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pathetic figure in the tree. The bough that was his perch has snapped and the old man is falling, crashing through more thin branches. He barely misses landing on the police dog, which lets out a startled yelp. In one swift motion the dog turns and bites the back of the old man's sheet.
    The Klansman wails as the K9 officer drags the dog away. Laughter erupts from the deputies as they whoop and cheer the dog.
    “Jesus Christ,” Jones says, disgusted. “Someone call an ambulance.”
    The old man lies on the ground, crying and cursing, as two officers quickly pat him down and take a long folding knife from his pocket. Looking to Jones for approval, they don't bother to handcuff him. Their sergeant nods back at them. The old man is obviously drunk and fairly harmless, and it appears that in addition to having been bitten on the butt he's broken his arm as well. He holds it cradled against his chest. An ambulance rolls up within minutes and carts him off.
    While Jones is orchestrating the old man's transport, another deputy approaches me. “What are you doing here, QuickDraw?” he asks without smiling.
    “Hey, Bender. I can't say. You know, state business. But it's good to see you,” I lie, looking up straight into Leroy Bender's wide moon-face. He's almost as tall as Jones, and nearly as heavy, but his bulk comes from fat rather than muscle. The uniform he wears is sloppy, one shirttail partially untucked and a white T-shirt showing between the straining buttons across his belly. He wears a cowboy's mustache like an upside-down horseshoe. It looks both absurd and menacing at the same time on his broad face. I know him as a suspect from an excessive force investigation two years ago, the last time I was in Laramie. The charges I filed against him were dismissed, I was told, for political reasons. I later learned that his uncle is the Albany County sheriff.
    Now the deputy stands too close to me but I don't step back. He's rocking on his boot heels, his gloved hands on his waist with his thumbs hooked in his gun belt. The tight black leather gloves he wears are the universal sign of cops with too much testosterone; their sole purpose is to prevent splitting a knuckle on someone's head.
    “Fuck you, Burns. That your rustbucket over there? If you know what's good for you, you'll get in it and out of my town.”
    I don't reply. I just keep my eyes on him.
    “What went down in Cheyenne don't make you a hero. It just makes you a lucky piece of shit. QuickDraw my ass.”
    “You got lucky too, Leroy. You never got convicted.”
    The cop moves even closer. “Funny, I didn't feel so lucky with you pushin' those charges, and with that reprimand you had put in my file.” He spits out a brown foam of tobacco waste and I feel its gentle tug at my pant leg.
    I look away for a moment, down at my shoes, trying to will away the anger that's rising in me. But the hot pressure is too great. Just as I'm telling myself to do nothing, I shoot out one arm and plant my palm hard in Bender's solar plexus. “Stay away from me,” I say as my hand presses into his soft flesh. He staggers back, more surprised than off-balance, and one boot heel catches on the grass. His gun belt clatters as he goes down. The deputies and other spectators around us freeze, watching.
    Then Jones comes between us like a brick wall. “Cut it out,” he says.
    Bender's face is red and flared in the streetlights when he rolls to his feet. To Jones he says, “You got no rank on me, Jeff. Back off!”
    “No, Leroy, but I got size.”
    It's a long moment before he turns and walks away. With a final hard look he says to me, “I take back what I said before—I hope you have a nice long visit in Laramie, you little fuck. I'll be seeing you. You can bet on that.”
    “Quite a town you live in,” I say to Jones when he's gone.
    Jones is frowning. “What the fuck you doing, Anton? You know better than to tangle with that peckerhead.”
    “I've got nothing to lose.”