“He’s a horse trainer,” Bill said amiably.

“Horse trainer.” He said it like he’d been told that Thatcher performed a high-wire act in the circus. “Well, welcome to Lefty’s.”

Thatcher didn’t say anything, just gave a bob of his head.

Bill placed their order for two hamburgers and cold Coca-Colas.

“Comin’ up.”

Thatcher watched Lefty’s progress back across the room. Midway, he was intercepted by his wife. They had a brief exchange, then Lefty continued on toward the grill behind the bar while Gert made her way toward their table. Through the soles of his boots, Thatcher could feel the vibration of her heavy tread.

Unlike her husband, who looked like he could be snapped in two as easily as a toothpick, Thatcher didn’t think Gert could be knocked over with a tank like those he’d seen on the battlefront.

When she reached them, she sized him up. “Thatcher, huh?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Never knew nobody with that name. Who’re your people?”

“You wouldn’t know them.”

“Try me.”

He gave her a one-sided smile that didn’t show teeth. “I wouldn’t know them.”

Still appraising him, she took a drag of her cigarette, then leaned over and ground it out in the ashtray in the center of their table. She blew a plume of smoke out of the corner of her mouth.

Turning her attention to Bill, she said, “What are you doing here?”

Bill, who’d checked his watch again, pocketed it. “Hello to you, too, Gert. I’m here for a hamburger. Also to ask after the girl.”

“Which?”

“You know which, Gert.”

She huffed a gust of stinky breath. “That Wally Johnson. Jug-eared little bastard ruint her face, her arm’s healing all crooked, and she cain’t see out one eye.”

“Is she still here?”

She hitched a thumb over her shoulder. Thatcher and Bill looked in the direction she’d indicated. A young woman with her arm in a sling was flipping meat patties on the grill while Lefty was uncapping Coke bottles.

Gert was saying, “Her name’s Corrine. Out of the goodness of my heart I’m keeping her on even though she ain’t much use to me upstairs no more. But some men if they’re that hard up ain’t all that particular about looks.” She gave Thatcher a sly glance. “You interested? You can have half an hour at a cut rate.”

Bill said, “Gert, if you openly solicit, I’ll slam down your operation upstairs.” He spoke in a low voice that thrummed with warning.

Her eyes, set in folds of ruddy fat, narrowed to slits. “Lessen you forgot, you and me have a deal, sheriff.”

“Only as long as we both keep up the pretense that this isn’t a low-rent whorehouse.”

“Beg your pardon. It ain’t low-rent.”

“All I’m saying is, don’t forget the terms of our deal, or I’ll forget we have a deal. I’ll close you down, and you’d lose a shitload, what with all the roughnecks racing down here from Ranger every Saturday night.” He looked over at Thatcher. “They’ve struck oil up there.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard.”

“Despite the distance they have to drive, the oil field workers have been a boon to Gert’s business.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

Bill snickered. “The hell you don’t. They’re a wild bunch, those boys. I hear you’ve got them lining up in the hall and making them bid on who goes next. That’s begging for trouble.” Then, after a beat, he said in a steely undertone, “Keep things under control, Gert, or our deal is off.”

She took a challenging stance. “I got iron control.”

“You didn’t the night Wally battered that girl.” Bill eyed her keenly. “Or was that under your control?”

Looking up at her from beneath the brim of his hat, Thatcher noticed an instantaneous slackening of the woman’s smirk, her rapid blinking. Bill had struck a nerve, but she recovered quickly.

“Chew good, sheriff. It’d be a damn shame if you choked to death on your burger.” She looked again at Thatcher. “Any of my girls would be tickled to see you.” She turned and lumbered off.

“Why, Thatcher. I think she took a shine to you,” Bill said. He was still laughing under his breath when Lefty brought over their food.

After one bite, Thatcher understood why the burgers had earned their reputation. He’d polished his off in no time and was about to comment on the tastiness, when the crack of a gunshot silenced him. Reflexively he dropped sideways out of his chair onto the floor and pulled the pistol from his waistband.

Much more calmly, Bill stood up and drew his weapon. “That was only the warning shot, Thatcher. But any from now on, you should take seriously.”

“Warning shot?”

“We’re raiding the back room.”

Bill left him and began swimming upstream of all the patrons who were hotfooting it toward the entry. “I could use some help,” he shouted back at Thatcher.

Thatcher was furious at Bill and at himself for being so goddamn gullible, but he followed, pushing people aside before they could trample him.

When he and Bill drew even with the staircase, Gert leaned over the bannister and screamed, “I won’t forget this, sheriff! Fuck you!”

Ignoring her, Bill slid into a narrow space behind the bar that accessed a door. He knocked on it twice with the butt of his gun. It was opened by Harold, who was breathing heavily. “Hell’s broke loose.”

From beyond the doorway came the sounds of pandemonium: swearing and shouting, grunts of pain, the splintering sound of breaking furniture, glass shattering.

Bill turned and slapped his hand over Thatcher’s chest. “Pin that on and consider yourself deputized.”

Thatcher fumbled the star-shaped badge, pricking his finger on the pin. “You son of a bitch.”

“Well, I guess I am, but—”

A barrage of gunshots drowned out the rest.

“Dammit!” Bill barged through the open doorway.

Thatcher slid the badge into the breast pocket of his jacket as he followed the sheriff. Holding the Colt at shoulder level, barrel toward the ceiling, he entered the fray.

Scotty had the man obviously responsible for firing the gunshots pinned facedown on the floor. Bill was trying to wrestle away the man’s handgun before he could fire another round.