That night Blake and Coot didn’t join the others for supper. Instead, they sat in their wagon. For supper, Coot ate canned beans. Blake chewed half a cigar and drank a Coca-Cola.

Blake was too busy to eat. His hands were occupied with something more important.

Blake poured cough syrup from a small bottle into a peanut butter jar. He stirred it with a fork until the peanut butter became soupy. Then he crushed white pills with the blade of his pocketknife and added the powder to the mixture.

“You’re not gonna kill him, are you?” asked Coot with a mouthful of pintos.

“Lord, no,” said Blake. “Ain’t feeling that generous.”

“What is that stuff?”

“Laudanum,” he said. “Granny’s cough syrup. Used to give it to horses to calm ’em down in the horse shows.”

“Back when you were a cowboy?”

“Back when I was whatever I was.”

“Do we hafta give that stuff to him? Can’t we just run away once he falls asleep?”

“Sure we can—if you don’t mind getting whupped like a rented mule.”

“He can’t whup us if he can’t catch us.”

“He can catch us.”

“Not if we’re fast.”

“I once saw that ape beat your mama to a pulp when she tried to leave him—God rest her soul. She was laid up for weeks because of it, back when she was pregnant with you. And don’t forget about your busted neck, Old Hoss.”

Coot remembered the beatings his mother endured from the hands of E. P. She would try to hide her bruises from Coot, but he saw them. He remembered the way her face looked when she would run from E. P.’s tent. He remembered the fear.

“You’re lucky he didn’t really hurt you this time, Coot. Next time you might not be so lucky.”

“Why doesn’t he like me, Blake?”

Blake dropped his eyes. He stopped mixing and seemed to be thinking. It was as if he had something to say but couldn’t.

“Don’t I always do what he says?” Coot went on. “Don’t I always do it?”

“He don’t like himself, Coot.”

“I dunno why. Everyone else sure does.”

“He don’t like himself ’cause he considers himself a failure. Man like E. P. expected to be somebody one day, someone famous, but didn’t never happen. He’s just stuck in this godforsaken dust like everyone else.”

“He hates me.”

“He hates everybody. Most of all he hates folks who won’t throw more than a few pennies into the offering bucket.”

Blake mixed the peanut butter hard and fast. The sound of the fork against the tin made a clipping noise in rhythm. Then he stopped and touched the fork to his tongue. He tasted it with closed eyes, then spit it out. “Did you know that E. P. used to be friends with J. Wilbur Chaplain?” he said.