“Looking for work,” I said.

The conductor looked at Virgil and at me and at the eight-gauge. From the corner of his eye, he took a quick look at Allie in her pathetic dress and ratty Mexican sandals. But he didn’t look long.

“I guess you’re not cowboys,” he said.

“No,” I said. “We ain’t.”

“Well, good luck with it,” the conductor said.

“How long to Greavy?” I said.

“Maybe another hour or so,” the conductor said.

“Got a place there to buy ladies’ clothes?” I said.

“Sure, up-and-coming little town, Greavy. Got a good general store. Sells most everything.”

“Thanks,” I said.

He gave his cap bill a little tug and headed back down the train.

Nobody said anything for a while. Virgil remained motionless.

Then Allie turned from the window and said, “Thank you for asking about the clothes, Everett.”

I was pretty sure that was for Virgil. I was pretty sure all of her conversation had been for Virgil. She knew he wasn’t sleeping.

“Pleasure,” I said.

9

GREAVY WAS AN IMPROVEMENT over Placido. It was neat. Several of the buildings were painted. There were two restaurants, a bank, a big general store, and a big livery stable. We got Allie some clothes, ate some boiled beef and pinto beans at Chez Barcelona, and strolled on down to the marshal’s office. Allie hung back as we went in, and stood outside near the door. The marshal was a square-built man named Sheehan. He was as tall as Virgil and a little shorter than me. He wasn’t wearing a gun, though a Winchester lay on the desk beside him as we talked.

“Nope, sorry, boys,” he said. “Got six deputies already. More than the town needs except when they bring cattle in. You boys been marshaling before?”

“We have,” Virgil said.