Billy Bone cocked his shotgun—I believe he thought a move to hand him over might be developing; but I was inclined to take Hill Coe at his word. He was bored, and a little talk was a relief from the bombardment.

“Mr. Isinglass can’t come right now!” a voice yelled from the top of the gully.

“Okay, we’ll listen to a deputy,” Pleasant responded. “Send Tully, if Tully’s around.”

“Tully ain’t around, I’ll come myself!” Jody Fay yelled. “Flag of truce, now!”

“Flag of truce!” Happy Jack yelled.

A minute later Jody Fay began to walk down the gully, a white handkerchief tied to his rifle barrel.

“Old Barbecue’s going to get fragrant before the day’s over,” Simp Dixon observed.

“You would too, if you were killed,” Vivian Maldonado said. The men got to their feet and edged around the doorway, watching the Texan come.

Jody Fay was even skinnier than his brother had been, and he looked to be scarcely twenty. But he was unperturbed as he approached the cabin, the rifle with the flag of truce tied to it tipped casually over his shoulder. All circumstances considered, he seemed to be in a fairly pleasant temper.

“Okay, what’s the parley?” he asked, stopping about fifteen feet from the door of the cabin.

“You’re too quick to run, but I guess I won’t miss you this time!” Billy Bone said, and before a man could move he fired both barrels of the 10-gauge into Jody Fay, who fell back as if a dray horse had kicked him.

Shock held the gully in silence for a moment—and those inside the cabin, myself included, were just as shocked as those on the ridge. But, looking back, I’m sure we should have foreseen it: the rules of civilized war meant nothing to Billy Bone.

“Goddamn, little Bill, why’d you kill him?” Happy Jack asked. “He came under a flag of truce, and now we’re all fried.”

Before Billy Bone could reply, the guns began to thunder again from the ridge. All we could do was scrunch down and take it. One of the spent shells stuck in Billy’s shotgun; he had to pry it out with his pocketknife.

Later, during the hot, still afternoon, when the Texans were cooling their rifle barrels in buckets of Pecos water and we were licking beads of sweat from our own upper lips, Happy Jack put the question again.

“Why’d you do it, Billy?” he asked. “Why’d you shoot him when we all agreed on the truce?”

“I don’t recall voting for no truce,” Billy said.

“But he carried the white flag!” Happy Jack said. “Why’d you shoot?”

Billy Bone smiled the pinched smile we had all come to dread.

“It just seemed like fun at the time,” Billy said.

20.