“He’s got a strong grip, Pa,” James said.
“I know,” Shaye said. “I felt it yesterday.”
“It’ll take more than a strong grip and a big ass to make him Matthew’s son,” Thomas pointed out.
Shaye noticed that the boy did, indeed, have a large behind. If nothing else, that reminded him of Matthew at the same age.
“We can’t find store-brought clothes to fit him,” Marion said then. “I hand-make his britches for him.”
Shaye took a step back, as if she had slapped him, then shook his head to dispel the voice in his head.
“Hey, Pa,” James said, “didn’t Ma used to say—”
“Take a good long look, boys,” Shaye said. “This is important. Is he part of our family, or isn’t he?”
Thomas leaned in to examine the boy’s face, but Little Matt turned his head then, to look at his mother. Shaye noticed that Belinda was not looking at the small boy, but at James. It was as if she had sensed the weak link in them.
Thomas moved around to get a look at the small face.
“I can’t tell, Pa,” he said finally. “He’s a big one, that’s for sure, and his eyes…his eyes are right, but…”
“James?” Shaye said sharply.
His tone startled James, who turned his head to look at his father.
“Pa?”
“What do you think?”
James looked at the boy.
“I don’t honestly know, Pa,” he said. “Could be.”
“Could be ain’t good enough,” Shaye said. He looked at Marion, not Belinda, because it seemed to be the older woman who was the more responsible one. “We won’t be able to decide today.”
“I understand.”
“But,” Belinda said, “we don’t have much time—”
“For what?” Marion asked, cutting her off. “What don’t we have much time for, Belinda?”
“Nothing,” the younger woman said, backing off.
“There’s no hurry, Mr. Shaye,” Marion said to Shaye. “No hurry at all. We’ll be here.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Shaye said. “Tell the sheriff we’re sorry we missed him.”
“I will,” she said. “I’m sure he was held up by something important.”
“I’m sure he was,” Shaye said. “Let’s go, boys.”
Sheriff Cotton stopped into the telegraph office and said to the clerk, “Hey, Beau.”
“Mornin’, Sheriff.”
“You had a man in here this morning sending a telegram,” the lawman said.
“Three,” Beau said, “he sent three.”
“Where to?”
“I ain’t supposed to say, Sheriff.”
“You can tell me, Beau,” Cotton said. “I’m the law.”
“Well…I guess you’re right.”
The clerk turned and retrieved the three handwritten slips that Shaye had written out.
“One to the sheriff of Epitaph, one to a lawman in New Mexico, and another to a lawman in Arizona, near Yuma.
“Did he get any replies?”
“One.”
“What did that say?”
“I can tell you that by heart,” Beau said, “’cause I remember. It was something about a feller who was in Yuma for two years and just got out last month. What was his name?”
“Collier?” the sheriff asked. “Jeb Collier?”
“That’s the one,” Beau said. “How’d you know that?”
Cotton smiled.
“Lucky guess.”
The young clerk laughed and said, “Must be lucky guesses like that’s the reason you’re the sheriff.”
“Yep,” Cotton said, “must be. Thanks, Beau.”
“Glad to help, Sheriff,” the clerk said, “but, uh, you won’t tell nobody where you got the information, right?”
“Don’t worry,” Cotton said, “it’ll be our secret, Beau.”
32
Jeb Collier stared across the table at his brother Ben, who was fidgeting in his chair.
“Ben,” he said, “go to the bar and get us four more beers.”
“Anythin’s better than just sittin’ here,” Ben said.
As Ben left, Jeb said to Clark Wilson, “If he don’t sit still, I’m gonna shoot him.”
“Ben got like that when you got put away, Jeb,” Wilson said. “Antsy. He can’t never sit still. Maybe it’ll change now that you’re back.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“So what’re we doin’ here?” Wilson asked.
They were about a week out of Pearl River Junction in a Texas town called Waco.
“We’re waitin’,” Jeb said.
“For what?”
“We takin’ the bank here too?” Dave Roberts asked.
“No,” Jeb said, “we ain’t. You got any money left from the last two jobs we pulled, Dave?”
Roberts hesitated, then said, “Some.”
“You’re gonna have to learn not to spend it all on whores and booze so fast,” Jeb said.
“And gamblin’,” Wilson said.
“I can spend my money on what I want,” Roberts said grudgingly.
“I ain’t sayin’ you can’t,” Jeb said, “just not so damn fast. You and my brother go through your money so fast…we ain’t gonna pull a job every week, ya know?”
Ben came back with four beers, spilled a little out of each of them as he put them down.
“What’re ya talkin’ about?” he asked.
“Spendin’ money,” Wilson said. “And I asked your brother what we’re doin’ here.”
“What are we doin’ here?” Ben asked.
“He says waitin’.”
“Waitin’ for what?”
“And now you’re all caught up, Ben,” Wilson said.
“Just shut up and listen, all of you,” Jeb said. “The last town we stopped in I sent a telegram.”
“When’d you have time to do that?” Ben asked.
“When you were spending the last of your money on whores and booze,” Jeb said.
“And gamblin’,” Wilson added. He turned his attention to Jeb. “Who’d you send a telegram to?”
“Vic Delay.” He pronounced the name
“Delay?” Wilson asked. “He’s a cold-blooded killer. Why’d you contact him?”
“I just want a little insurance when we go into Pearl River Junction after Belinda and my kid,” Jeb said. “Struck me that the town—and the local law—might not take too kindly to us grabbin’ a little kid and a woman.”
“We don’t know what kind of law they got there,” Wilson said.
“All the more reason to have some insurance.”
