“I think it had plenty to do with her,” Quinn said. “They lynched the wrong man.”

“Who the hell said it was the wrong man?” Royce said. “Seems like the right fella to me.”

“Diane Tull said it was the wrong man,” Quinn said. “She was the victim. She was there. You’d think she’d know better than anyone.”

“You being a smartass, son?” Royce asked, cocking his head like a rooster does, standing there in his grassless yard in front of his shack and amid his pack of dogs. “Your father was a smartass, too. You really want to bring all this out? Your daddy was right in the middle of it all.”

“Tell me about it, then, Mr. Royce,” Quinn said, one hound lifting his head up into Quinn’s hand and looking for some kind of appreciation. “I’d like to know.”

“You think you know more than me?”

“No, sir.”

“You think your uncle was a crook ’cause he fell in with Stagg and I might be a crook, too?”

“Nope.”

“You can do what you like,” Royce said, “but I’d stand back and let nature take its course. Johnny Stagg is a rotten son of a bitch. You believe that he’s the savior of Jericho? Bullshit. He’s lining his pockets and looking for ways to cornhole us all.”

“Probably.”

The wind ruffled the man’s thin white hair, shining his red cheeks. He wore a dirty white T-shirt and open canvas jacket.

“You know, I’ve always enjoyed watching them animal shows on the television,” Royce said. “See how one animal group takes over another. You got the fella taking the pictures, standing back, and watching that lion eat that antelope. He could intervene, but why would he? It’s just the way of the world.”

“And the way of the world is to side with Chains LeDoux?” Quinn said. “Never mind he lynched an innocent man.”

“What happened to you in the Army?” Royce said. “You’d sell out your own father for some damn worthless black. A man whose own people served him up.”

“How’s that?” Quinn asked, the friendly dog trotting away. A bright cold wind swept across the hill where Royce stood, battering his door. The old man, standing sure-footed and mean, wrinkled, brittle-boned, and frail.

“I ain’t talking no more,” Royce said. “No, sir. Doesn’t matter. You won’t be sheriff much longer. People say you’re finished.”

“I’ve heard that, too.”

“You’re too quick on the draw.” Royce said. “A good lawman needs to think before he acts. You ain’t thinking right now worth a shit, Quinn. You really want to look out for the interests of the man who killed your uncle?”

They came for Johnny Stagg two nights later, fifteen minutes after he’d left the Rebel and was driving home in his maroon Cadillac El Dorado listening to Conway Twitty on a local station. Ringold was following him in his black Suburban, as he had for the last several weeks, making sure Stagg’s house was empty and safe and often sitting on the house through the night so Stagg could get some sleep. But he hadn’t gotten but a mile down County Road 382 when four pickup trucks came up on them fast, getting between Ringold’s vehicle and the ElDo and boxing him in good. Stagg nearly mashed the brake flat when that jacked-up truck with the Mexican flag and a gold eagle on the tailgate crossed in front. The back glass slid open and a gun slid out, taking aim right for Stagg’s windshield.

Stagg decided to just slow it down, drop the accelerator, keep the pace, and see where they were wanting to take him and how the hell Ringold would get him out of this bullshit and earn his pay.

There wasn’t much on 382, as most of the land Stagg had logged out. For five hundred acres, the earth shone scarred and barren in the moonlight. Nobody living out on this busted-up land. Stagg had taken out all the trees until he got his ranch house set up on a hill and surrounded by twenty acres of scrub pine, which was plenty for him and the wife he used to have before she left him for a queer hairdresser from Madison.

He dropped down to thirty and then twenty miles per hour, and then the trucks in front, behind, and beside him slowed down. In his rearview, he could see another truck with three fellas in the bed aiming automatic weapons at Ringold’s SUV.

Ringold was good. But ain’t nobody that good. Goddamn Mexicans.

The El Dorado’s engine hummed as Stagg reached under his seat for a shiny .45 with a turquoise grip to aim between the eyes of the first sack of shit who popped up in the window. He’d slipped it to his left side, right beside the driver’s door, using his other hand to let down the window and some cold air in.

The entire road and some cedar fence posts and barbed wire glowed white hot and red from the head- and taillights. Maybe forty feet ahead of him, two deer turned to stare, glassy-eyed, from the roadside and then crossed over fast, jumping over the barbed wire fence, tails twitching as they bounced over the barren hills.

Four men approached the open window.

The man in the middle was the tatted-up, bald-headed biker who called himself Animal. Stagg thought about raising that .45 fast and hard in the dark and aiming right for where he’d inked that dreamcatcher on his throat. But that’d leave three, Mr. Ringold being out of the picture, and Stagg could never fire quick enough to stop them from taking his old ass out.

Stagg breathed in a long sigh as they came up on his window, a few more Mexicans on the passenger side, staring at him, reminding him of a safari ride where you could get real close to the beasts.

Animal reached into the Cadillac, across Stagg, and turned off the key. “Get out.”

“I’d rather sit right here,” Stagg said, holding that gun, “if it’s all the same.”

“Nope,” Animal said, in that broken, messed-up voice. He punched the unlock button on the door, popped the handle, and pulled Stagg out by the front of his Ole Miss sweater-vest, balling it up good and tight in his hand, and throwing him hard down into a dug gulley filled with old leaves, branches, fast-food wrappers, and busted beer cans.

“We got your attention?” Animal said.

Stagg was flat on his back, the wind knocked out good and hard from his lungs, getting his breath back as he lifted up on his elbows, ass still on the ground. He nodded. Wasn’t no use fighting.

Animal aimed a pistol at Stagg down in the ditch. All the truck engines still chugging around them on the barren road. Bright lights showing the faces of brown-skinned Mexes and filthy white men in leather jackets and jean vests. Money sure does make for some strange bedfuckers.

“We got a couple options for you,” Animal said, “and only one of them keeps your old ass above ground and breathing.”

•   •   •

Quinn had gotten the call as he was reaching for his jacket and cap and leaving the sheriff’s office for the night. He had an unlit cigar in his teeth and a laptop computer in a green protective shell under his arm. There were some reports he needed to finish, but he was headed over to Ophelia’s for supper first. She’d bought some T-bones, sweet potatoes, and cold beer. She would make a salad and Quinn could cook the steaks and bake the potatoes on the grill. It had sounded fine with him and even better with Hondo, who had a sixth sense about such things.

“You wanted to talk?” Chains LeDoux had asked.

Quinn had been looking for the man since they fished Hank Stillwell out of the dumpster. The clubhouse had been empty, as well as the trailer he’d registered as his new address with the Department of Corrections. No one had seen a Born Loser in Tibbehah, and Quinn had heard from an informant that they had planned on a week-long ride along the Gulf Coast.