Swanlon grubbed at the springy cartilage of the dog’s ear. He’d inherited the farm from his oul fella, decades back, had worked it here in tandem with his mother until she, too, died off. As far as Nick knew, Swanlon had never gone anywhere or done anything beyond tending to his acres. He was just an ailing, ancient sham who knew almost nothing about life.

‘And what about young Pell?’ Swanlon continued.

Nick ground his teeth. ‘What about her?’

‘I saw her stalking straight out that road this morning, head up. Looked like a soldier making off to war.’

‘That’s how she always looks.’

‘She should finish her schooling, too. She’s a sharp tack.’

‘I know, I know. But, the way I see it, that’s up to her.’

Pell had been out of school for almost two months now. She’d started ­junior-­cert year right after the da’s funeral. She hadn’t missed a day that Nick could recall, was eerily compliant through the year, then failed every single exam. This year, she was supposed to repeat, but when school started, back in September, she would not get out of bed. Just would not get out of bed. The third day, Nick, sick of appealing, barged into her room, grabbed her by the ankles, and began to walk backwards. Pell, on her back, did not resist. She held his gaze and needed three stitches in her head where she’d hit the floor.

‘Ah, I know, but still,’ Swanlon said. He shifted his gaze. ‘You up to your eyes in the job?’

‘Not particularly,’ Nick said.

‘You’re hardly about.’

Nick squinted. ‘You keeping tabs?’

Swanlon smiled. ‘Not in an especial way. But what else have I to be doing?’

Nick looked up at Swanlon. ‘I don’t know. I couldn’t imagine. There’s not so much as a square inch spare inside my head to ponder what it is you’d have to be doing with your time.’

‘All right,’ Swanlon said.

Nick angled his arm out the window. He watched the dog raise its gleaming snout to his palm.

‘Dogs always look sorry for something,’ he said.

Gerry dismounted, hitched his horse to the post outside the Monteroy Saloon, and cycled through his weapons inventory, topping up the ammo in his twin revolvers and his Winchester repeater. The stars were out. Pianola notes drifted from the saloon’s double doors. Civilians walked the edges of the wide dirt street with their eyes on their shoes. Cicadas, crickets, whatever they were, ticked way out in the desert dark.