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going,” Rowdy said, with a grin. “The train’s got a schedule to keep.”
    With that, there was some hand-shaking, and some fare-thee-wells, then the whole crowd of them boarded, even the yellow dog. Wyatt stood there, Rowdy’s star-shaped badge heavy in his left hand, and wondered how he’d gotten himself into this situation. It was all well and good to figure on running for it before Sam and Rowdy caught up to what was left of the Justice gang and learned that he, Wyatt, had ridden with the sorry outfit. The trouble was, except for stealing one of his brother’s horses, a thing Rowdy had rightly guessed he could not do, and taking to the trail, he didn’t have any choice but to stay right there in Stone Creek.
    Hell, he might as well just shut himself up behind the cell door over there in the jailhouse right now and be done with it.
    He watched, feeling a strange combination of misery and anticipation, as the train pulled out of the depot onto a curved spur, Stone Creek being at present the end of the line, and snaked itself around to chug off in the other direction. Steam billowed from the smokestack as it picked up speed.
    When he turned to walk away, he almost collided with a small boy in knee pants and a woolen coat.
    The kid’s gaze fastened on Rowdy’s star as Wyatt pinned it to his shirt.
    â€œYou the law around here?” the boy asked, squinting against the bright August sun as he looked up at Wyatt.
    â€œFor the moment,” Wyatt said.
    â€œOwen Langstreet,” the child replied, putting out a small hand with manly solemnity. “I got expelled from school for throwing a girl named Sally Weekins down the laundry chute. Not that you can arrest me or anything, Sheriff—?”
    â€œName’s Wyatt Yarbro,” Wyatt told young Mr. Langstreet, “and I’m not the sheriff. That’s an elected office, one to a county. Reckon my proper title is ‘deputy marshal.’ Why would you go and dump somebody down a laundry chute?”
    â€œIt’s a long story,” Owen answered. “She didn’t get hurt, and you can’t arrest me for it, anyhow. It happened in Philadelphia, and that’s outside your jurisdiction.”
    Wyatt frowned. “How old are you?”
    â€œTen,” Owen said.
    â€œI’d have pegged you for at least forty.” Wyatt started back for the main part of town, one street over, figuring he ought to walk around and look like he was marshaling. He wasn’t looking forward to going back to the jail; it would be a lonely place, with nobody else around.
    â€œThere probably aren’t any laundry chutes in Stone Creek,” Owen went on, scrambling to keep up. “Papa says it’s a one-horse, shit-heel town in the middle of nowhere. Even the hotel only has two stories. And no elevator.”
    â€œThat so?” Wyatt replied. The kid talked like a brat, using swear words and bragging about poking a girl down a chute, but there was something engaging about him, too. He wasn’t pestering Wyatt out of devilment; he wanted somebody to talk to.
    Wyatt knew the feeling.
    â€œHe’s going to take Aunt Sarah’s bank away from her,” Owen said.
    Wyatt stopped cold, looked down at the kid, frowning. “What?”
    â€œPapa says there’s something rotten in Denmark.”
    â€œJust who is your papa, anyhow?”
    â€œHis name is Charles Langstreet the Third,” Owen replied matter-of-factly. “You’ve heard of him, haven’t you?”
    â€œCan’t say as I have,” Wyatt admitted, setting his course for the Stockman’s Bank, though he had no business there, without a dime to his name. If Sarah was around, he’d tell her he was Rowdy’s deputy now, out making his normal rounds. It made sense for a lawman to keep an eye on the local bank, didn’t it?
    â€œHe’s very rich,” Owen said. “I’m going to have to make my