neither could figure out just exactly what it might be.
    There had been others in the game earlier, but they had all cut their losses and left at a decent hour.   Before too long the roosters would be crowing and it would be time to go to work.
    Moran was cheerfully dealing one more hand.   He was a thin, pale man with cadaverous cheeks, and he looked like a smiling corpse.   He carefully avoided what he thought to be common failing of some other gamblers he knew, taking great care never to appear too flashy.   He wore faded levi's, a white cotton shirt, a tan vest, and suspenders.
    Strapped to his leg was the .44 that had killed Roberto Morales. That had been an unfortunate event brought about by Morales catching on to Moran's habit of marking the cards, something that no one else had ever done, before or since, though of course he had often been accused of cheating and had been involved in more than one powerful dust-up, the kind of thing that he regarded as merely an occupational hazard.
    Moran was not greedy, however, and he did not like to take risks.   To keep his troubles to a minimum, he never resorted to fancy devices like holdouts or shiners.   He never dealt from the bottom or got fancy with cutting the deck, and he never tried to ring in a cold deck.   In fact he never offered to provide the cards for any game.   He always had a fresh deck or two on him, but he used them only when asked.
    What he did was simple.   He marked the deck he was using, whoever it belonged to, during the course of the game.
    His hands were long and soft, his fingers supple and quick, his fingernails sharp, especially the nail of his right thumb, which was filed to razor keenness.   All it took was a nick on the edge of the important