But he was not here for revenge, he reminded himself. The reason he was here was not totally clear to him, but he was not here to get even. He wondered what it might feel like to make eye contact with his tormentor. The idea worked on Coot until he’d entertained it. The more he watched E. P. swear at the skinny man, the more Coot wanted to confront the man who’d made a serious attempt to ruin his life.

Coot decided he would make it quick. As soon as Skinny left, Coot would rush into the tent, say a few dramatic words—preferably with his chest poked out—fling the sack of money at the big man, then leave in righteous fury. It was perfect. Short and sweet. It was a little self-righteous, but not enough to feel bad about.

He heard the skinny man say, “Don’t blame me, E. P. I didn’t do nothin’.” And he saw E. P. draw back and slap the skinny man with his heavy hand. The man stumbled backward and held his face.

E. P. said, “Who on earth should I blame, then? Cary Grant?”

The skinny man stormed out of the tent holding his face. Coot saw the man duck into another tent and heard him kick a few things. This was followed by the sound of clanging metal.

Coot seized his opportunity.

He darted into the tent. It was almost too much to bear. A few moments ago, he was Coot, the man who wandered the world in freight trains. But here, he was the Child Preacher of the Plains, standing before the Devil himself.

The big man’s eyes moved to Coot’s hands. He eyed the burlap sack. Both men were silent for a few moments.

“I was wondering when you’d come back,” said E. P.

Coot wanted to say something very clever, and in fact, he’d been thinking about it all night. But before he could get a word out, he felt something stiff jam against his shoulder blades. He turned to look behind him but couldn’t get a good look.

“Evening, son,” said a deep voice behind him. “I don’t think I’d move if I were you.”

Coot took one step sideways. He felt the stabbing in his shoulder blades get harder. “I mean it,” said the voice behind him. “You try anything and you’ll wake up carrying a harp.”

So this was the big plan, Coot thought. Rush into a tent and get suckered by a man with a gun. Some plan.

Coot said nothing. He dropped the sack and raised his hands.

E. P. walked toward Coot. He gripped Coot’s jaw, pressing his cheeks together. He glared at Coot with reddened eyes. “You ain’t changed a bit. You look just like your mama.”