He heard their boots padding against the soft sand. The Anglos tilted their heads, looking at something behind him. Ram made a show of turning to see. Malik Khan stood nearest the light, Gugar Singh a bit behind. Their hands were empty.

He felt a surge of courage and turned back to the sheriff. “I told them, wait. But, see, they come anyway!” Again, his eyes scanned the Anglos clustered around the jailhouse. Was it possible? Something had changed now; there was less menace in their stances. Less defiance in their faces. Is that all it had taken? That they saw real people on the other side?

A sense of pity swept through him. Had these farmers not suffered under men like Jonathan Hitchcock too? Hadn’t the shipping companies cheated them, allowed their picked fruit to rot on the roadside so they could maintain market price, sent harvesters to their fields only when it was too late?

“You people really smart, very smart,” Ram said. “You bring guns. In case coyotes and gophers or some danger come—like this.” He snapped his fingers. “Suddenly!”

How many, in their darkest moments, had dreamed of doing what Karak did?

“Us Hindus don’t know so good the ways here. We keep guns nearby. We think—we get them if coyotes come. If.” He spoke softly. “We don’t want to use.”

The Punjabis shuffled in the sand and dirt behind him. He heard the sound of a cleared throat. A sniffle. Ram Singh, he imagined them saying. Very good, Ram Singh. A cough smothered the chirp of the crickets. Well spoken. He turned again. They stood together, some with arms folded across chests, some with turbans, wide stances, direct stares. They looked like order, he thought. They looked like civilization.

Despite his unsteady legs, despite the sweat running down his back, Ram saw the truth: the Hindustanees outnumbered the Anglos by almost two to one.

“Oh God! I told—wait until daytime. They come anyway. Sorry, Sheriff. Sorry.”

“Eugene. Harlan.” Deputy Hollins’s voice rang out through the darkness. “Why don’t y’all take the others and go home. Your families’ll be looking for you.”

The men didn’t move.

From the edge of the pack, a man lunged at Ram. “That no-good goddamn—” He swung at Ram’s face, but Ram lurched backward and the man’s fist caught air.

“Towel-headed nigger killed a man in cold blood—”

“Oye!” Gugar Singh shouted behind him. Anger swept through Ram, an emotion he should have felt years before.

“I’ll kill—” the Anglo said, but others were holding him back.

“You won’t!” Ram said.

“I’ll kill you—”

A shot rang out. Heads turned. Deputy Hollins was pointing his pistol into the air. The sour scent of gunpowder wafted through the night.