She relaxed. “You sound grim, so serious.”

“I'm not though. Not with you.”

“No, the hard image you present to everyone else.”

He came over to the chair where his coat was draped. “Maybe what I should do, put a notice in the paper. ‘To Whom It May Concern…I'm the one wants to get married, she's the one wants to keep things as they are.’ See what they ask you then.”

“In other words,” Janet Pierson said, “let them think what they want, as long as there's no doubt about your honor.”

“I didn't mean it that way at all.”

“But it's the way it is,” the good-looking dark-haired woman said. “If you're going to spend your life standing on principle, you want to be sure everyone understands what the principle is.”

He picked up his coat and pushed an arm into the sleeve. “You keep saying I worry about what people think of me, when I don't. All I said was, why tell that fella our personal business?”

“I'm sorry,” she said. “You're right.”

He pulled the coat down to fit smoothly as he turned to her. “I don't want you to say I'm right, I want to know what you're talking about.”

“You get mad if I tell you what I feel.”

He said, “Oh,” and turned to the chair again to pick up his gunbelt and holsters.

“Are you coming back for supper?”

“I was planning on it. If we can have an evening without arguing.”

“Are you pouting now?”

She shouldn't have said it-seeing his jaw tighten and hearing him say maybe he'd see her later, or maybe not-but sometimes she got tired of handling him so carefully, keeping him unruffled. Out in the street where he was going now, closing the door behind him, he was the legendary Bren Early who had shot and killed at least ten men who'd tested his nerve; a man whose posed photographs were displayed in the window of C.S. Fly's gallery on LaSalle Street and who was being written about by journalists from at least a dozen different newspapers. Bren Early: silent, deadly, absolutely true to his word.

But she could not help but think of a little boy playing guns.

He was a little boy sometimes when they were alone, unsure of himself.

He had come to her two and a half years ago, told her who he was and how he had met her son. He returned several times to visit, to sit in this parlor with her over coffee, and finally one day handed her the deed to the house-mortgage paid in full-asking nothing in return. Why?

He had not killed her son. A false rumor. He had, in fact, tried to prevent her son's death. But had failed and perhaps it was that simple: he felt responsible, owed her something because of his failure. He had said, “Don't ask questions. I like you, I want to do something for you.” All right, and she liked him and it was easy enough to take the sign down and change the boardinghouse back to a residence. It seemed to happen naturally as they saw more of each other. He wanted a woman in town and she responded. Why not? She liked him enough.

Janet Pierson, at forty, was at least five years older than Bren. She was attractive, had maintained her slim figure, they enjoyed one another; so age was not a consideration. Until he said he wanted to marry her.

She asked why and felt early suspicions aroused. He said he wanted to marry her, that was why in itself; he loved her. Yes, he had said he loved her. And he had also said, many times, “You think too much,” when she told him he really didn't want to marry her but felt an obligation or was afraid of what people thought. He had said over and over that people had nothing to do with it, goddamn it, people could think whatever they wanted; what he wanted was to be married to her. Then she had said the words that made him stare at her and then frown, perplexed, and finally get angry, the words he would never understand and she couldn't seem to explain.

She had said, “I think what you want to do is take the place of my son. You want to make up his loss.”

And he had said, “You believe I think of you as my mother?”

Yes, but she would not admit that to him: the little boy who came in the house when he was finished playing his role on the street. She didn't understand it herself, she only felt it. So she referred to him being like a little boy without referring to herself as a mother or using the word.

There was risk involved, to tell the man who had been a cavalry officer and had stood his ground and shot ten men, that he was still, deep down, a little boy and wanted his own way. He would pound his fist down or storm out (See? she would say to herself), then calm down or come back in a little while and say, “How do you get ideas like that?”

And she would say, “I just know.”

“Because you had a son? Listen, maybe what you're doing, you're still playing mama, Jesus Christ, and you're using me. I'm not doing it, you are.”

Blaming her. Then saying he loved her and wanted to marry her and be with her always. Yet they very seldom went out of the house as a couple. Sitting together in a restaurant he was obviously self-conscious; as though being seen with her revealed a vulnerable, softer side of him. The only thing she was certain of: Bren Early didn't know what he wanted.

Maurice Dumas stood in the doorway of the Chinaman's place on Second Street. He had been waiting an hour and a half, watching toward Mill Street and, every once in a while, looking in at the empty restaurant wondering how the Chinaman stayed in business…then wondering if Mr. Early had forgot or had changed his mind. Twice he'd run back to the corner of Second and LaSalle and looked across the street toward the Congress Hotel. The news reporters were still waiting on the porch.

When finally he saw Early coming this way from Mill Street, Maurice Dumas felt almost overwhelming relief. In the time it took Early to reach him-Early looking neat and fresh though it was quite warm this afternoon in May-Maurice Dumas had time to compose himself.

He nodded and said, “Mr. Early.”

“He arrive?”

“Yes sir, on the noon shuttle from Benson.”

“Alone?”

“I believe there was a Mexican gentleman with him.”

It was something to stand close to this man and watch him in unguarded moments, watch him think and make decisions that would become news stories-like watching history being made.

“They went up to the mine office first and then to the hotel,” Maurice said. “I guess where he's staying. Everybody thinks you're there, too, I guess. Or will come there. So they expect the hotel is where it'll happen-if it's gonna.”

Bren Early thought a little more before saying, “Go see him. Tell him you spoke to me.” He paused. “Tell him I'll be in this quiet place out of the sun if he wants to have a word with me.”

It was the Mexican, Ruben Vega, who came to the Chinaman's place. He greeted Early, nodding and smiling as he joined him at a back table, away from the sun glare on the windows. They could have been two old friends meeting here in the empty restaurant, though Bren Early said nothing at first because he was surprised. He felt it strange that he was glad to see this man who was smiling warmly and telling him he had not changed one bit since that time at the wall in Sonora. It was strange, too, Bren felt, that he recognized the man immediately and could tell that the man had changed; he was older and looked older, with a beard now that was streaked with gray.

“Man,” Ruben Vega said, “the most intelligent thing I ever did in my life, I didn't walk up to the wall with them…You not drinking nothing?”

“Is he coming?” asked Bren.

“No, he's not coming. He sent me to tell you he isn't angry, it was too long ago.” The Mexican looked around, saying then, “Don't they have nothing to drink in this place?”

They sent Maurice Dumas out to get a bottle of mescal, which the Mexican said he was thirsty for. Bren had beer, served by the Chinaman, and drank several glasses of it while they talked, allowing Maurice to sit with them but not paying any attention to him until he tried the mescal and made a terrible face and the Mexican said to Bren, “Your friend don't know what's good.”