But the Punjabis did not leave. They sat on their roost near the generator long after the sheriff went inside the jailhouse. Surely the sheriff knew they were out there and let them stay.

35

THE MEXICAN BOY HAD BEEN RIGHT. THE LETTUCE FIELD HAD AN EVIL spirit. Ram sat in view of the Moriyama house on a crate under a mesquite. The spot had always been a place of rest. Clive had died on the other corner of the field, far away. He had not ventured there—since. Perhaps he never would.

The Mexicans’ camp had been cleared. He wondered when they had come. The field was half-harvested and plants were beginning to wilt. Already he could smell the acrid scent of lettuce spoiled in the heat.

The future was a blank wall beyond which he could not see. The money that he had dreamed about would not arrive. He wanted to go back to Punjab, to the wife and son waiting for him, to return to the life he should have had. He had saved Karak’s life at the jailhouse, though he had not been able to save the men in Hambelton. He could not help Karak any more now.

Across the unbroken view of the field, he saw Jivan walking toward him. Ram watched his progress, crossing the furrows in the broken earth. When he reached Ram, he pulled up another crate and sat down.

“What did the sheriff ask you yesterday?” Jivan asked.

“When?”

“When the Anglos had left. When he spoke to you privately.” Ram was surprised that Jivan remembered. For the first time, he did not want Jivan’s opinion. But he could not lie.

“He asked why Karak says that Clive had a gun.”

“What did you say?”

“I told him I don’t know.”

Jivan looked at him. Ram felt his own weakness. It was Karak’s life they were talking about.

“She must tell, Ram.”

“She is just a village girl. No one will believe her.” But he knew Jivan sensed the real reason. He could not hurt her. He thought of how she had fought off the man who approached her after her husband died. He remembered her despair when she told that story.

“They will hang him,” Jivan said.

“They will be cruel to her.” He did not know whether he meant the Anglos in the courtroom, or the Mexicans in the barrio.

“Why should they be cruel to her? You cannot allow yourself to be misguided. His life is worth more than that.”

Ram felt a stab of anger. Jivan, of all people, knew best the unwritten rules of the Valley. Karak and Jivan and Ram were aliens, and they would never be equal to the Anglo men. But Adela was a Mexican, and just a woman. She counted for nothing at all.

“He killed a man, bhai-ji.”

“It was not without reason. For that, he deserves to die? Have you no loyalty?” Jivan’s voice was hard.