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walked to the bottom of the stairs that led to our seats, his cleats clicking on the concrete, and pointed into the stands, as though recognizing an old friend.
    “Billy Bob?” Cleo said.
    “Yes?”
    “I think that man’s trying to get our attention.”
    “I don’t know any rodeo clowns.”
    She looked down at the program in her hand. When she glanced up again, her hand touched the top of my wrist.
    “He’s coming up here. Billy Bob, look at his eyes,” she said, staring straight ahead.
    They were recessed and wide-set, filled with an irreverent, invasive light.
    He walked up the stairs two steps at a time, his legs lifting him effortlessly. He stopped at our row and pulled off his fright wig and held it on his heart.
    “Why, howdy do, Mr. Holland. Bet you don’t know who I am,” he said.
    “No, I don’t,” I said.
    “Wyatt Dixon. Lately of Fort Davis, Texas. Before that, of Huntsville, Texas,” he said, and extended his hand. The wind blew against his back, and I could smell a hot, dry odor like male sweat that has been ironed into a shirt.
    I took his hand. It was as rough as a rooster’s leg, scaled along the edges, the lines in his palm seamed with dirt.
    “You know me from somewhere, Mr. Dixon?” I asked.
      “Not me. My sister did, though. Katie Jo Winset was her married name. You call her to mind?”
    “I sure do.”
    “She’d be flattered. Except she’s in the graveyard.”
    “Same one her child’s buried in? The one she smothered?” I asked.
    He set one cleated foot on the concrete step above him and leaned one arm down on his knee, so that his face was next to Cleo’s, his breath touching her skin.
    “God bless this country. God bless this fine-looking woman here. Womanhood is the Lord’s most special creation. It’s an honor to be here to entertain y’all,” he said.
    “Thanks for dropping by, Mr. Dixon. Stay in touch,” I said.
    “Oh, I will. Yes-sirree-bobtail. You’ll know when it’s my ring, too.”
    “I’m looking forward to it,” I said, and winked at him.
    But he didn’t ruffle. His lantern jaw seemed to be hooked forward, his eyes holding on mine. Then he jogged down the stairs, his arms cocked at his sides, his football cleats clattering on the concrete, his whipcord body jiggling.
    He stopped at the bottom of the stands and counted out several dollar bills to an Indian hot-dog vendor and pointed up at us. The vendor, who was overweight and wore a large white box on a strap around his neck, began laboring up the stairs toward us.
    “I can’t believe I just listened to that conversation,” Cleo said.
    The vendor stopped at the end of the row and handed us two fat hog dogs wrapped in napkins, dripping with chili and melted cheese. Wyatt Dixon was watching us from the top of a bucking chute. I stood up so he could see me clearly and pointed to the hot dog in my left hand and made an “A-okay” sign of approval with my thumb and forefinger.
    “I can’t believe you just did that,” Cleo said.
    “Grin at the bad guys and never let them know what you’re thinking. It drives them crazy,” I said.
    “What if they’re already crazy?” she said.
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter
    5
     
     
    I CALLED the sheriff in Missoula early next morning, then drove in to meet him at his office. When I entered the office, he was standing at his window, looking out at the street, dressed in a blue, long-sleeve shirt, charcoal-black striped trousers, and a wide leather belt. I realized he was even a bigger man than I’d thought. His arms were propped against the sides of the window, and his back and head blocked out the view of the street entirely.
    “I checked on that gal, Dixon’s sister, what’s-her-name, Katie Jo Winset. Evidently she was a professional snitch. She died of a heart attack while being taken from the woman’s prison to a trial in Houston,” he said. “Why would her brother want to put it on you?”
    “She killed her own child. I got her to plead out.