Skinner had composed himself, his Stetson still crooked on his head, stepping up to their little circle. “Lillie Virgil,” Skinner said, watching her backside as it disappeared out of the firelight. “Used to work around here. Now she’s a dad-gum Marshal. Ain’t that something? The world’s gone PC on us.”

“Best shot in the state,” Quinn said, standing wide-legged with his hands on his hips. “Lillie was a star member of the Ole Miss Rifle Team and a great law enforcement officer here and up in Memphis. I wouldn’t knock her, Skinner. You of all people should know better.”

“How ’bout we take a walk, Sheriff,” Vardaman said, handing Skinner his red Solo cup. “You don’t mind. Do you?”

They moved away from the fire and the barn, the loose gathering of Watchmen standing their ground, watching Quinn, with their guns on their hips and their knives at the small of their backs. They all wore polos or T-shirts with the Watchmen logo and their sunglasses perched above the bills of their caps. The sawed-off man Quinn had grabbed turned his head and spit in the fire.

“Skinner’s a tough ole nut,” Vardaman said. “He thinks he’s running everything himself but doesn’t understand we’re all the same. You don’t serve at his pleasure. You’re an elected official same as us.”

“He knows,” Quinn said, moving into the shadow of some tall oaks toward Jericho Road, more cars heading into the party. Headlights shining through a thicket of pines, moving toward the barn. “He just doesn’t care.”

“Well,” Vardaman said. “We don’t need to communicate through Skinner anymore. There’s not a reason in the world why you and I can’t be friends.”

“There’s a few reasons,” Quinn said. “Want me to list them?”

Vardaman kept walking. He was wearing a red-checked shirt with fancy jeans and distressed brown loafers. His hair looked freshly cut, brushed back from his bronzed face. He was nearly Quinn’s height, maybe an inch or two shorter, but walked tall and straight like a man wanting to be noticed. “Don’t worry about all that business before,” he said. “At the summer rally.”

“I don’t.”

“I think you know what Tibbehah County means to me,” he said. “It ain’t just some little old postage stamp in the state. This place has become my home, where I hunt and fish, and have become part of the people and the whole fabric. I do everything I can for this county, passing legislation, bringing in industry. I want you and me to be able to communicate about your needs down here. Things are changing. Problems you’ve had in the past with sin and vice won’t be around much longer.”

“Since when do you tell the Syndicate what to do?”

Vardaman stopped and stared at Quinn. “I have no idea what you mean.”