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landing a good job and—and—But I guess I should have known better.”
    “Aw, now, son”—he cleared his throat, looking troubled—“don’t take it that way. I know there ain’t no sense to this, and I don’t like it a bit better than you do. But I ain’t got no choice, Jake Winroy being what he is. Now you just help me out and we’ll get this settled in no time.”
    “I’ll tell you anything I can, Sheriff Summers,” I said.
    “Swell. What about kinfolks?”
    “My father’s dead. My mother and the rest of the family—I don’t know about them. We started splitting up right after Dad died. It’s been so long ago that I’ve even forgotten what they looked like.”
    “Uh-huh?” he said. “Yeah?”
    I started talking. Nothing I told him could be checked, but I could see he believed me; and it would have been strange if he hadn’t. The story was pretty much true, you see. It was practically gospel, except for the dates. There was a hell of a depression in the Oklahoma coal fields in the early twenties. There were strikes and the militia was called in, and no one had money enough for grub, let alone doctors and undertakers. And there was plenty to think about besides birth and death certificates.
    I told him how we’d drifted over into Arkansas, picking cotton, and then on down into the Rio Grande Valley for the fruit, and then over into the Imperial for the stoop crops…Sticking together, at first, then splitting up for a day or two at a time to follow the work. Splitting up and staying split up.
    I’d sold newspapers in Houston. I’d caddied in Dallas. I’d hustled programs and pop in Kansas City. And in Denver, in front of the Brown Palace Hotel, I’d put the bite on a big flashy-looking guy for coffee money. And he’d said, “Jesus, Charlie, you don’t remember me? I’m your brother, Luke—”
    But I left that part out, of course.
    “Uh-huh”—he cut in on me. I’d given him so much he was getting tired. “When did you go to Arizona?”
    “December of ’44. I’ve never been real sure of my birthdate, but I’d just turned sixteen as near as I can figure it. Anyway”—I made a point of being careful about it—“I don’t see how I could have been more than seventeen.”
    “Sure,” he nodded, scowling a little. “Anyone’d know that. Don’t see how you could even have been sixteen.”
    “Well, the war was still on and any kind of help was hard to get. This Mr. Fields and his wife—awfully nice old couple—gave me a job in their filling station, and it didn’t pay much, because it didn’t make much, but I liked it fine. I lived with them, just like I was their son, and saved everything I did make. And two years ago, when Da—I mean, Mr. Fields died, I bought the place from her…I guess”—I hesitated—“I guess that’s one reason I wanted to get away from Tucson. With Dad Fields dead and Mom moved back to Iowa, it just didn’t seem like home any more.”
    The sheriff coughed and blew his nose. “Dang that Jake,” he growled. “So you sold out and came back here, eh?”
    “Yes, sir,” I said. “Would you like to see a copy of the bill of sale?”
    I showed it to him. I also showed him some of the letters Mrs. Fields had written me from Iowa before she died. He paid a lot more attention to them than he had to the bill of sale, and when he was through he blew his nose again.
    “Goldarn it, Carl, I’m really sorry to ’ve put you through all this, but I reckon I’m not through yet. You won’t mind if I do a little telegraphin’ out there to Tucson? I just about got to, you know. Otherwise Jake’ll keep kickin’ up a fuss like a chicken with its head off.”
    “You mean”—I paused—“you want to get in touch with the chief of police in Tucson?”
    “You ain’t got no objections, have you?”
    “No,” I said. “I just never got to know him as well as I did some of the other folks. Could you send a wire to the sheriff, too, and County Judge