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don’t like you getting beat up and I don’t want to sit around getting raped and pillaged just so you can become a famous photographer. Why not take pictures of gypsies? Then we can go to Europe and look for them.”
    Jim was silent, looking down the empty street. He didn’t enjoy joking about his profession, whatever his profession was at the time, and Patsy knew it; but she kept thinking that if she could make the right sort of joke, in the right tone, he might relax about it and then everything would be a lot more fun. But demons got in her and she never made the right sort of joke or found the right tone.
    “The bull rider’s name was Boggs,” she said. “He breathed on me. If my fair white body is going to be sacrificed to your ambition the least you could do is take me to Europe. Why must I be sacrificed in Merkel, Texas?”
    It didn’t lift his spirits, so with a wriggle of her slim shoulders she dropped it and went over and hugged him, her face against his throat. He had his hands in his pockets and she shyly pulled one out and held it.
    “Maybe we could hitchhike back out there,” she said.
    Then they heard the thin noise of a siren in the distance and saw, far down the straight highway, the red revolving light on top of the ambulance.
    “Aha,” Jim said. “Here comes us a ride.” 25
    “No,” Patsy said firmly. “That’s not our ride. I refuse to ride with that man.”
    “Why? He surely didn’t try to seduce you, did he?”
    “No.”
    “Then why not?”
    “Well, because I threatened to kick him,” she admitted. “I’m the kind of girl who sometimes threatens people.”
    “You never threatened to kick me,” Jim said, frankly astonished.
    “You’re nicer than him. He just prompted me to threaten him, never mind why.”
    “I don’t intend to pass up a ride just because you were rude,” Jim said. “I’m about to collapse. You can apologize. I’m sure you had no business saying whatever you said.”
    The ambulance shrieked into town and skidded to a stop on the gravel driveway. Patsy didn’t want to look. She had the horrid conviction that Ed Boggs had indeed been stomped by a bull. She would have to watch him carried into the hospital, his entrails spilling out. Instead, a young cowboy in black chaps emerged from the ambulance and limped inside, holding one of his shoulders. Jim walked over to the ambulance and she followed timidly.
    “Sure, sure,” the driver said, waving them in. “I got your cameras for you. Pete Tatum gathered ’em up. Just keep between me and your missus, is all I ask. She’s a little on the violent side, ain’t she?”
    He was lighting the stub of a cigar and seemed not to expect an answer. Jim got in the middle and Patsy sat by the window. In a moment they were speeding back past the street lights, toward the dark country. Patsy had her arm on the car door. As they gained speed the rush of air cooled her armpit and blew through her dress, across her chest. The lightning to the northwest had grown heavier; when it flashed they saw the dark shape of a cloud. The driver seemed to be making an effort to be polite and Patsy softened toward him.
    “I’m sorry I said what I did,” she said. “I was a bit overwrought. Did you say the clown’s name was Pete? He told me but I’d forgotten.”
    “Pete Tatum. Knowed him for years. Only reason Pete bothers with this little show is because his brother’s a big man in the rodeo association here. He works them big professional shows. Santa Rosa and shows like that.”
    “It was awfully nice of him to take care of the cameras,” Jim said. “Thank him for us in case we miss him.”
    Ahead, off the road, they saw the glow of the arena lights and a lower glow from the dance floor. The driver turned onto the dirt road and they were soon back inside the rodeo grounds.
    “This’ll be fine,” Jim said. “Our car’s right here.”
    “Okay. Watch out for your missus now. Don’t let her kick none of these pore