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kerosene lamps with soot-blackened chimneys. A
telephone and a gun rack hung on the wall by the door. As Sheriff Cooke led them into his office he asked cheerfully, “What do you think, boys—down below zero yet?”
    â€œTen below, I bet,” Tommy said.
    â€œWouldn’t doubt it. Wouldn’t doubt it one bit.”
    The two men from the hotel had filed into the jail behind the boys. The one in the jacket leaned his gun against the wall by the door. Wesley hadn’t heard either man speak, and now they stood by the door as if awaiting orders.
    Sheriff Cooke pointed to the bench across from his desk. “Why don’t you boys sit yourselves down right over there.” He dropped his weight into the swivel chair, which gave out a rusty whine.
    Sheriff Cooke nodded to the men by the door. “You can go take care of matters back there.” They left the jail immediately, and the shorter man left his gun behind.
    Wesley could see inside a back room the bars of jail cells.
    â€œThey’re not both deputies,” Sheriff Cooke explained. “Just Mr. Rawlins in the overcoat. Mr. Rozinski lends us a hand now and then.” He chuckled in a way that caused the loose flesh of his jowls to vibrate. “When we’ve got more outlaws on our hands than we can handle.”
    â€œMaybe you could tell us what you think we did,” said Tommy.
    The sheriff didn’t answer for a long time. He reached into his desk drawer and took out a tin of Velvet tobacco and a packet of rolling papers. He took his time rolling his cigarette, as if he were a man who did not smoke often and so wanted each cigarette to be as well made as possible. He moistened
the paper not by drawing it the length of his tongue but by flicking out his tongue in tiny licks.
    When the wooden match flared, Wesley jumped. He knew then that he was not simply frightened but still a little drunk.
    â€œYou have pie over at the cafe?” Sheriff Cooke asked them.
    â€œYes,” answered Frank.
    â€œWhat’s she serving today?”
    â€œWe had apple.”
    Sheriff Cooke nodded as though Frank was merely verifying something the sheriff already knew. “If there’s someone on the face of this earth who bakes a better pie than Florence Spitzer, I’d like to know who. You did right having pie at the Buffalo Cafe. . . .”
    Wesley thought the sheriff was going to go on and say, “But you did wrong when you—” but his soft high voice just faded away and he fell silent, rocking in his squeaking chair, smoking, and eyeing the boys seated on the bench in front of him.
    Tommy broke the silence. “How long do we have to stay here?” His question was straightforward, without any note of pleading or whining that Wesley could detect.
    Sheriff Cooke answered with a gesture. He swiveled around in his chair and motioned for them to come near. “I want to show you something.”
    They stepped over to the wall Sheriff Cooke was facing. There, along with a Soo Line calendar and some Wanted circulars, were photographs and clippings from newspapers. The sheriff tapped one of the pictures. “Look right here at this one.”

    In the yellow newspaper photograph a group of fifteen or twenty people, mostly men in suits and ties, stood or sat around a table set up outdoors for a ceremony of some sort. In the center of the group was a broad-shouldered, darkskinned, bareheaded Indian in deerskin leggings and a beaded shirt. The Indian had a bow pulled back to full draw and his nocked arrow was aimed at the sky. A few of the people in the photograph looked at the Indian but most stared at the camera.
    Sheriff Cooke stood behind the boys so they could get a better look at the clipping.
    The caption under the photograph read, “Sioux warrior Iron Hail became an American citizen at Fort Duncan, North Dakota. As part of the ceremony, Iron Hail released an arrow into the air and said, ‘I shoot my