The man said, “My name is William Smith, Chief of Special Detectives for the Southern Pacific Railroad. I am not pleasant to look at and more unpleasant to deal with. That’s my word of caution. You are one of the Dalton boys. Railroad circulars say you’ve had yourselves quite a time back east in the territories, stealing and rustling and such. I hear you are cousins to Cole Younger and that you used to be lawmen. I gotta say that with a combination like that I trust you no farther than I can spit.”

Grat said, “I wonder if you could withdraw your pistol? I’m gettin’ a bit distracted.”

Detective Smith sat back and said, “Mr. Leland Stanford’s Southern Pacific Railroad and the Wells Fargo Express Company lost twelve thousand dollars to bandits in Pixley in 1889, and another twenty thousand this last year. I consider both them robberies blemishes more serious to me than this meal of a face. They are my very personal shame and I’ll entertain no more. I want that understood. If I see you close to one of my trains I’ll blow a hole through your head.”

Grat smiled and leaned forward with his cheeks on his fists. “Now you may impress hobos and baggage clerks and little boys throwing dirt clods with that kind of slice-yer-pecker-off skit, but I have bit off earlobes and swallowed them, so you’ll excuse me if the hot piss is not exactly running down my leg.”

The SP’s Mr. Smith got up from his chair and put the nickel-plated pistol in his belt holster. “I had already heard you were stupid.”

Grat was not the only Dalton observed by Smith in California. He watched our brother Littleton, who was much older and harmless as coveralls, and after Bob and McElhanie arrived in November, he watched them in cousin Sam Oldham’s house near Kingsburg. McElhanie he swore was Emmett Dalton using an alias. I guess we looked a little alike. Also, Smith watched my brother Bill Dalton, figuring him the most dangerous.