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another,” Dray said, setting up the pieces.
    â€œLater,” Gamble said. “Maybe your luck will change.”
    â€œSure,” Dray said, feigning cheerfulness. “Fiddler, have you put some thought into how we’re going to bust out of here?”
    â€œI’m thinking you ought to lower your voice,” Gamble said.
    Dray got up and stretched dramatically.
    â€œI’ve got a notion or two,” Dray said. “Problem is, they all involve a stick of dynamite, two good shovels, and a loaded shotgun. We seem to be in short supply on all accounts. Maybe we could request those things from the jailers next Christmas. And oysters. Have I told you how much I love fresh oysters? I hear that rich old Arthur Stillwell has them shipped in a special tank car up from Port Arthur to Kansas City. Can you imagine? Fresh oysters in Kansas City!”
    Gamble shook his head.
    â€œThief,” Gamble said. “If you could just concentrate on one thing at a time instead of chain firing all of your thoughts at once, you might go further in life. Now, do you think you could find me a newspaper that hasn’t been torn to pieces for use in the necessary and which is not more than a month old? I am curious for news about the war with Spain.”
    There was the rattle of the combination locks in the boxes, and then the guard, Joe Miller, swung open the door to the bullpen. A man in a Prince Albert coat and an impossibly white vest stepped inside and paused. He was in his late thirties, stood six feet tall, had clear gray eyes, and his dark and perfectly combed hair cascaded to his shoulders.
    â€œGood afternoon, gentlemen,” the man said as he walked into the bullpen and stepped among a group of inmates who were sprawled on the floor, a Bible open to Genesis in front of them. “Please, don’t get up.”
    â€œCounselor,” an inmate said, rolling over on an elbow. “The Methodists gave us this Bible to study, and we’re only on the first book, but we’ve hit a snag—this story about Lot and his daughters is a horrible example for such as us, of weak character.”
    â€œBetter skip toward the back and take up the story with Matthew,” the man said. “Nobody can attempt to find justice in the Old Testament and keep his reason intact. Just stick to the words in red letters and you’ll be fine.”
    The man came over to the cage where Gamble sat on his bunk.
    â€œI see they have you in special accommodations.”
    â€œHe called you counselor,” Gamble said. “Just what kind of lawyer are you? If you’re a prosecutor, you can just keep on walking, because I don’t want none of what you’re pushing.”
    â€œI was once or twice a prosecutor,” the man said. “But now I’m a defense attorney. I am in town on some legal business here at the territorial capitol and my friend, Doc Smith, says you might be in need of my services.”
    â€œWhat’s your name?”
    â€œAw, you don’t know who that is?” Dray asked. “That’s Temple Houston, youngest son of Texan hero Sam Houston, and the most famous lawyer from the Indian Nations to the Rio Grande.”
    â€œShut up, thief. I want to hear it from him.”
    Houston smiled.
    â€œThe boy has correctly stated my name,” he said. “As to my reputation, I leave that determination to others.”
    â€œAnd he’s a fast draw and a dead shot,” Dray enthused. “Why, let me tell you that he and his buddy Jack Love are unbeatable! A few years ago, when I was just a kid, I was playing roulette at this dive over on Harrison Avenue and getting taken pretty bad by a rigged wheel when Mister Houston and his friend came in for a beer. Mister Houston shot the place to hell with his Colt and then threw the owner in the street and whipped him like a redheaded stepchild.”
    â€œThat true?” Gamble