“Lighten up, Petey.” The cigar man chuckled again, good-naturedly. “I’ll vouch for these boys. They’re good farmers and never cause no trouble.”

The other man seemed confused.

“On my word,” the cigar man said.

The other man stepped out of the doorway and the light spilled onto their faces. Karak nodded at the cigar man—a quick, smart movement. Only then did Ram see the knowing eyes, the belly. Through a smoky haze, the man tipped his hat. “Sheriff,” Karak said.

“Karak,” the sheriff responded, grinning.

Karak traded his money for tokens, ordered a whiskey, and sat at a table where they were dealing panguingue. Ram ordered a mezcal at the bar and watched. There were three Anglos at Karak’s table, and when he sat they acknowledged him with a glance. In the far corner, Tomoya Moriyama raised his hand in greeting. Karak began to have a very good night; in seven hands, he won four. After the third win, his eyes searched for Ram, who answered him with raised eyebrows. Yes, he had been watching. Yes, he was doing well. Ram had been keeping track; he had followed the strategy in each hand. When Clive Edgar lumbered in and sat down beside Karak, he was sipping his third whiskey and sitting before stacks of neatly ordered tokens. “Makin’ good jack,” Clive said, and Karak nodded curtly, not acknowledging the wins. Ram knew he would not want to offend the other players. But a moment later, Karak grinned at Clive, easily, comfortably. Ram understood now—Karak and Clive were friends. He thought that odd.

“Clive Edgar,” the land agent said, extending his hand and greeting the other three men at the table. They shook with him, stating their names.

“Haven’t seen you men before, have I?” Clive said.

“Passing through from Arizona, originally from Kansas. Me and my nephew here,” said one of the men. The other man was from Date City, newly founded in the Valley, way north. Clive was dealt in. They played a hand. Another man arrived, sitting down in the chair that stood empty next to Clive’s. Ram’s and Karak’s eyes met.

“Hello, Maurice,” Clive said.

“Hello, Clive. Didn’t know they were letting the riffraff in here,” the new man said. Ram recognized the voice. It was Roubillard, the cotton farmer who had forced them out of line at the gin, who farmed the third portion of Eggenberger’s land.

For a moment Clive looked confused, as if he didn’t know what Roubillard meant. Then he snorted and tuned back to his cards.

“Ain’t you gonna do something about this?” Roubillard said to the dealer.

“Pete let him in.” The dealer shrugged. “He stays.”

Karak clenched his jaw.

“Have it your way.” Roubillard lit a cigarette and took a drag.

Karak looked at Ram. The stare told Ram everything. Karak would not leave now, even if he wanted to.