He stuck out his hand. Rondal looked at it.

Miles twisted on his chair. “He doesn’t move his arms well,” he said in a high voice.

Rondal reached into his pocket and fished out his red bandana, laid it across his chest. Then he pumped Denbigh’s hand before the astonished man had time to move.

“You’re a motherfucking son of a bitch,” Rondal said. He smiled sweetly.

Denbigh dropped his hand and backed away.

“What is this?”

“Oh, lordy,” Miles croaked.

I stood in front of Rondal in case Denbigh called a gun thug.

“Bishop, did you know about this?”

“This is my sister’s—my sister’s—”

“I’m carrying his child,” I said.

Miles stared at me.

“I was going to tell you. And I dont apologize. I’m proud of it.”

“I want him off this train!” Denbigh demanded.

“I can’t put my sister off.”

“She can stay, but he goes.”

“I go where he does,” I said.

“Bishop!”

“I can’t put my people off this train,” Miles said.

“This is Lytton Davidson’s train,” Denbigh said grimly.

“I don’t care if it belongs to the President of the United States,” Miles said. “That man is gravely wounded. If you put him out and he dies, I’ll swear out a warrant on you.”

Denbigh stood in the middle of the room and cracked his knuckles.

“You’re as ignorant as the rest of them,” he said. “I wouldn’t trust a goddamn one of you. I think I’ll post a letter to Boston. The good gentlemen who own Imperial Collieries will be interested to know where your sympathies lie. Then you can go back to slopping the hogs.”

He turned on his heel and left.

Miles pointed a finger at Rondal. “Who gave you the right to do that? After what I’ve done for you.”

“I done saved your soul,” Rondal said. “Even the preacher didnt do that.”

“You’re raving!”

“No, hit’s you. You stood up there and testified.” Rondal’s fingers plucked restlessly at his blanket. “That man done murder when he was the boss man at Winco. I seen it with my own eyes. He had a Negro tossed into a furnace.”

“God.”

Miles flung open the door of the car as though to leave, but then he stood there.

“I can’t face them,” he said.

“You can be here with us,” I said. “You could work in that bank. You could start up a store. You could teach at a school, or run for office.”

“Don’t talk to me any more. I just want to think.”

Rondal’s breathing was more labored and I bent over him.

“You want another shot?”

He shook his head and worked his lungs, his mouth open. Finally he relaxed and shut his eyes, and I thought he slept. But when the train stopped at a station he opened his eyes.

“Where are we?”