Gugar gestured toward the wagons and cars, his jaw set in defiance, his eyes wide, as if he wouldn’t comply with Ram’s wishes any longer. Ram was being called upon to act and he knew he would fail; what he should say or do would grow clear only days or months or years from now, when it would be too late. Just as it had in Hambelton.

Suddenly, Ram sprang out in front of the cluster of Punjabi men and ran toward the jailhouse. He could not feel his legs move. The sand muffled his footfall. “Good evening, Sheriff Fielding,” he called. He was out of breath, but it was not from running.

All heads turned, startled.

The sheriff squinted into the night toward him. “Ram Singh? What are you doing here?” An expression crossed his face. Relief? Surprise?

“Sheriff. Just I come to visit my friend,” Ram said. His voice quivered. He spoke louder to cover it up. “I didn’t know—so many people here.” He made himself look at the faces of the drunken men. In the lantern’s light, their skin looked gray, unnatural, cloaked in shadow. Most were without hats and their hair lay tousled, their clothes uneven. The odor of dried sweat hung about them. Karak would have known who they were. He would have recognized several of the voices, the faces, been aware of who was friends with whom. Some of the Hindustanees standing behind Ram would know such things too.

It came as a revelation: these were not the town’s powerful and wealthy. In their shabby clothes and scuffed boots, he saw men who labored in the soil, small-time farmers, soldiers who had returned from war and not found their place. He counted only four rifles among them.

“Your friend also in jailhouse?” he said. The light was shining full on him, and he knew they saw every expression, although he could only see their faces dimly, in half shadow. He forced himself to smile. “Oye! These jailhouse friends!” He forced himself to shake his head, as if in good-natured disbelief. What shall we do with our jailhouse friends?

The sheriff watched him with his mouth open, as if about to speak. The door creaked and swung out and Deputy Hollins emerged from the building and stood in the lantern’s glow. For a moment his eyes locked with Ram’s.

“Sheriff, visiting hours is now?” Ram continued. “Because I have many people, many many people who come also to visit my friend. I told to them, wait until daytime.” Ram looked skyward. “You know—sun is coming out.” He signaled for the other Punjabis to join him, a small wave of his right hand near his right hip. Come into the light, the hand said. Come without your guns. Just your presence is enough.