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outflung hand, bent but not broken. He didn’t feel like pretending to grope around for them just now. He and Sister Gus surveyed each other across the body, and after a few seconds she thought to pull the torn halves of her habit together across her bosom. “That was a lucky blow you struck with your cane, Mr. Cordoba,” she said slowly.
    “Wasn’t it? God was with us today, no question about it.”
    “A miracle?” she suggested, narrow-eyed.
    “Exactly—a miracle. Well, let’s see what he looks like.” She went very still. “Figure of speech,” he explained after a pregnant pause. “Sweeney said they all had on hoods.” She eyed him for another two seconds, then reached down to peel Fireplug’s burlap bag away from his face. Without surprise, Reuben took note that he was Chinese, and about twenty years old. “Well?”
    “Old guy,” she said without inflection. “Red hair, balding.”
    He stroked his chin. “See what he’s got on him.”
    “What?”
    “Identification.”
    “Why?”
    “Because his friends have my money,” he explained patiently.
    “But the police—” She stopped, obviously seeing his point. With visible distaste, she started to rummage around in Fireplug’s pockets. She paused with her hand inside his coat, and slowly withdrew a small clay object. A statue, about four inches high. They stared at it for a full half minute, neither speaking. Reuben thought it looked like the body of a man with the head of a cat.
    “Anything?” he asked.
    “Nothing yet.” Deliberately holding his gaze, Sister Gus slipped the statue down the front of her lacy white chemise.
    She went back to her search. From the robber’s trouser pocket, she extracted a folded piece of paper. Reuben caught a glimpse of long columns of Chinese characters before she glanced up at him. “Laundry ticket,” she said blandly, and slipped it down her front as well.
    Willis hobbled toward them, supported by Sweeney. The driver’s face was ash-gray and there was a swollen bruise on his temple, but his eyes were fairly clear and his voice was steady. “Anybody hurt?” he asked. They said they were fine and asked him how Blalock was doing. “He’ll be okay if we get him to a doctor pretty soon. How’s this one?” He tapped Fireplug’s elbow with the toe of his boot.
    “Out cold,” said Sister.
    “There’s a Wells Fargo relay station about twelve miles back. I can send a wire from there to the sheriff in San Mateo. Sorry to delay your trip, folks, but the sheriff’ll be wanting to talk to all of us about this terrible business.”
    Out of the question, thought Reuben. He saw the same lack of enthusiasm for speaking to the sheriff flicker across the nun’s face, too.
    “I must go and see to poor Mr. Blalock,” she murmured, rising to her feet. The pious note in her voice put him on guard. He muttered something to Willis and Sweeney about helping her, and followed.
    The bandits had left Fireplug’s horse behind and it was still standing by the stagecoach, grazing. When Sister Gus neared it, the animal shied and trotted a little way down the road, spooked by her flowing black robes. She glanced back then and saw Reuben, and immediately changed direction for Blalock, who had collapsed against the stagecoach’s rear wheel. She knelt down beside him and touched his face, but he didn’t open his eyes.
    Sweeney and the driver staggered up, lugging Fireplug between them. “Mr. Cordoba, we’ve got the outlaw here,” panted Sweeney, “right over here to your left. Do you think you could help us get him into the stage? He’s heavier than he looks, but I think if you grabbed his feet we could hoist him in there. Right over here. Got him?”
    Reuben took hold of the bandit’s ankles and helped sling him inside the stagecoach. Sweeney clambered up after him, pulling and shoving at Fireplug’s dead weight until he had him slumped on the floor with his back propped against the far door. Willis, meanwhile, tied