The man stepped up to George and offered his hand. “You’re George Kelly.”

George opened his mouth, stumbling for a bit before saying, “Name’s Johnson. Travelin’ with my family.”

The rangy man laughed and took a hit of George’s liquor. “I’m Clyde Barrow. But you can call me Smith.”

George nodded.

“This is Mrs. Smith.”

The woman nodded at George. She had the plug of an old cigar in the side of her mouth and an old revolver hanging from a rope around her waist. She snuggled up into the arm of the lanky man as the man passed the jelly jar back to George. “Where y’all headed?”

George studied the man’s face. “You Buck Barrow’s brother?”

“I am.”

“We’re headed north,” George said.

“We’re headed south.”

“Sorry to hear about your brother,” George said.

The couple climbed up the barn ladder into the loft, and soon the lantern went out. George finished off half the jar of hooch and made some noise, turning over and over in the hay, until he said, “Gosh dang it,” and got in the backseat with her, smelling of barn animals and hay. Kathryn let him get close, figuring they could get clean in the morning, too tired to fight him, and she adjusted, nuzzling up into his chest. From high in the loft, Kathryn heard a rapid knock-knock-knocking, and the sharp, harsh cry of a woman deep in the throes.

George snickered.

“Sure you don’t want some moonshine?” he asked.

“Shush,” she said. “Who are those people anyway?”

“Just some cheap fillin’-station thieves,” George said. “Fella’s brother got filled with lead a few weeks back. It made all the papers. Don’t know his woman.”

Kathryn stayed awake for a long time, the couple up in the loft not waiting but a few minutes before getting back to it, or continuing with it, and then finally they were asleep, too, and she was left with only the sound of the nickering horses and the hot wind through the barn cracks. The little girl sounded soft and light, gently snoring in the front seat.

Kathryn put the flat of her hand to George’s chest and felt his heart beat until it lulled her asleep.

LUTHER ARNOLD CRACKED OPEN THE DOOR TO HIS SUITE IN the Skirvin Hotel and peered over the safety chain into the face of Gus T. Jones. “Evenin’, Mr. Arnold. You mind if we might have a word?” Jones heard laughter and giggles inside, and figured it to be from the two hefty women spotted with Arnold at the hotel bar. Arnold told Jones he didn’t care for whatever it was he was sellin’ and tried to close the door, instead finding Jones’s boot.

“Won’t take long, sir,” Jones said, keeping an eye on Arnold from over the chain.

“I said I ain’t buyin’.”

Jones stepped back beside White and Colvin and then kicked in the door and sent the short, stubby little Luther Arnold down on his ass.

The fat women, one in a silk robe and the other with a towel strained about her girth, both ran for a corner. Empty bottles of Pabst Blue Ribbon fell from a nightstand, a half dozen lying unopened in buckets of ice.

Arnold looked up at Jones and wiped his lip. His skinny, hairy legs splayed, the front of his Skirvin robe halfway open.

“Hell,” Jones said. “Cover your peter, son.”

Arnold stood, tying the robe with his sash, trying his best to stand tall and take charge of the situation. “I’m a guest of this here ho-tel. And I paid my bill in cash.”

The men heard water running, and White pulled his thumb buster from his belt, cracking open the bathroom door. A big bathtub, fashioned of marble and gold, overflowed with bubbles onto the tile floor, some of those suds caught in Arnold’s ears and in the big girls’ hair. White turned off the faucet and dried his hands on his pants.

“Sir, are you acquainted with George Kelly?” Jones asked. “We’re agents with the Department of Justice.”

Arnold’s mouth hung open, and he slowly shook his head.

Jones slapped the man’s face. “Speak up, son.”

One of the women screamed, and the other began to scoop up their dresses, shoes, undergarments, and purses, neither of them a stranger to a raid. The women smelled the way whores do, with perfume so sweet and strong that it made your eyes water.

“Agent Colvin, would you escort these ladies downstairs?”

Colvin motioned his chin to Arnold.

“We’ll be down,” Jones said. “First, me and Doc gonna have a heart-to-heart with Mr. Arnold.”

The young man just stood there, looking from Jones to Doc White. Only when Jones shot him a hard look did Colvin grab each woman by the elbow, leading them from the gilded suite.

“High time in O.K. City, ain’t it?” Jones asked.

“You slapped me,” Luther Arnold said, wiping his pug nose.

“Start talkin’.”

“I don’t know no George Kelly.”

“You know Kathryn Kelly?”

“I don’t know no one named Kelly.”

“Son, you’re tryin’ my patience here,” Jones said. “Aren’t you the go-between with the Kelly gang and that old attorney?”

Arnold ran a hand over his wet hair and rested a hand on the wall. “That’s none of your concern.”

“Doc, I think Mr. Arnold here might be in need of the cure.”

Arnold looked to the older man, and White walked around him and snatched his arms behind his back, forcing him into the bathroom and tossing him back into the claw-footed tub with a hard splash. Jones followed and slowly took off his suit jacket, rolling his shirtsleeves to the elbow, Arnold flouncing and kicking in the bubbles. Doc White snatched his ankles and jerked him backward.

Jones got to his knees and held a washcloth.

“Son, me and you gonna have a come to Jesus,” Jones said. “Kelly and his gang killed a friend of mine, and they’re threatenin’ to murder a fine family. That’s somethin’ that we won’t abide.”

Arnold, eyes wide, held his torso upright with elbows perched on the tub lip, while his ankles were still held high by Doc.

“Are you associated with the Kelly gang?” Jones asked again.

“There ain’t no Kelly gang,”

“Doc.”

White yanked Luther Arnold up by his ankles while Jones smothered his mouth with a washcloth and dunked him deep in the tub, holding him to the count of twenty and then snatching him up by the hair on his head. The little man heaved and vomited sudsy water while Jones held him aloft and asked him again about the Kelly gang.

Arnold shook his head.

Jones kept him down in the tub for a count of thirty, the heaving and vomiting even worse when he brought him back up. And Jones let him get it all out before he asked just how did a cockroach like him come into the employ of a professional like George R. Kelly, expert machine gunner.

“All I did was pay the lawyer,” he said. “That ain’t no crime.”

“Where are you meeting with the Kellys?” Jones asked.

“Sweet Jesus. I cain’t say.”

“Doc, hold ’im straight.”

This time, Arnold took himself a big breath of air before Jones smothered his mouth and forced him back into the sudsy water like a traveling preacher. When the thrashing and tossing suddenly came to a stop, White said, “Think he’s had enough, Buster. Buster?”

But Jones’s mind had drifted from the Skirvin to a train station with long shafts of morning sunlight, to a box canyon ringed by horse thieves and vultures, to the old, weathered hands of Sheriff Rome Shields, passing on his father’s old.45.

“Buster?”

Jones turned to White, and White looked downright concerned. Jones pulled up Arnold, but the man had gone limp. They hauled him out of the tub and set him on the cold tile floor. Jones slapped Arnold’s back and Arnold came to, heaving water and twisting onto all fours and gagging out a few gallons.

White sat on the lip of the tub and lit a cigarette. He wouldn’t look at Jones.

“I met her at a fillin’ station in Itasca,” Arnold said. “I didn’t know who she was till she give me fifty dollar to locate this attorney in Fort Worth named Sayres. My family needed the money. We hadn’t et in days.”