“I’ve got a report,” Sam said quietly. No use pushing this copper—Clawson had said the night man was drunk.

“I got all kinds of reports,” the desk sergeant said. “Don’t mean they’re true.” He hawked an enormous wad of chaw into a brass cuspidor.

“Got a point.” Sam leaned on the desk. He could be as laconic as anybody.

The sergeant scratched under his tunic. “Now, there’s a boy I could show you. Made friends with a chicken that already had enough friends.”

“I heard there was silverware,” Sam said. “I heard some neighbors caught up with him.”

“Spoons. Pair of silver spoons.” The sergeant hollered to somebody in the back to watch the desk. Then he grabbed a ring of iron keys and led Sam down a corridor, through a steel door, and into the jail. The sergeant locked the steel door behind them. “But it was Red Shirts caught him.”

The jail was quiet. Prisoners hunkered over their morning meal of grits and sausage. The sergeant opened a cell and Sam stared in at a skinny black boy sprawled unconscious on a cot against the far wall. His face was swathed in clean bandages, and his arm was tangled in a sling. There was blood on the pillow next to his mouth. “Sixteen years old,” the sergeant said. “Name’s David King. A good boy. Gammy leg. And a little slow.” He tapped his skull. “His mama’s a God-fearing woman, best cook in town. Domestic over on Fifth, near Princess. One of the better homes.”

The boy was all beat up. No matter how many times Sam saw the victim of a beating, he couldn’t get over it. All those fists and boots, pummeling. “Why in the world do you think he was stealing chickens?”

The sergeant looked him in the eye, as if to say, how stupid are you?

Sam didn’t know what to make of this sergeant. He looked like every bully-copper he’d ever seen, but he was clearly upset about this boy, David King.

“Shoot, that boy didn’t steal no chickens,” the sergeant said. “Spoons belonged to his mama. He was on his way to Tom Miller’s pawnshop.”

“Why is he in jail, then?”

“Don’t want nobody bothering the boy. Soon’s he wakes up, he can go.”

The sergeant led him out. Sam turned and held out his hand. The big sergeant eyed it for a second, then shook it slowly, squeezing, watching Sam’s eyes for a hint of pain.

“Sam Jenks.”

“Lockamy,” the sergeant said, letting go the hand. “You get in trouble, and it looks like you will, you call for Alton Lockamy.”

Sam was almost out the door before he remembered. He turned. “They say Alex Manly’s back in town.”

Sergeant Lockamy sighed. “I don’t want to hear that,” he said. “How do these rumors get started?”