The other men nodded. I looked at Lou Buckman.

"You want to pay them the money, Lou?"

"I want these men to leave me alone," she said.

I nodded.

"Want to got nothing to do with it," The Preacher said.

I nodded again. Taciturn. Everybody was quiet.

"You're going to interfere," The Preacher mumbled. "Ain't you."

"Yep."

The Preacher jerked his head at Ichabod and Ichabod kicked me in the hip. He would have kicked me in the groin had I not moved my groin out of the way. It made me stagger back a couple of steps, and Ichabod jumped in swinging. He was strong the way some of those tall, bony guys are strong. And he was pretty good. He put out a nice stiff left, which he planned to follow with a right cross. I slipped to the left, which threw him off enough so that I could step inside the right cross and get a handful of his hair. I pulled his head forward and broke his nose with my head. Still holding his hair in one hand, I got my other hand into his crotch and put my shoulder into him and lifted him off the ground and slammed him down on the hood of the truck. He grunted, and went limp. When I stood back, he slowly slid off the hood and lay in the street with his mouth open. I turned to meet the bodybuilder who had scrambled out of the back seat. He had the knife out of his boot top, holding it low in his left hand. He was stronger than Ichabod. And he had a knife. I moved away from him. The Preacher was watching with no expression. The Mexican still looked bored. He started toward me. I had my gun in an ankle holster, but I didn't want to start shooting in the middle of the street if I didn't have to. I took another step back, and slid my belt out of my pant loops. It was a wide leather belt with a big buckle. I had a momentary vision of my pants falling down, and me winning the fight when everyone fell down laughing. I looped it around my left hand so that the buckle end swung loose. Almost gently the bodybuilder made a pass at me with the knife. It was big, like a Bowie knife. I hit him in the wrist just above the knife with the belt buckle and he made kind of a yelp. I swung the belt buckle backhand and hit him in the face with it. He yelped again, and put his right hand up to shield himself and lunged at me with the knife. I jumped back. He came up short, he lunged again and I kicked him in the groin. He was not as alert as I had been. He didn't move his groin behind his hip. He howled this time, and doubled over. I grabbed the knife arm and pulled it toward me and stepped under it and twisted it up behind his back. I gave his shoulder a wrench and the knife fell from his hand and landed dully on the soft asphalt. I shoved him away from me and he staggered and stood bent over with his hands between his thighs; next to Ichabod. I spun away from him, moving to my right, looking for the Mexican. He was still sitting, still bored, except that he was pointing a big revolver with a long barrel at me. I stopped. I didn't see Lou. The Preacher was watching me the way you might watch an unusual lizard. On the sidewalks on both sides of the street, people had stopped to stare. They stood in little groupings, some of them sheltering behind whatever they could shelter behind, in case things got to flying around. There were faces in the store windows, and down the street I could see Lou walking toward us with Dean Walker.

"Shoot him?" the Mexican said.

The Preacher was silent for a moment.

"Lemme think," he said.

Walker left Lou Buckman on the sidewalk and stepped into the street.

"You're under arrest," he said to me.

The Preacher said, "Walker?"

"I assume these gentlemen wish to press charges," Walker said.

The Mexican rested the long-barreled handgun in his lap, still pointed at me. The Preacher looked at Walker and me. On the street Ichabod was sitting up, and the Bodybuilder had gotten to his knees. The Mexican looked at The Preacher. The Preacher said something I couldn't hear and gestured forward with his chin. The Mexican put the gun down, put the truck in gear, and drove away.

Chapter 11

I SAT IN Dean Walker's cool office with him and Lou Buckman.

"Well," Walker said, "we've given them enough time. I guess they're not going to pursue assault charges."

I said, "Whew!"

"So I guess I can't hold you."

"I don't know why you arrested him anyway," Lou said.

"He was just trying to protect me."

Walker nodded.

"That's sort of my job," he said.

"Well isn't it your job to arrest that Preacher?"

"For what?"

"For having Steve killed."

"I got no evidence, Lou."

"Because you're afraid to look for it."

"Or because there isn't any."

"You didn't seem so worried about that when you arrested a man who wasn't doing anything wrong."

"Lou," I said. "He arrested me to keep me from getting shot by The Preacher's driver."

She sat for a moment without doing anything. Then she opened her mouth and closed it again without saying anything.

"That's Spenser's theory," Walker said.

Lou stood up suddenly and stalked from the office. Walker watched her go. She would have slammed the door except that it was on a pneumatic closer and she couldn't. When she was gone and the door had closed, Walker and I looked at each other. Neither of us spoke for a time.

Then Walker said, "You're free to go."

So I went.

I pushed through the heat, back up Main Street, toward my hotel.

Chapter 12

THE DAY AFTER I had my first fight with the Dell, I came into the lobby of The Jack Rabbit Inn, and J. George Taylor was standing near the front desk, talking with the bell captain. J. George was one of those guys that would bend whatever ear was closest. J. George spotted me as soon as I entered. I wondered if he was going to challenge me to a duel.

"Spenser. Can I buy you a drink?"

Apparently not.

"Sure," I said.

He clapped the bell captain on the shoulder and led me into the bar. The bartender nodded at me without expression as we went by. In a booth on the back wall of the bar was a round table. Three men were sitting with drinks and a basket of tortilla chips. J. George introduced me as though I were meeting the leaders of the free world.

"This is Roscoe Land, our esteemed mayor. This is Luther Barnes, who serves as city attorney, and this is Henry Brown, who ramrods The Foot Hills Bank and Trust."

I shook hands all around and sat. The cocktail waitress appeared. She was dressed like Dale Evans.

"What are you drinking?" the mayor said to me.

He was a tall, flabby guy with rimless glasses and a gray crew cut that wasn't cut short enough.

"Beer," I said.

"Beer, Margie, and," he made a circular gesture at the table, "and hit the rest of us one more time."

Margie cantered away.

"I gotta tell you," the mayor said. "We liked what you did out there."

"We having a victory celebration?" I said.

"Well," the mayor laughed, though not like he meant it. "You might say so. You are one tough cookie."

"That would be me," I said.

Margie came back with drinks and set them out. While she was at the table nobody spoke. When she left the mayor looked after her.

He said, "That little girl's got a hell of a butt, doesn't she?"