“Kane Wootan ain't after your job. And if he was, he wouldn't get it. It's Kempton you want to watch. Don't give him a lot of power. If he's a nice boy, he might offer to let you be his deputy someday. ’Cause he's going to be sheriff if you let him. We'll spread the authority around. I think Wootan's my man.”

“And how are we going to identify those slackers?”

“It's a tight community. People here know who's signed up and who hasn't. You let it slip around the church that you're going to be looking for slackers, and they'll be lining up to register. That's all we ask. And I'll give you your first leads. Power. John and Tom Power.”

“The boys up in the Galiuros?”

“That's them. I think they deserve the opportunity to see France. Where the ladies don't wear no pants.”

Two days after his talk with Haynes, McBride saw the battered flatbed truck outside the tack and hardware. He passed it, then came back, thinking that this could be one of the Powers. The truck, like a lot of others, had had hell beaten out of it, the way a truck would if it went up and down Rattlesnake Canyon regularly. He couldn't ever recall having a conversation with a Power other than Tom, but he knew who they were.

The Old Man, not actually so old, a little more than McBride but weathered hard on the face and hands, maybe ten years beyond his actual age, leaned on the counter of the store where his goods were being tallied. Someone had told a joke, and there was laughter, but it died out as McBride walked in.

“Mr. Power? Mr. Jeff Power?”

The Old Man turned to face McBride, leaning back into the counter. “That would be me.”

“Frank McBride. Sheriff.” McBride extended his hand, and Power took it. Power's hand was remarkably calloused and strong.

“What did they do?”

“Pardon?”

“My boys. I ain't done nothing that would be of interest to you, so I figure it would be one or both of the boys you're interested in. What did they do? Tell me, and I'll beat hell out of one or both of them for you and save you the trouble and expense.”

“Not so much what they've done but what they haven't done. They haven't registered for the draft.”

“Couldn't. Went to Redington and got turned away. Wouldn't sign ’em up there.” Power turned back toward the layabouts he had been talking to.

“I don't know about that. They're not registered, and the law says they have to register. They can come here. Right away. Today if they can. Tomorrow at the latest.”