Moon heard Goldwater say, “So far there is not one bit of evidence to support a murder charge against my client. No one here can place him with Armando at the scene of the hanging. However, your honor, if you are not reasonably convinced I'll put my client on the stand. He'll testify that he did, in fact, rescue Armando, not carry him off, and left him out there when he said he wanted to return to his people.” The judge asked how could the court be certain that was what happened? The defense lawyer asked, who could dispute it?

Moon cleared his throat and almost said, “I can,” at this point. He could tell them how he had watched from the high ground as the Mexicans put their dead over horses and rode out of there-maybe to somebody else's place or to hide in the timber-and Armando had not returned as long as they watched. But he couldn't tell them if they didn't ask, and it didn't look like that was going to happen. He tugged at the county lawyer's coat a couple of times, but Ison would not pay attention to him. Ison had his head stuck in there with the other two legal minds as they talked lawyer talk to each other and decided the outcome of these proceedings.

During the conference at the bench the people in the audience had begun to compare ideas and opinions and there was a buzz of noise in the lowceilinged courtroom. It stopped when Judge Hough banged his gavel on the desk.

He said that based on a reasonable doubt because of a lack of substantial evidence the charge of suspicion of murder was hereby dismissed.

That was it. The judge left the courtroom and the news reporters converged on Moon and Sundeen: one group asking Moon if he had actually intended to kill Sundeen; another group asking Sundeen what he intended to do about it. Moon said, you heard my testimony. He was looking for the county lawyer, Ison, to tell the little ass-kisser a few things, but did not see him now. Moon felt himself being moved by the crowd clearing away from between them so that finally they stood facing each other.

Sundeen said, “Well, that's twice you have tried. Four hundred yards, huh?”

“Give or take a few,” Moon said. “I see you got a hole in your face from the first time and a piece of ear missing.”

The reporters were writing in their notepads now-the story unfolding before their eyes, better than they could have staged it, some of them not noticing Sundeen's hand going to his beard to stroke it gently as he stared at Moon.

“You hung a friend of mine and it doesn't look like the court is gonna do anything about it,” Moon said.

Sundeen continued to stare at him. He said then, “Go on home. We'll get her done before too long.”

“I suppose,” Moon said.

One of the reporters said, “Get your guns and settle it now, why don't you? Out on the street.”

Sundeen gave the man a hard stare and said, “For you, you little pissant? Who in the hell you think you are?”

Moon and Sundeen looked at each other again, each knowing something these reporters would never in their lives understand.

Maurice Dumas waited in front of the jail, watching the people coming out. When he saw Moon and his good-looking wife, Maurice had to push his way through the crowd to get close enough to hand Moon the folded piece of note paper. Moon looked at Maurice Dumas, nodded hello, then opened the note and read it while the reporters waited. Moon nodded to Maurice again and handed the note to his wife.

“From Bren,” he said.

10

Janet Pierson felt left out. She was at ease with them, she liked them; but she didn't feel with them. Nor did she feel as close to Bren now. Bren and Dana Moon and his wife had shared something, had lived through an experience during another time that did not include her.

She was aware of the news reporters waiting outside the house, the crowd of them that had followed Moon and his wife here. She liked his wife, Kate; she felt she had known her a long time and the feeling surprised her. For some reason she could sympathize with her; though the young woman did not seem to need or want it. She could also sympathize with the news reporters and knew what they were feeling. She imagined-after Bren and Mr. and Mrs. Moon were gone-the reporters standing at the door asking her questions. What are they like? What did you talk about?

She imagined herself saying, Oh, they're very nice people. Polite, well-mannered.

But what did they talk about?

Nothing in particular. Old times mostly.

Did they get in a fight over the situation?

No, they're friends.

Come on, did they have words?

No. (Not exactly.)

Did they talk about any of the men they'd killed?

No, of course not.

Do you know how many those two have laid to rest?

They would get onto something like that and she would try to close the door.

Did Moon chew tobacco in the house?

Certainly not.

We hear his wife is a tough customer.

She's very nice.

Did she have anything to say?

Of course. She is not timid. She told me about their house.

Was there much tension between them, Early and Moon?

No, it was a very pleasant visit. Mr. Moon described his duties as an Indian agent. (“Through the office of Indian Affairs…handle all relations between the federal government and the Indians…direct the administration of tribal resources…supervise their ‘trust’ property…promote their health and physical welfare…guide their activities toward the attainment of economic self-sufficiency, self-government and the preservation of Indian cultural values.” Bren said, “And what exactly does that mean?” And Moon said, “Try to keep them from doing what is most natural to them, raiding and making war.”) While Mr. Early explained his responsibilities with the company. (“You get a big stockholder out here a thousand and some miles from home, what do you think is the first thing he wants to see?” “An Indian,” Moon said. “That's the second thing,” Bren said. “A whorehouse,” Mrs. Moon said. “Correct,” Bren said, and they had a good laugh over it.)

What else might be asked? Janet Pierson wondered if her name would appear in a newspaper or in Harper's Weekly. “In an interview with Mrs. Pierson, a close friend of the”…legendary, celebrated, renowned…famous…“the well-known figures who are playing important roles in the controversial land war…” What? “Mrs. Pierson stated they are very polite, well-mannered people.”

She said, “I don't understand it at all. I don't. How can you sit there like it's just another day and completely ignore what's going on?”

Bren put on a concerned frown. “Honey, we're just visiting; catching up's what we're doing. You know it's been over three years?”

“Yes, I know it's been three years. You date everything you talk about,” Janet Pierson said. “Sonora in eighty-seven. St. Helen's, some stagecoach station in eighty-nine. The wedding three years ago…”

There was a silence. They seemed content to let it go on, patient people, used to quiet; the Moons sitting together on the sofa could be on the porch Kate had described…Bren with a leg over the arm of his chair. Coffee cups on the end tables…News reporters outside dying of curiosity: Were they at each other's throats or plotting a way to kill Sundeen?

Bren said, you want some more coffee? The Moons said, no, thank you.

Janet Pierson, hands gripping the arms of her chair, said, “Would you like to hear about my past life, my marriage? How I came to live here? My husband, Paul, was a mining engineer. He designed and built the crushing mill up at the works that one day, when he wasn't feeling well and should have stayed in bed-I told him, in your condition you should not be walking around that machinery…”