Joe came lightly along the hall, and Oscar asked, “You Joe?”

“Who’s asking?”

“The sheriff wants to have a talk with you.”

Joe felt ice creeping into his stomach. “Pinch?” he asked. “Got a warrant?”

“Hell, no,” said Oscar. “We got nothing on you. Just checking up. Will you come along?”

“Sure,” said Joe. “Why not?”

They went out together. Joe shivered. “I should of got a coat.”

“Want to go back for one?”

“I guess not,” said Joe.

They walked toward Castroville Street. Oscar asked, “Ever been mugged or printed?”

Joe was quiet for a time. “Yes,” he said at last.

“What for?”

“Drunk,” said Joe. “Hit a cop.”

“Well, we’ll soon find out,” said Oscar and turned the corner.

Joe ran like a rabbit, across the street and over the track toward the stores and alleys of Chinatown.

Oscar had to take a glove off and unbutton his mackinaw to get his gun out. He tried a snap shot and missed.

Joe began to zigzag. He was fifty yards away by now and nearing an opening between two buildings.

Oscar stepped to a telephone pole at the curb, braced his left elbow against it, gripped his right wrist with his left hand, and drew a bead on the entrance to the little alley. He fired just as Joe touched the front sight.

Joe splashed forward on his face and skidded a foot.

Oscar went into a Filipino poolroom to phone, and when he came out there was quite a crowd around the body.

Chapter 51

[1]

IN 1903 HORACE QUINN beat Mr. R. Keef for the office of sheriff. He had been well trained as the chief deputy sheriff. Most of the voters figured that since Quinn was doing most of the work he might as well have the title. Sheriff Quinn held the office until 1919. He was sheriff so long that we growing up in Monterey County thought the words “Sheriff” and “Quinn” went together naturally. We could not imagine anyone else being sheriff. Quinn grew old in his office. He limped from an early injury. We knew he was intrepid, for he had held his own in various gunfights; besides, he looked like a sheriff—the only kind we knew about. His face was broad and pink, his white mustache shaped like the horns of a longhorn steer. He was broad of shoulder, and in his age he developed a portliness which only gave him more authority. He wore a fine Stetson hat, a Norfolk jacket, and in his later years carried his gun in a shoulder holster. His old belt holster tugged at his stomach too much. He had known his county in 1903 and he knew it and controlled it even better in 1917. He was an institution, as much a part of the Salinas Valley as its mountains.

In all the years since Adam’s shooting Sheriff Quinn had kept track of Kate. When Faye died, he knew instinctively that Kate was probably responsible, but he also knew he hadn’t much of any chance of convicting her, and a wise sheriff doesn’t butt his head against the impossible. They were only a couple of whores, after all.