“Sis, that’s what I’m trying to do. You don’t even know his name.”

Karla looked at her father hopefully. “I was going to ask you to ask Mr. Renda.”

“What good would it do you to know it?”

“I was thinking of writing to Mr. Martz,” Karla said. “He’s in the courthouse every day. He could look up his record-”

“You’d write all the way to Prescott to find out why he’s in?”

“I can’t think of any other way.”

“Waste Lyall Martz’s valuable time on an errand like that-”

“He’d do it for me.”

“Sis, you’re sure of yourself. I’ll say that.”

“Don’t you think he would?”

“I’m not going to encourage you.”

Karla hesitated. “Will you ask Mr. Renda his name?”

Demery shook his head. “You might have a pure, kindly feeling about the boy, but don’t ask me to be a party to it.”

“Then you won’t.”

“Ask him yourself.”

“He’d think it was funny. A girl asking.”

“No funnier than me doing it. ‘Frank, what’s that boy’s name, number 18? Karla’s got a warm feeling for him, wants to know all about him.’ ”

Karla grinned. “Not like that. Just say you think you recognize him from somewhere. Or he looks like someone who used to work for you. I couldn’t tell Mr. Renda that, but you could.”

“With Frank’s shifty-eyed nature,” Demery said, “right away he’d suspect something.”

Karla winked at him. “Not the way you’d handle it, Pa. Smooth as silk.”

Demery eyed his daughter in silence. “You know where you ought to be? Up in Prescott with Lyall. He’d use you to soften up the juries.”

Karla smiled. “You’ll ask him?”

Demery looked off toward Renda who stood near the wagon watching the supplies being loaded. He called out, “Frank-” and as Renda turned, “Here’s your voucher!”

Renda left the wagon and as he reached them he said to Demery, “Don’t strain yourself.”