Scott looked skeptical.

“Look. Didn’t the declaration itself say they demanded an answer within twelve hours? Right in the text?”

Scott was on firm ground now—he understood documents. “Right. Within twelve hours.”

“And what time did you meet with Waddell and his bunch?”

“Three-thirty sharp. The meeting lasted half an hour.”

“So twelve hours from four o’clock makes four in the morning. Yet he said seven-thirty.” He knew Scott was too scared to think straight. “Does that sound to you like they care whether it gets there at four in the morning, or seven-thirty, or eight-thirty, just so long as we give in?”

Scott thought about it awhile, then smiled. “When you put it that way…”

“Anyway, they already have their answer. Didn’t lawyer Henderson say he told them Manly was already gone? Didn’t he tell them we meant no trouble?”

“He did that. He’s a man to speak his mind.”

“So the written reply is really just a formality. Something for the record. They’re not in any suspense.”

Scott relaxed. “No use me getting all shot up over this thing.” He laughed with nervous relief.

Grant shook his hand. “I admire a man with common sense.”

They doubled back down Market Street together, keeping to the shadows, and hurried along Front Street two blocks to the post office. On the steps of the massive marble building, Scott stopped short. “Damn!”

“What is it?”

“They’re closed—and I haven’t got a stamp.”

Grant smiled, reached into his coat pocket, and extracted a glassine envelope full of stamps. “Here,” he said, offering it to Scott. “Better paste two on it, just to be sure. No sense taking any chances.”

John Norwood left Jacobs’ Barbershop alone. He wasn’t sure where he was going. See if Mayor Wright was in his rooms at the Orton Hotel, maybe. Find Flavell Foster or Ben Keith, buy a little insurance from the vigilantes. He had to walk awhile and think this thing through. He had a hunch there was precious little time left for quiet reflection.

Scott had taken the letter—good, that was done. Scott was young but reliable. As a lawyer, he was only fair, but he had a bright future as a politician. People took to him immediately. He had charm, good looks, and a winning smile, and he was a team player. He ought to be putting the letter into Colonel Waddell’s hands any minute now.

Up ahead, Norwood spied two men walking together. One was lean and blond. Even from behind, he recognized the other’s halting gait, the sloped shoulders and walking cane. “Hold up there, Mr. Calabash,” he said.

Harry Calabash turned, startled. Sam Jenks turned with him, alert for attack. “Oh, it’s you, John,” Harry said. “How are you this evening?”

“You know better than to ask me that.”

“Have you met Mr. Jenks?”

Norwood bobbed his head and held out his hand. “His wife is one of our finest teachers. Can’t say I admire his own work as much.”