“Now, go about your business. Leave justice to the proper authorities!”

In a few minutes, it was all over. Waddell left, the deputies relieved the Kinston men, and Sam stood in the rain. Mike Dowling shook a finger at him and said, “I’ll remember your face.” Then he left with his Red Shirts.

Father Dennen waited till he was alone on the jailhouse steps with Sam. Then he wound up and slammed a fist into Sam’s cheek. Sam saw it coming and didn’t even try to duck. Once again, he went down on the wet granite steps, too drunk to feel any pain. Father Dennen stood over him. “That’s just the start of your penance. Shame on you.”

Though they detoured down back streets to avoid the vigilance patrols, they were stopped twice on the way back to town. Gray Ellen explained that Grant was her servant. Grant played along—keeping his head down, shoulders slumped, eyes averted—and they let the buggy pass. They turned onto the alley behind the house on Third Street just before midnight. They were both soaked through and shivering—they’d been out since suppertime. The house was dark—where in the world was Sam? They left the rig in the alley, the mare still harnessed to the singletree, standing head down in the rain.

They entered the back door quietly. The last thing Gray Ellen wanted was for Callie to come around to share her troubles.

In the kitchen, she pulled the shades and warmed up a pot of stew. They sat across from each other at the plain wooden table and spooned the hot stew off their plates. Grant was finished with his helping almost before Gray Ellen had begun. “Been a hard day,” he explained. “All this running around, a man can work up an appetite.”

It was only then, when he leaned forward, winced, and steadied himself with both hands against the table, that she noticed the blood under his left arm.

“Take off your coat and vest,” she commanded, rising.

“Leave me be.”

“You’re not going to die in my house.”

“Nobody’s dying, teacher.”

She was already behind him, tugging at the sleeves of his coat. He groaned in pain. “Help me,” she said.

He slipped off the coat and unbuttoned the vest, leaning forward so she could work it off his arms. The left side of his shirt was dark with old blood.

“When did this happen?” she said.

“Out in front of Walker’s Grocery this morning.”

“Are all men born fools, or do they learn it as they go?”

“There’s no bullet,” he said. “Just cut me a little.”

“Lucky shot.”

He laughed. “For who?”

“At least let me clean the wound. Take off your shirt.”

She moved his jacket out of the way, noticing a heavy lump in the right pocket. Same place Sam keeps his, she thought. Fools.