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‘Course, Texas weren't so crowded then. Escondido was just two shacks on either side of the trail, with a well in back and a couple of shit houses. People were friendly then, and we stuck together.”
    â€œThat's not the way I heard it,” Duane said. “Aren't border towns places where outlaws go?”

    â€œYou've always got yer outlaw element,” Twilby said, as he wrinkled his tiny nose. “Wasn't two robbers crucified alongside Jesus?”
    â€œWho keeps law and order in this town?”
    â€œNobody.”
    â€œWhat would happen if the owlhoot in the green shirt walked up to me and said he was a-gonna blow my brains out?”
    â€œUp to you to blow his brains out first. But most men in this town ain't a-lookin’ fer trouble. They come here to git away from trouble. Know what I mean?”
    â€œI'm surprised the Fourth Cavalry doesn't show up one morning and clean the whole place out.”
    â€œYou can hear the Fourth Cavalry coming twenty miles away, and by the time they arrived all the out-laws would be gone. I know it, you know it, and the Fourth Cavalry knows it. That's why they don't come so often.”
    Duane examined the old stablemaster's face. It was deeply lined, with pouches of sadness beneath his eyes, his nose laced with red veins, marks of a drunkard. Twilby had a logical mind, Duane thought. Saint Thomas Aquinas himself couldn't've said it better. The stablemaster is on the dodge too, he knows the territory, and he's a good man to know. Perhaps God has sent him to me, to teach me about dangerous little border towns.

    The man called Jones entered the Last Chance Saloon, and spotted his companions sitting at a table against the side wall. He puffed a cigarette as he strode toward them, his angry outlaw vision searching for possible threats. He was wanted for robbery, burglary, and murder in a variety of jurisdictions.
    He approached the table. Cassidy, the bully with the silver star-of-Texas belt buckle, pulled up a chair. “Where the hell you been?” he asked. “We've been a-waitin’ on you fer an hour.”
    Jones dropped onto the chair, rested his hand on his gun, and said, “I nearly shot some son of a bitch just now.”
    Their leader was Harold McPeak, thirty-five years old, former sergeant in the Confederate Army, also wanted for a variety of offenses. He wore a green shirt and had a bony face with large ears. “What happened.”
    â€œHe said somethin’ he shun't.”
    McPeak appeared annoyed. “I thought we were supposed to stay out've trouble.”
    â€œWas I supposed to lie down and die?”
    â€œYou were supposed to be here an hour ago.”
    Jones looked around and grinned. “It don't look like a bad place to wait. Everybody says it's the best saloon in town. I need a waitress. Hey ... bitch!”
    She had black hair to her shoulders and bright red lips. “Yes sir?”
    â€œGimme a whisky.”
    She removed a glass from her tray and placed it before him. “Fifty cents.”

    He tossed the coin onto her tray with one hand and pinched her ass with the other. She forced a smile, but there was fury in her eyes. “Thank you, sir.”
    Jones sipped the whisky, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His clothes were ill-fitting, and he wore an egg stain on his dirty white shirt. “Where was we?”
    â€œWe was supposed to be talkin’ about the next job, but yer late. If you can't be on time, you'd better start a-lookin’ fer another gang.”
    â€œOkay . . . okay,” Jones said. “I'm here. What's the deal?”
    McPeak smiled, and said in a low tone: “Boys, we're a-gonna hit the sweetest little bank you ever saw. It's in a town called Shelterville, about five days east of here, and they got this nice old sheriff who wouldn't hurt a fly, plus lots of good church folk who'd hide at the first shot. We'll ride into town one by one in the