“Curley?” Gannon said carefully.

“Well, there is a lot that thinks high of Curley. Will Hart is one. Said he didn’t think Curley ever robbed a coach in his life. We had some words on that, too.” Carl scrubbed his hands up over his face. “I don’t know — I am pretty down on Curley, Johnny,” he said, in a washed-out voice. “I guess it is a laughing backshooter makes me madder than any other kind. I don’t know. Or maybe it is McQuown is Blaisedell’s size, but maybe Curley is mine.”

Speaking very carefully again, Gannon said, “Like you said, there are a lot that don’t think bad of Curley.”

Carl nodded jerkily. “Part of it, too. For he is what the rest is and can fool folks to think he is not. And so he is worse.” He glanced at Gannon again with his hot eyes, and Gannon knew enough had been said.

He nodded noncommittally.

Carl sighed and said, careful-voiced now in his turn, “Well, it was sure a surprise to me when it was you come in here with me, Johnny. I guess you know there is some that won’t take to you kindly, right off.”

“Surely,” he said, and he felt the questions Carl wanted to ask, but hadn’t yet.

“Well, you come in and that’s the main thing,” Carl said. “But I guess you don’t really hate San Pablo the way I do, do you?”

“I guess not, Carl.”

“Don’t mean anything by mentioning it,” Carl said apologetically. “But I remember there was some talk at the time — I guess it was Burbage. How what happened to that bunch of greasers down in Rattlesnake Canyon that time wasn’t Apaches’ doing.”

Gannon didn’t reply as footsteps came along the planks outside. Carl stiffened in his chair, slapped his hands on the shotgun, started to rise. Pony Benner came in, with the marshal a step behind him.

“This one is getting a little bit quarrelsome,” Blaisedell said, putting Pony’s Colt down on the table before Carl. “Maybe he’d better cool off overnight, Deputy.”

Carl got to his feet. The Colt rattled as he slid it into the table drawer and closed the drawer with a slap. Pony looked past Carl to meet Gannon’s eyes. He spat on the floor.

Blaisedell said, “If the judge comes in tell him this one was picking away at Chick Hasty in the Lucky Dollar. It looked like trouble so I took him out of circulation.”

“Surely, Marshal,” Carl said. Blaisedell nodded to Gannon, turned, and went out, tall in the doorway before he disappeared.

“Well, Mister run-chicken, pee-on-your-own, Deputy Bud Gannon,” Pony said, his small, mean face contorted with fury and contempt. “Why didn’t you get down and kiss his boots for him?” he cried, swinging toward Carl. “Gimme that damned hogleg back, Carl!”

Carl straightened his shoulders, hitched at his shell belt, and, with a swift motion, picked up the shotgun and slammed the muzzle against Pony’s belly. Pony yelped and jumped back. Carl said, “G-get in there before I blow you in!”

Pony retreated into the cell before the shotgun, and Carl slammed the door. His face, when he turned to take the key Gannon handed him, was blotched with color.

In the cell Pony was cursing.

“Hear anything?” Carl said, winking at Gannon. “I believe it is those rats moaning in there again. One of these days we are going to have to clean them out, I expect.”

“All right!” Pony cried. “All right, Carl, you have chose the way you are going to choke yourself. All right, Bud Gannon, God damn you to hell — we’ll see, God damn you all!”

“Damned if that one rat don’t squeak just like old Pony Benner,” Carl said.

“You will chew dust, you stringy, washed-up old bastard!” Pony yelled. His face disappeared. Immediately it returned. “And that gold-handled, muckering, God-damned long-haired son too!” Pony shouted. “He has threw his weight around for the last time, the last God-damned rotten time. We give him his chance and now he’ll eat dust, too. You hear I said it, you kiss-boot sons of bitches!”

He retreated into the cell, and the cot creaked.

