scrape and high- pitched beeping of a passing snowplow. The nun mentions the word fever.
    Officer Israel James comes to stand above Ruby curled in the wheelbarrow. He shakes her shoulder. She does not respond. He calls in a report to the dispatcher. She tells him that all the ambulances are busy, that he should transport the girl to the hospital himself. He explains that he's on horseback. The dispatcher tells him to wait while she directs a patrol car his way. He listens and nods, replaces the wireless unit in his shoulder harness.
    The girl has the fever no doubt and to touch her is forbidden if you are anyone but family or a doctor. He guesses a lawman fits somewhere between the two categories. A risk of his life it is and he will do it without thinking, looking at this pale face. How can you turn away? You can't. If it's your time to punch the big clock, so be it.
    The chestnut mare shakes her head and mane, whinnying high- pitched and petulant.
    The policeman takes a handful of sugar cubes from his pocket and holds them out, the horse's tongue warm against his cold fingers. Now, calm down, Apache, he says. This girl's hurt and I think you can wait a few minutes till the wheels arrive.
    Before long he sees a patrol car turn at the intersection and head his way. He stands over Ruby for a moment, plants his feet wide, hefts her into his arms. He carries her to the patrol car, her body limp and lifeless. He waits as the patrolman opens the door and, grunting and breathing hard, he maneuvers her into position on the rear seat. She parts her lips and moans, her eyes half open and dreamy.
Later Officer James is called to defuse a domestic disturbance. At a motel no less. The dispatcher says some couple is shouting and threatening mayhem. Sober guests have complained.
    Israel James does not like motels. They bring out the worst in people. The good take home a bar of soap or vial of shampoo, the polishing cloth for a shoeshine they will never use, maybe the Gideon Bible in times of spiritual doubt. The bad rip the blow dryer out of the wall, burn a hole in the carpet, then strangle a hooker to death after failing to perform, leaving her body beneath the bed or stuffed in the closet, covered with a blanket, behind an ironing board. And the people who are torn between good and bad? They hear the devil whispering, and they listen.
    The Buffalo Head Inn has seen better days, perhaps during the Dust Bowl of the 1930s, when the Joads offered to sweep and mop to pay for the room. It's two stories of bleached and weather- beaten wood done imitation- ski- lodge style, with pine railings adorned with bucking- bronco woodcuts, plank walkways outside the rooms, and room numbers wood- burned on aspen cuts.
    Israel James rides his horse to the office breezeway and dismounts, the leather of his gunbelt creaking. Apache snorts, her shoes popping the pavement. The carport roof above the breezeway catches the sound. He ties her to a wrought- iron bench.
    You behave now, girl, he says. Don't bite the paying cus tomers.
    The parking lot is spotty with old pickups and new Minis, cars so small you expect a troupe of clowns to emerge at every stoplight. Cigarette butts dot the asphalt amid the deadbeat jewelry of broken glass.
    Inside the lobby, a bleached blond sniffs a magazine perfume insert and watches Israel approach. Country music sad- sacks out from a radio. Behind her sits a bassinet with a sleeping child in it. A handwritten sign above the sign- in counter advertises happy hour
5â 7 in the wagon wheel lounge, free beer & wine.
    Her ID tag reads, Fufu. You must be here for the honeymooners, she says. They're in 117.
    You know anything about them?
    Fufu shrugs. The gal's been staying in the room alone mostly. I think
    Officer Israel James comes to stand above Ruby curled in the wheelbarrow. He shakes her shoulder. She does not respond. He calls in a report to the dispatcher. She tells him that all the ambulances are busy, that he should transport the girl to the hospital himself. He explains that he's on horseback. The dispatcher tells him to wait while she directs a patrol car his way. He listens and nods, replaces the wireless unit in his shoulder harness.
    The girl has the fever no doubt and to touch her is forbidden if you are anyone but family or a doctor. He guesses a lawman fits somewhere between the two categories. A risk of his life it is and he will do it without thinking, looking at this pale face. How can you turn away? You can't. If it's your time to punch the big clock, so be it.
    The chestnut mare shakes her head and mane, whinnying high- pitched and petulant.
    The policeman takes a handful of sugar cubes from his pocket and holds them out, the horse's tongue warm against his cold fingers. Now, calm down, Apache, he says. This girl's hurt and I think you can wait a few minutes till the wheels arrive.
    Before long he sees a patrol car turn at the intersection and head his way. He stands over Ruby for a moment, plants his feet wide, hefts her into his arms. He carries her to the patrol car, her body limp and lifeless. He waits as the patrolman opens the door and, grunting and breathing hard, he maneuvers her into position on the rear seat. She parts her lips and moans, her eyes half open and dreamy.
Later Officer James is called to defuse a domestic disturbance. At a motel no less. The dispatcher says some couple is shouting and threatening mayhem. Sober guests have complained.
    Israel James does not like motels. They bring out the worst in people. The good take home a bar of soap or vial of shampoo, the polishing cloth for a shoeshine they will never use, maybe the Gideon Bible in times of spiritual doubt. The bad rip the blow dryer out of the wall, burn a hole in the carpet, then strangle a hooker to death after failing to perform, leaving her body beneath the bed or stuffed in the closet, covered with a blanket, behind an ironing board. And the people who are torn between good and bad? They hear the devil whispering, and they listen.
    The Buffalo Head Inn has seen better days, perhaps during the Dust Bowl of the 1930s, when the Joads offered to sweep and mop to pay for the room. It's two stories of bleached and weather- beaten wood done imitation- ski- lodge style, with pine railings adorned with bucking- bronco woodcuts, plank walkways outside the rooms, and room numbers wood- burned on aspen cuts.
    Israel James rides his horse to the office breezeway and dismounts, the leather of his gunbelt creaking. Apache snorts, her shoes popping the pavement. The carport roof above the breezeway catches the sound. He ties her to a wrought- iron bench.
    You behave now, girl, he says. Don't bite the paying cus tomers.
    The parking lot is spotty with old pickups and new Minis, cars so small you expect a troupe of clowns to emerge at every stoplight. Cigarette butts dot the asphalt amid the deadbeat jewelry of broken glass.
    Inside the lobby, a bleached blond sniffs a magazine perfume insert and watches Israel approach. Country music sad- sacks out from a radio. Behind her sits a bassinet with a sleeping child in it. A handwritten sign above the sign- in counter advertises happy hour
5â 7 in the wagon wheel lounge, free beer & wine.
    Her ID tag reads, Fufu. You must be here for the honeymooners, she says. They're in 117.
    You know anything about them?
    Fufu shrugs. The gal's been staying in the room alone mostly. I think
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