A young girl starting to bud sat on cow-feed sacks in her shorts drinking an RC Cola. Raylan had bought Beech-Nut scrap in stores like this when he was a kid, wanting to hurry up and get enough size to become a federal officer, the kind went after armed felons.

The girl on the cow-feed sacks kept looking up at Raylan like she was wondering about him, thinking hard of something to say, until she found a sweet voice to ask him, “Sir, would you think I’m bold to inquire what you do as your job?”

Raylan smiled. “Which one’s the question, what I think or what I do?”

Pervis Crowe, called “Speed” in the magazine, said, “Loretta, don’t you know Drug Enforcement, you see a man wearin a suit of clothes? They come around sniffin the air.”

“You got me wrong,” Raylan said, “I’m marshals service. We go around smelling the flowers, till we get turned on to wanted felons. I understand, Mr. Crowe, you have a couple of boys work illegal trades.”

Pervis said, “You hold warrants on ’em?”

“I did, they’d be gone,” Raylan said. “You wouldn’t see ’em for goin on two hundred and forty months.”

“Where you been?” Pervis said. “I don’t know a judge hands down more’n a few years.”

“Doesn’t matter to me,” Raylan said. “I wondered if you’re related to the Florida Crowes.”

“From some distance. How they makin it?”

“Doin time or dead,” Raylan said. “I sent one to Starke while I was workin down there. I did wonder, is that Dewey Crowe one of yours? Wears gator teeth and joined that Heil Hitler club? Told me he was from Belle Glade.”

“I mighta heard of the boy,” Pervis said, “but he don’t raise my interest none.”

“Wants you to know he’s bad,” Raylan said, “but doesn’t have it down yet. I’d like to meet your boys.”

“They’re a different stock,” Pervis said. “Wear clean clothes every day and drive Chevrolets.”