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“Nobody took your kid, lady. Nobody seen your kid. This ain’t no place for you, an’ you’d better get out a here afore that gun goes off.”
    â€œI came for my boy.”
    Another step forward; his hand felt for his gun, closed over it.
    â€œDon’t come nearer,” she said. “You wouldn’t shoot a woman, and if you did, this shotgun might go off. I came for my boy. I’ll wait five minutes for you to bring him to me.”
    The bartender pleaded: “Lady, we ain’t got the kid.”
    The man who had shot her husband stared into her wide blue eyes, shrugged, nodded. In a whisper, he said something to the short man, who walked toward the back of the saloon. The shotgun was becoming heavier, and she thought that in a little while the weight of it would be too much for her to bear. Two minutes or five minutes; the short man returned, leading the six-year-old. The child was crying.
    â€œStop that crying,” she said. She dropped the muzzle of the gun, and the bartender sighed and lowered the glass he was polishing. She took the child’s hand. “Stop that crying,” she said again. Together, they went out.
    When she came to the newspaper shop, the fat man and the doctor were already there and waiting. She let the shotgun fall to the floor, dropped into a chair, and gathered the six-year-old in her arms. The doctor picked up the shotgun; the fat man stared at her, a curious expression on his face.
    â€œIt’s all right,” she whispered, “the gun’s not loaded.”
    â€œThey took the kid,” the fat man said.
    â€œThey took him.”
    â€œMy God,” the fat man whispered, “my God.”
    She rocked the child back and forth, pressed her face to his until he had stopped crying. The fat man went into the back room and returned with a handful of lump sugar, which he divided among the three children.
    â€œMy God,” he said again.
    The doctor stood there, still holding the shotgun. Outside, the sun was setting. The shadows were longer, blurred. The doctor said:
    â€œI feel young. Young and crazy. I feel like going out there—”
    â€œYou’re not afraid,” the fat man said. “You’ll tell me who he was.”
    â€œI’ll tell you,” she nodded, and then she went on to describe the man who had shot her husband.
    â€œThat’s Rockly. The little one’s Krane. God, I’ll make something of this. I’ll go to the governor. I’ll go to Washington, if I have to. I’ll plaster the Clover City Expresss all over the country. This place is hell, but hell’s been changed before. This will start the break. I’ll get the extra out tonight.”
    â€œThey won’t let you,” the doctor said. “They’ll come here.”
    â€œThen we’ll fight them. It might as well come to that.”
    â€œWho? They’re all afraid. You’re no fighting man. Neither am I. I wish to God I was. I feel young—young and crazy.”
    â€œGet them here, Jones, Frisbee, Anlee, Forster. Maybe you can get Clemens and Angus. Get someone to ride for Kenly and Stevens. Get Mat Wythe, Gil Smith. That’ll be enough.”
    â€œI tell you, they’re afraid.”
    â€œSo am I. She’ll talk to them. Get them here and let them look at her. Meanwhile, I’ll set type.”
    â€œAll right,” the doctor whispered, “all right.”
    She sat with her children around her, while the fat man set type furiously. She sat there while the shadows grew longer, disappeared in the haze of dusk. She sat there while armed, serious-faced men entered the shop, spoke in whispers to the fat man, leaned against the wall, holding their rifles.
    When they were all there, she spoke to them, and they looked into her wide, mild blue eyes. When she had finished speaking, the doctor took her hand and said:
    â€œBetter go to my house now, with the kids. Some of the women are