“What happened?”

“What do you think? He tried to run. Brazil shot him.”

Falvey exhaled slowly. “What if he’d made it?”

“Nobody has yet,” Renda answered.

“But what if he had?”

“What if you stop worrying about it?”

“Frank, if a man got out and told what’s going on here-”

“Who’d listen to him? It’d be your word against his.”

Falvey shook his head. “We can’t take a chance on even the possibility of it.”

“Willis, nobody’s ever escaped from me and nobody’s going to.”

“Those men are thinking about it all the time.”

“Let them. Thinking about it and doing it are about seven hundred miles apart.”

“But sooner or later-”

Renda shook his head. “Not sooner or later or any time. I’ll talk to them, Willis. All I got to do is talk to them.”

After the evening meal, the convicts were marched to the stock tank in back of the stable-a round, waist-high tin-lined tank fed by a thin but steady flow of water that emptied from a rusted pipe connected to the well shaft of the windmill.

They were given fifteen minutes to wash as much of themselves as they cared to, and shave if they wanted to do that. Part of a mirror was fastened to a timber of the windmill structure and above it a lantern hung from a nail. One mirror, four dull razors and a few chunks of soap for thirty men. For that reason few of the men shaved more than twice a week and almost a third of them wore beards. For them, Renda produced a pair of scissors once a week.

Most of the convicts removed only their shirts, splashed water over their faces and upper bodies to remove twelve hours of grime and sweat, then dried themselves with the shirts before putting them on again.

After that, they were marched back to the barracks, counted again, then moved inside. The three lanterns that hung from wires hooked to the ceiling would burn for an hour and a half. At the end of that time, a night guard would come in for a last check and order the lanterns out.

But this night did not follow the usual routine.

Shortly before nine o’clock, one of the guards came in. Two of the convicts rose from their mats to put out the lanterns.

“Keep them on!”

They looked at the guard. Then every man in the room looked at him and a silence followed. They watched him glance over his shoulder then step aside as Renda came in, his shotgun under his arm, followed by Brazil and the two day guards who were all carrying Winchesters. Brazil stopped near Renda, but the two guards moved past him to cover the convicts nearer the end of the room.

Renda waited and his eyes moved slowly over the convicts. Most of them were on their own mats now, but a few of them here and there were still grouped together over a card game. Renda waited until he was sure they were all looking toward him, until there was not the smallest foot-scuffing sound.

Then he began: “Chick Miller got killed today,” Renda stated. “He was trying to escape. Brazil warned him-called out for Chick to halt, but Chick kept going, so he didn’t have any choice but to shoot him. That’s what happened, so that’s what the official report will say that goes to Prescott,” Renda paused. “Does anybody say it happened any different?”

No one spoke. Renda’s eyes moved along the line of men, then stopped at Bowen. “Stand up.”

Bowen pushed himself up, turned to face Renda.

Renda’s eyes held on him. “Isn’t that how it happened?”

Calmly, quietly, Bowen said, “If you say so, then that’s how it happened.”

“Chick tried to run and Brazil had to shoot him,” Renda stated.

Bowen nodded. “All right.”

“Sit down.” Renda’s eyes moved to Pryde, then to the Mexican. He asked them the same question and both of them agreed that it had happened as Renda said it did.

“Now I’ll tell you something,” Renda said, including all the convicts. “Nobody here’s going to ever try that again. I’m giving the orders to shoot, the least move out of line. You hesitate one second when you’re told to do something, you’re dead. You take one step in the wrong direction and you won’t know what hit you. I want you to understand that. I want you to get it in your heads so clear you won’t move without thinking about it.” He turned to Bowen suddenly. “You understand that?”

Bowen nodded, looking up at Renda.

“You understand it,” Renda said. “You were standing close to Chick. Listen, I’ll tell you something else. That stunt you pulled a while back…jumping off the wagon. You wouldn’t get just twenty days for it the second time.”

He looked over all the convicts. “You get past the guards, the Mimbres have got orders to take your scalp. You won’t be brought back here…just part of you. To prove you’re dead.

“I’m giving you warning now,” Renda continued. “One move out of line and somebody shoots. You’ll even think before spitting over the side of the wagon. What you’re doing to get shot don’t matter to me. It goes in the report as trying to escape and the report’s the only thing that means anything. So you think about that.”

Again his gaze moved slowly over the convicts, then he turned and left the barracks. Brazil and the guards followed him, the last one giving the order for the lanterns to be put out. Outside, they heard the lock snap on the door, the sound of footsteps fading away, then silence.

Moments later, something touched Bowen’s foot. He sat up quietly.

“Who is it?”

“Come over here.”

He recognized Earl Manring’s voice. As he rose, Manring moved away. A moment later he saw Manring’s outline against the window that was almost directly across from him. It was early and there was little moonlight, but enough to show the narrow shape of the window. Half of the opening had been boarded up from the outside, the other half covered by a heavy-gauge wire screen.

As Bowen reached him, Manring asked, “He scare you?”

Bowen’s hand touched the window sill. “He gave you something to think about.”

“That’s all talk.”

“You didn’t see Chick get shot.”

“Brazil didn’t like Chick. He never did. That’s why he killed him.”

“Brazil doesn’t like anybody.”

Manring shook his head. “If you don’t make any noise, you don’t get in any trouble. Chick was always talking. Brazil got to the point he couldn’t stand it any more. He might’ve thought he was even doing everybody a favor shooting him.”

“That’s a nice thought,” Bowen said.

“You’re in the same spot as Chick,” Manring went on. “They’re watching you because you tried to run one time. I told you it wasn’t the right time, but you wouldn’t listen to me…Corey, they’re no meaner than they ever were. They’ll shoot anybody they don’t like…let you alone if you don’t make trouble.”

“You’re one of the good ones, Earl?”

“One of the smart ones if you want to get down to it. I didn’t spend no twenty days in the hole.”

“You were out working.”

“And looking around,” Manring said.

“Go on.”

“You’re still thinking about it…after what Renda said?”

“Frank makes you want to get out all the more.”

“I’ve got to be sure of you,” Manring said.

“As sure as I am of you?”

Manring’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You think about it a while.”

“Look,” Manring said. “I don’t have to include you. If you’re going to start accusing me again we’ll forget about it. I’ll get somebody else.”

“Earl, the only reason you’re asking anybody is because getting out of here is something you can’t do alone. I’m not sure yet why you’re picking me. Maybe because you thought I was easy to manage before. Whatever the reason, it’s something that’ll do you the most good.”

Manring shrugged. “Forget about it then.”

“I can, Earl, but you can’t. I just told you why.”

“You’re pretty sure of yourself.”

Bowen started to turn away.

“Wait a minute-” Manring’s hand came out to take his arm. “Listen, there’s no sense in arguing over it. Let’s get down to cases…you either want to go or you don’t. Which is it?”