Demery moved to the door. He held the screen open for Renda, saying, “You generally sign the voucher on the bar, don’t you? Why take extra steps?” Renda said nothing. He walked past Demery into the adobe. Demery followed him, turning to wink at Karla before the screen closed behind him.

Karla walked toward the shed now. As she reached the corner of the adobe, Brazil, still mounted, called, “Don’t get too close…one of them’s liable to grab you.” He grinned at her, cradling the Winchester in the crook of his arm and took out tobacco to make a cigarette.

The man in the wagon bed, a tall, gaunt-faced dark-bearded convict, his hands on his hips, looked down at her. “That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?”

Karla said nothing. She looked away indifferently, but gradually her eyes returned to the convict wearing number 18.

He lifted a bundle of pick handles over the side-board, then leaned against a support post, removing his hat. As Karla watched, she saw it: his hair light brown though it appeared darker, wet with perspiration. His features were even, features that were almost soft, yet distinctive and would be easily remembered. Part of his forehead was a white band that the sun had not reached and it contrasted vividly with the deep tan of his jaw line.

Karla turned, hearing the screen door again. Renda was saying something as they approached. Then, as they drew nearer, she heard her father say, “They got here about suppertime yesterday.”

“If I’d known,” Renda said, “I could’ve picked them up last night.”

“Do you think,” Demery asked, “I should have ridden all the way up to tell you?”

“You could’ve sent Karla.”

“Look,” Demery stated. “You pay five dollars more freight costs and it’s delivered right to your door.”

Renda shook his head. “Willis figured this way was cheaper.”

“Was he sober when he figured it?”

Renda smiled now. “That’s no way to talk about our superintendent. Willis Falvey knows his figures.”