“Quieted down,” Carl commented. “Sounds like somebody set a cat after those rats.” There was a triumphant flush to his face, but Gannon saw the flicker of fear in it, and was embarrassed to see it there. He went to lean in the doorway and stare out into the street.

“No reason to bother the judge, I guess,” Carl said, behind him. “Judge was taking on freight heavy this afternoon, and he would need a lot of sobering up by now. We’ll just leave this one wait the night, and sweep him out with the cockroaches in the morning.”

Gannon watched Billy coming down the boardwalk. “Billy,” he said.

“Bud,” Billy said, casually. Gannon stepped back inside and Billy followed him in. Pony’s face reappeared between the bars.

“Some day you will get just too feisty,” Billy said to Pony. He would not look at Gannon. He said to Carl, “What’s the fine, Schroeder? I guess I can make it up.”

“Judge hasn’t been in,” Carl said. “I’m holding him for disturbing the peace till he comes, or morning, one.”

“He wasn’t disturbing it that much,” Billy said. “Let him out and we’ll settle when the judge shows.”

“I guess not, son.”

“Kiss-boot bastards!” Pony cried, and kicked the door. Gannon stood watching his brother’s face. It was sullen and hard, with only the shadowy mustache to show the youth in it.

“Let him out,” Billy said to Carl. He dropped his hands to his shell belt, as though to hitch at it; in an instant his Colt was in his hand, and trained on Carl behind the table.

Gannon heard Carl’s sudden ragged breathing, and Pony’s laugh, but he stared still at Billy’s face. Those cut-steel eyes might have been Jack Cade’s, and they were eyes that had looked at Deputy Jim Brown with the same expression in the San Pablo saloon, just before Billy had shot him dead for making too much fun of his youth and his claim to being the best marksman in San Pablo.

But it was a copy of Abe McQuown’s shy grin that twisted the corners of Billy’s mouth, and a copy of Curley Burne’s bantering tone in which he said, “Por favor, Carl. Por favor.”

“Go to hell,” Carl whispered.

“Listen to the rats squeaking now!” Pony crowed. “Squeaking awful quiet, seems like.”

Billy said, “Get the keys, Bud.”

Gannon stepped between Billy and Carl, as though he were going for the key. He stopped there, blocking Billy’s Colt. Billy started to jump sideways and Pony yelled, “Watch the shotgun!”

Gannon stepped out of the way. Pony was cursing again.

“Buckshot,” Carl said.

“Birdshot,” Billy said, and again there was a reflection of Curley Burne in his tone. He grinned slightly. “I know what you carry in that piece.”

“Buckshot,” Carl said. “On Saturday nights.” His voice was stronger. “Son,” he said. “Buckshot beats a Colt’s just like a full house does a pair.”

Billy slipped his Colt back into its scabbard. He gave Gannon a blank look, not so much of anger as appraisal.

“You threw me, Bud,” he said. “And took kind of a chance too.”

“You wasn’t going to go to shooting. Whoever it was.”

“Maybe I wasn’t, but it wasn’t a bluff you had to call. I had you and Carl covered fair enough.”

“Get out of here,” Carl said. “Before I decide to chuck you in there with Mister Squeaky.”

Billy said, “The marshal doesn’t run this town.”

“Looks like he does tonight,” Carl said.

“Nah, he doesn’t. Just some cowardy-cats in it.” Billy inclined his head almost imperceptibly at Gannon, and went out.

Pony yelled, “You, Mister throw-your-brother! I guess maybe next time he won’t be so quick to take big Jack off you!”

Carl slammed the barrel of the shotgun against the wooden bars, just as Pony leaped back away from the door.

Gannon cleared his throat. “Well, I guess I will take a walk around town, Carl.”

“Feel easy,” Carl said, grinning at him hugely. “It is a quiet night after all.”

Gannon went out along the boardwalk. Billy was a lean shadow slanted against the wall just around the corner on Southend Street. “We had better talk some, Bud,” Billy said.