WE SAT IN THE BACK of the train, on the left side, Virgil on the aisle. Virgil always sat on the left on the aisle so that his gun hand was unencumbered. Allie sat next to him. I sat across from them, facing the rear. Since people could board from either end, it was nice to watch both doors. The train bumped along. Virgil had his feet up and his hat tipped down. Allie sat erect beside him with her hands folded in her lap, looking out the window at the west Texas countryside. Occasionally, we passed cattle. Otherwise, there was nothing much to see but grassland.

“You ever pray, Everett?” Allie said.

“Not much,” I said.

“Ever think about it?”

“Praying?”

“God,” Allie said.

“Not much,” I said.

“You know, after I run off,” Allie said, “got taken up by a Mexican man, I think. He took me a ways and sold me to couple men who were half Comanche. They kept me awhile and sold me to Pig.”

I nodded. Virgil appeared to be asleep, though I doubted that he was.

“When I was in that place,” Allie said, “I started praying. I prayed that Virgil would come and find me. And you too, Everett.”

Allie didn’t want to hurt my feelings.

“Heard you praying back in the street,” I said.

“I was,” Allie said. “I believe it helped.”

“Didn’t hurt,” I said.

She nodded and went back to looking out the window. Virgil never stirred. The conductor came into our car, and the loud rattle of the train came in with him as he opened the door and passed from the next car to ours. When he came to us I handed him three tickets. He punched them and looked at the eight-gauge leaning against the corner of the seat by the window.

“What the hell’s that thing?” he said.

“Eight-gauge shotgun,” I said.

“You planning on hunting locomotives?” the conductor said.

“Only if one attacks me,” I said.

“Be a fool if it did,” he said, looking at the eight-gauge. “Where you folks headed.”

“Next town, I guess,” I said.

“That’d be Greavy,” he said. “You got business in Greavy.”

“Looking for work,” I said.

The conductor looked at Virgil and at me and at the eight-gauge. From the corner of his eye, he took a quick look at Allie in her pathetic dress and ratty Mexican sandals. But he didn’t look long.

“I guess you’re not cowboys,” he said.

“No,” I said. “We ain’t.”

“Well, good luck with it,” the conductor said.

“How long to Greavy?” I said.

“Maybe another hour or so,” the conductor said.

“Got a place there to buy ladies’ clothes?” I said.

“Sure, up-and-coming little town, Greavy. Got a good general store. Sells most everything.”

“Thanks,” I said.

He gave his cap bill a little tug and headed back down the train.

Nobody said anything for a while. Virgil remained motionless.

Then Allie turned from the window and said, “Thank you for asking about the clothes, Everett.”

I was pretty sure that was for Virgil. I was pretty sure all of her conversation had been for Virgil. She knew he wasn’t sleeping.

“Pleasure,” I said.

GREAVY WAS AN IMPROVEMENT over Placido. It was neat. Several of the buildings were painted. There were two restaurants, a bank, a big general store, and a big livery stable. We got Allie some clothes, ate some boiled beef and pinto beans at Chez Barcelona, and strolled on down to the marshal’s office. Allie hung back as we went in, and stood outside near the door. The marshal was a square-built man named Sheehan. He was as tall as Virgil and a little shorter than me. He wasn’t wearing a gun, though a Winchester lay on the desk beside him as we talked.

“Nope, sorry, boys,” he said. “Got six deputies already. More than the town needs except when they bring cattle in. You boys been marshaling before?”

“We have,” Virgil said.

“Whereabouts?” Sheehan said.

“All over,” Virgil said. “Most recent, I guess, we was in Appaloosa.”

“Appaloosa?” Sheehan said. “How recent?”

“Couple years now, ain’t it, Everett?”

“ ’Bout,” I said.

“You ain’t Virgil Cole?” Sheehan said.

“I am,” Virgil said.

“Jesus Christ,” Sheehan said.

“Wasn’t you up in Resolution last year?”

“I was, but I weren’t marshaling,” Virgil said. “This here’s Everett Hitch.”

“Sure thing,” Sheehan said. “I know who you are. You boys are famous.”

“Know any gun work around here?” I said.

“Maybe,” Sheehan said. “I don’t think he’s pressed, but the railroad just expanded service to Brimstone, up north a ways. They’re building new stock pens, more cattle coming in. And Dave Morrissey was saying last time I saw him he might need to add a couple gun hands.”

“Who’s Morrissey?” Virgil said.

“Val Verde County sheriff,” Sheehan said. “Up there filling in right now, ’cause he had a deputy quit on him.”

“Why’d the deputy quit?” Virgil said.

“Got married; wife insisted it was too dangerous.”

“How far up north,” Virgil said.

“ ’Bout two days’ ride,” Sheehan said. “Virgil Cole! By God! What I’m gonna do is I’m gonna wire Dave, tell him you’re coming. Tell him not to hire no one else.”

“ ’Preciate it,” Virgil said.

Allie came into the office almost tiptoeing.

“ ’Scuse me, Marshal,” she said. “I’m Allie French. I’m with these gentlemen, and I just bought some clothes. Do you suppose I could go into one of your cells and change?”

“Cells?”

“Long as you promise not to peek,” she said.

Sheehan looked at Virgil. Virgil nodded faintly.

“Sure thing, ma’am,” Sheehan said. He opened the door to the cell row.

“We got no guests at the moment,” he said. “Use any cell.”

Sheehan looked at us for a moment and decided not to ask anything.

“Whyn’t you boys wait here for the lady,” Sheehan said. “And I’ll go over and send Dave a telegram. Time you get there, he’ll be waiting for you.”

WE BOUGHT A BUCKBOARD and a mule for about what we’d sold one of the horses for. And with me driving, and Allie between us on the seat, we set out the next morning for Brimstone. Allie’s new clothes were an improvement. She had a ribbon in her hair. And she was wearing a little makeup. She was still kind of skinny. But she was looking better.

We were quiet. The buckboard was easy enough through the low grasslands, for a buckboard. There’s a reason it’s called a buckboard, and an easy ride ain’t it. The mule plodded along a sort of wagon rut west toward the Paiute River. It was sunny and hot. We could hear the soft coo of doves, and occasionally we kicked up a flutter of them as we rode by. We passed cattle. Mostly shorthorns, but still now and then a longhorn bull.

Virgil was looking at the landscape.

“Wolves,” he said.

The mule must have caught scent of them. He tossed his head and shied and made a short snorting sound. I didn’t see them yet. Then I did, three gray shapes trotting in line, heading east, appearing and disappearing in the high grass.

“Following that cattle herd,” I said.

“Likely,” Virgil said.

“Are you going to shoot them?” Allie said.

“No reason,” Virgil said.

“But the cattle…” Allie said.

“Not my cattle,” Virgil said.

“But the poor cows,” Allie said.

“What you think them cows are for, Allie? Wolves eat ’em. People eat ’em. Don’t seem to me make much difference to the cow.”

Allie watched them until they were gone, and the mule settled back into his walk.

“How’d you see them so quick, Virgil,” Allie said.

“Eyesight’s good,” he said.

“But it’s more than that, isn’t it?” Allie said. “You always see everything.”

Virgil didn’t answer. We rode in silence for a while.

Then Allie said, “You know what I’d like to do again?”