Jivan walked back with the ledger. With only his eyes, Karak indicated to Clive that the evening was not to be spoken about. Jivan opened the book to the correct page and laid it on the table. Karak poured whiskey into Clive’s glass. Clive opened his satchel, found his own ledger, copied numbers from the book that Jivan had laid out. “These look really good, John.” He whistled in admiration. “You boys did good.”

“Season was good,” Jivan said. “Everywhere cantaloupe numbers up in Valley.”

“But yours are better than the others.”

“Could be,” Jivan said lightly. His lips peeled back into a smile, reluctantly given.

“But now you goin’ into cotton?”

“Not me,” Jivan said. “Them.” He lifted his chin toward Ram and Karak.

Clive’s eyes met Ram’s for the first time. Ram quickly turned to Karak; he had been understanding most of the English conversation but hesitated to speak.

“Why you going into cotton, Karak? It’s loco.”

“Why not?” Karak said.

“Nobody knows how it’ll do. Why not just stick with cantaloupe, squash, tomatoes, peas? Cantaloupe’s bringing in a haul.”

“Cantaloupe will be having a glut again,” Karak said. “I feel that. With the war in Europe, cotton market will be high.”

Clive leaned back in his chair. “I’d just stick with something that’s bringing a profit.”

“For two years, Wilsie Ranch making money only with cotton. Why not me? Jake Smiley at the gin is quoting ten cents a pound.”

“Don’t matter to me, Karak. Mr. E says that between what you and Tom Moriyama brought in this year, he’s the richest man in the Valley without doing a lick of work himself.”

Karak’s eyes flashed. “Is it so?” His lips curled into a smile, generous, vindictive. He leaned forward to refill Clive’s glass. Ram wondered if Clive knew that Karak was offended.

“But not Roubillard?” Karak asked.

“Not Roubillard.” Ram had heard about this man from Louisiana, who was leasing a third portion of Eggenberger land, bordering the fields on which he and Karak would grow their cotton.

Karak gulped his whiskey. “How is digging on the Highline?” he said.

“Land Office says they won’t finish that section of the canal for two more springs, at the earliest.”

“Still that long,” Karak said.

Through the night air, against the chirping crickets, they heard the jingle of bridles. Amarjeet rose and peered around to the front. “It’s Harry and Mr. Moriyama,” he announced, smiling. The boy liked company, Ram thought.

Two figures appeared around the corner of the house. Ram’s gut clenched. He had never talked to the Japanese lumberjacks in Hambelton. He had not liked the humming efficiency of their work gangs, their arrogant aloofness, how they deferred to the Anglos while ignoring the other workers.

The boy grinned at Amarjeet. The father approached Clive first, extending his hand.

Clive rose to shake it. “Howdy, Tom,” Clive said.