But Hoge wasn’t finished. He held up an index finger. “That is much. But it is more—because it is our own city we have taken.”

Later that afternoon, Sam went by the Messenger office. Even on a Sunday, he knew he’d find Tom Clawson there. He would appeal to Clawson’s sense of fair play. Clawson had never wanted things to go this far—he’d warned Alex Manly.

“Well, look who’s here,” Clawson said.

“I’ve got a story,” Sam said. He’d been up all night writing it longhand. Gray Ellen had proofed it.

“I’ll bet you have. Where the hell have you been for the past two days?”

He was right, Sam knew. He hadn’t even bothered to check in during the worst of the violence. His thinking had been all cloudy. The whiskey hadn’t helped.

“Out in the field,” he said.

“Yeah, that’s what Harry said. See anything?”

“I saw plenty.”

“Did you? Did you really?” Clawson’s voice had an edge to it. The tone was all wrong, as if there were something important and obvious that he wouldn’t say out loud but expected Sam to hear anyway.

“Read all about it,” Sam said, holding up the handwritten sheets.

“Never mind that. You’re wanted at the mayor’s house. They’ve been looking for you all day.”

“They?”

“Waddell and your cousin.”

“Look,” Sam said, standing up. “I’m sorry I left you in the lurch. It was a mess out there. I got caught up in something. Lost my bearings, you know?” His eyes burned from lack of sleep. Again, he held out the pages of the true story of what he had witnessed.

Clawson just stood there.

Sam said, “Is there some kind of problem?”

“I’m sorry as hell it worked out this way.”

“What do you mean?”

Clawson rubbed his own tired eyes. “From the start, it was all wrong. You’ve got no business here. You haven’t got a clue.”

Sam offered the pages a third time. “It’s all true. Fact after fact.”

“You think the facts make it true?” Clawson snapped the pages out of his hand. “Get out of here. You’ve kept them waiting long enough.”

Bessie King wordlessly ushered Sam into Waddell’s library, where the mayor sat smoking a cheroot and going through a sheaf of carbons. In his shirtsleeves and garters, he looked skinny and frail, a harmless old gentleman of letters. His shirt was yellow and shiny.

“Samuel—glad you could make it. May I offer—?”

“No, thanks. I was working. Tom Clawson sent me over. Things have quieted down a good deal.”

Waddell smiled and winked. “It’s so peaceful right now, I could patrol this city with six nannies and a willow switch.” He rose from his desk and peeked out the door into the hallway. “Miz Gabby, dear—would you please bring in the mail?”