“That’s enough,” Rountree said, looking around at the crowd, who were mostly ignoring the men at the table. “The less said, the better.”

Waddell smiled, made a sweeping gesture with his hand to include the gang of Brigade boys in khaki uniforms, the Red Shirts filtering past in twos and threes with full platters of barbecue, the other men and women making a noisy holiday. “ ‘Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin.’ The handwriting is on the wall.”

“Still, a little discretion, gentlemen. Things can change at any moment.”

Pastor Hoge said, “I hear the nigrahs are going to put up their own slate of candidates.”

Walker Taylor agreed. “I’ve heard that, too.”

“They’ll mob the polling places,” Hugh MacRae said, fidgeting, twisting his hands together. He alone was neither eating nor drinking. “They’ve got the numbers.”

Sam said, “Come on, you don’t believe—”

The look in their eyes stopped him. Clawson squinted at him across the table. Everybody stopped eating. Walker Taylor held his glass to his lips but did not drink.

MacRae said mildly, “We’ve got more experience than you in these matters. You just pay attention and write it up.” Sam heard the threat in his voice. It was a voice that could say anything and make it come true.

Mike Dowling entered the tent and shuffled toward them between the rows of tables, a Red Shirt flanking him left and right—bodyguards. Dismounted, he was a short man with a heavy torso, apish arms, and bandy legs. The rusty cavalry saber bounced against his leg.

“Well, if it ain’t Himself,” Clawson said.

“Delusions of grandeur,” Walker Taylor said.

Waddell added, “Somebody ought to show the gentleman the proper way to wear a sword.”

Walker Taylor said, “He’s got almost a hundred rifles behind him now.”

Dowling and his men nodded as they passed. Sam saw the bulge of a flask in his back pocket. Dowling commandeered an empty table, stood at the head, and waited until his Red Shirts were lined up along both sides. Then, when he nodded, they all sat down together.

“Thinks he’s in the officers’ mess,” Waddell observed.

“Never mind him,” Rountree said. “I know how to handle that kind.”

Sam said, “How’s that?”

Rountree struck a match to a cigar. “Give him a job. Something with a uniform and gold braid that doesn’t carry a gun.” He tossed away the match.

MacRae laughed and said, “George, you’ve got a way of cutting right to the heart of things.”

From the other direction appeared Solly Fishblate. “Look what’s coming,” MacRae observed.

Waddell said, “It’s getting so a gentleman can’t enjoy his dinner in peace.”

The Reverend Hoge said, “Did the old Jew ever ante up for the campaign war chest?”

Rountree nodded. “Took me three visits. Finally squeezed fifty dollars out of him.”

“Blood from a stone,” MacRae observed.