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fault him for his lack of hospitality then or now.
    But he was a mean old cuss and no mistake. And not a one for sharing.

    After I cooked supper, we huddled around the fire and gradually our clothes dried.
    Smalley continued to tease Wes, describing the marks on a man’s neck after he’d been hung with a hemp rope, and how long it took for the condemned to strangle to death . . . vicious, cruel stuff like that.
    For his part, John Wesley stayed silent, although every now and then he forced out a tear and muttered the prayers he’d learned at his mother’s knee.
    But often I saw him glance sidelong at the lawmen. Then his eyes glittered in the firelight and his teeth gleamed, like a cougar anticipating a killing spree.
    And they didn’t see it! Idiots!
    Those two fools Stakes and Smalley saw only what they wanted to see, and that was a boy demented by terror over the thought of a cruel death on the gallows.
    Indeed, the fool does not see the same peril as the wise man, and there’s truth.
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    The next day, we ferried across the muddy, sluggish Trinity then rode north into swamp country that was foreign and forbidding.
    Gradually the pines, post oak, and black hickory of our own soil gave way to bald cypress, water tupelo, and shrubs like swamp privet and water elm.
    The going across the wet country was exhausting and I felt sick. My face and hands were covered in insect bites. To my surprise Wes made no move, even when we were within a few miles of Waco.
    Overtaken by darkness and used up, Stakes halted and we made camp.
    He left to obtain fodder for the horses and cornmeal from one of the surrounding farmers, if such could be found in the wilderness. “Keep a close eye on Hardin, Jim,” he said from the saddle. “He’s scared and he might bolt.”
    â€œIf he does, he’s a dead man,” Smalley said. “Depend on it.”
    Then Stakes said something strange that really upset me. “Hold up on the shooting until I get back. We’ve got to be in it together, mind.”
    Smalley smiled and nodded. “He’ll keep, E.T.”
    Stakes’ eyes and mine met, tangled, and what I saw in his cold, penetrating gaze chilled me to the bone.
    He meant to murder Wes.
    Soon.
    That very night.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
Gut Shot
    With no moon the sky was dark as printer’s ink. Such breeze as there was came chill from the north and carried with it the musty smell of muck and of the swamp pools where lime green frogs jumped.
    Jim Smalley sat on the sawn trunk of a tree, his grin malicious. “Not long now, huh, Hardin? I mean the noose a snotty-nosed killer like you so richly deserves.”
    â€œPlease don’t chide me, Mr. Smalley,” Wes said, his voice breaking.
    I added a few sticks to the fire, then said, “Leave him be. The man is scared enough.”
    With deliberate slowness, the lawman turned his head to me. “Another word out of you, gimp, and I’ll put a bullet in you.” His lip twisted. “Who’s gonna miss a damned raggedy-assed pauper like you. Me?” He nodded is Wes’s direction. “Him? Anybody?”
    I said nothing, and Smalley stared at me for a few moments, and then said, “From now until we reach Waco, keep your ignorant trap shut.”
    He again directed his attention to Wes. “Hey, Hardin, we haven’t even talked about your burying yet.” He smiled. “How remiss of me. I mean, a famous shootist like you doesn’t want to go under the ground in any old pine box. How about a mahogany casket with a nice glass window so you can see the worms come for you?”
    Wes had been squatting by the fire. He rose to his feet and sobbed, “I can’t stand this anymore.” He stumbled to the mustang and buried his face in the animal’s neck, his shoulders heaving as he sobbed.
    Smalley’s derisive laughter followed him. “Hell, boy, leave the caterwauling for the