At this moment she knew he was watching Renda and the one called Brazil. Not looking at them directly, but watching every move they made from the shadow of the curled hatbrim.

Karla half turned as the screen door opened. “He’s here,” she said, a trace of excitement in the tone of her voice.

Her father stepped out into the yard. He carried a Voucher for Supplies and Services Rendered, made out by Seely, Lewis & Foss, Government Contractors. As he looked toward the wagon he asked, “Which one?”

“He’s wearing 18.”

“I can’t make out figures from here.”

“The one without sleeves in his shirt.”

Demery squinted in the sunlight, studying the convict. “He looks like any other jailbird to me.”

“You have to see him up close,” Karla said.

“Why do you think he’s any different from the rest?”

“I don’t know…haven’t you ever had a feeling about a person?” She glanced at her father. “Like Ma…you liked her right away, didn’t you? You didn’t ask to see her papers before you married her.”

“You’re planning to marry him, are you?”

“I’m drawing a parallel.”

“Sis, the difference is I didn’t meet your mother in a convict camp.”

“How do you know why he’s there?” Karla said hotly. “For all we know he was hungry and killed somebody else’s cow. You can’t blame a man for something like that.”

Demery nodded. “Only maybe it wasn’t a cow,” he said mildly, glancing at Karla. “A nice-looking boy who doesn’t look like he should be in convict clothes, so you feel sorry for him.”

“It’s more than that,” Karla said earnestly. “But I can’t explain it.”

“Like getting a warm feeling for a boy at school.”

“You make it sound ridiculous.”

“Sis, that’s what I’m trying to do. You don’t even know his name.”

Karla looked at her father hopefully. “I was going to ask you to ask Mr. Renda.”

“What good would it do you to know it?”

“I was thinking of writing to Mr. Martz,” Karla said. “He’s in the courthouse every day. He could look up his record-”

“You’d write all the way to Prescott to find out why he’s in?”

“I can’t think of any other way.”

“Waste Lyall Martz’s valuable time on an errand like that-”

“He’d do it for me.”

“Sis, you’re sure of yourself. I’ll say that.”

“Don’t you think he would?”

“I’m not going to encourage you.”

Karla hesitated. “Will you ask Mr. Renda his name?”

Demery shook his head. “You might have a pure, kindly feeling about the boy, but don’t ask me to be a party to it.”

“Then you won’t.”

“Ask him yourself.”

“He’d think it was funny. A girl asking.”

“No funnier than me doing it. ‘Frank, what’s that boy’s name, number 18? Karla’s got a warm feeling for him, wants to know all about him.’ ”

Karla grinned. “Not like that. Just say you think you recognize him from somewhere. Or he looks like someone who used to work for you. I couldn’t tell Mr. Renda that, but you could.”

“With Frank’s shifty-eyed nature,” Demery said, “right away he’d suspect something.”

Karla winked at him. “Not the way you’d handle it, Pa. Smooth as silk.”

Demery eyed his daughter in silence. “You know where you ought to be? Up in Prescott with Lyall. He’d use you to soften up the juries.”

Karla smiled. “You’ll ask him?”

Demery looked off toward Renda who stood near the wagon watching the supplies being loaded. He called out, “Frank-” and as Renda turned, “Here’s your voucher!”

Renda left the wagon and as he reached them he said to Demery, “Don’t strain yourself.”

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.”

Karla asked, “And how does Mrs. Falvey like living at a convict camp?”

“Lizann?” Renda said with mock surprise. “Why Lizann likes it up there fine.” He would have said more, but Brazil called out to him-

“Frank! I’m sitting in the sun while you pass the time of day!”

“There’s a man that’s all business,” Renda said. He motioned the two convicts onto the wagon, then called to Brazil, “Let’s go!” He walked past Demery and Karla and mounted his chestnut mare. From the saddle he said, “Karla, we’ll visit awhile the next time you bring the mail.”

He reined the mare and rode straight out from the adobe to meet the wagon making a wide, slow turn to head back toward the willows.

For a moment Karla and her father watched the wagon in silence. Finally Karla said, “Did you ask him?”

Demery nodded, still watching the wagon as it drew near the willows. “I asked him.”

“What did he say?”

“Enough so you won’t have to write Lyall.” Demery looked at his daughter then. “A year ago he was convicted of cattle rustling and tried at Prescott. He’s already spent nine months in Yuma. He’s been here three months and he’s got six years to go of a seven-year sentence. That, Sis, is the nice-looking boy you have the warm feeling for.”

For a moment Karla said nothing. Then, “And his name?”

“Corey Bowen,” her father answered.