“What did this guy do to you?” Antonia asks Moore.

“That’s not your concern,” Moore says.

“Not usually,” Antonia says, “but this time, with you, I want to know. Tell me why you want him dusted or get someone else to do your dirty work.”

Moore looks to Elijah, who shrugs. He turns back to Antonia. “While a guest in this house, he seduced my previous wife, fucked and fed off her,” he says. “I’m a proud man. Too proud to let that kind of betrayal go unpunished. My wife, I staked out in the desert and let the sun and ants and coyotes have their way with her. McMullin escaped, though, and I’ve been hunting him for five years. Last week my man finally caught up to him.”

Sanchez comes back into the library. He approaches the desk, carrying a drawstring sack.

“Ahh, here we are,” Moore says. “I believe this and the money will be more than sufficient.”

Sanchez opens the sack. Antonia and Elijah peer inside. A naked baby wriggles at the bottom, a tiny brown baby girl. The Fiends exchange glances.

“When you bring my man in Phoenix proof you’ve killed McMullin, he’ll hand over the rest of the money and this little treat,” Moore says.

“Looks like we’re in business,” Elijah says.

The trouble starts when Real Deal notices a Confederate battle flag hanging on a wall of the roadhouse, up there with the beer signs and girlie pinups. He nudges Yuma.

“Don’t,” she says.

Ignoring her, Real Deal calls to the bartender, who’s been sitting sullenly with the other old man, the one in the ball cap, giving him and Yuma dirty looks. He probably doesn’t like seeing a curvy, freckled redhead cuddling a big black man. The bartender gets up, shuffles over, and opens the beer cooler, thinking they want another round.

“You ever hear of Baxter Springs?” Real Deal says.

“I don’t believe so,” the bartender says. “Is it in Texas?”

“Kansas,” Real Deal says. “Baxter Springs, Kansas.”

“Don’t know it.”

“How about Quantrill’s Raiders? Heard of them?”

“Them, yes, I’ve heard of.”

“I bet you have,” Real Deal says. “Stories about how they gave the Federals hell. How they ambushed Jayhawkers and Red Legs and other nigger-lovers and shot ’em to pieces. I bet you think they were pretty goddamn great, real heroes.”

“Look, friend,” the bartender says. “I don’t know what you’re getting worked up about. That’s ancient history.”

Real Deal grabs the bartender’s forearm and presses it to the bar. “Ancient history?” he says.

The Bobs and Johnny Kickapoo look over, sensing trouble. Real Deal stares into the bartender’s eyes.