This morning the sunlight slants through the steel bars covering the windows as into a prison cell. In the distance a train howls. Hiram starts the day with a nip of bourbon and its mist still warms his throat when a man- child in plaid western shirt and faded jeans stumbles in, struggling against the wind, face masked by a bandanna. Standing just inside the shop like a shy bank robber, he pulls down the bandanna and puts an asthma inhaler to his mouth. After a moment of wheezing he removes his cap and shakes it clean.
    Hiram watches the dust settle onto his recently swept tile floor. I appreciate that, friend, he says. I was just telling myself how my clean floor needed some dirt.
    Hiram has a Gregory Peck voice, rich and deep. A voice you hear on wildlife documentaries.
    You the owner?
    Hiram raises his chin. I might be. Long as you're not about to point a six- shooter at me and proclaim this a stickup.
    I'm not sticking up anyone.
    The newcomer puts his Colorado Rockies baseball cap back in place and tries to stand up straight, but it's as if his body is slightly crooked. He opens his mouth to speak and pauses. The fluorescent lights fill the white cap with a glow, giving him the aura of a farm- team Jesus, eyelashes long and girlish.
    Hiram pushes a bottle of hand sanitizer toward the rockabilly. Do the honors, would you?
    The man takes the sanitizer in a submissive way, rubbing his hands and then reaching out for a Kleenex to dry them.
    What I hear is that you and me are family.
    Hiram purses his lips. How so?
    My name's Jack Brown and I'm your wife's second cousin. Honey Davis. Davis is her stepfather's name. Her real father was a Hostetter, and my mother is Dorothy Hostetter, his cousin. So Honey's my second cousin. Or third, I don't know. You just ask her. She'll tell you.
    I'm sure she'd sing like a bird, says Hiram. But for the moment, let's say you're telling the Lord's truth. What can I do you for?
    You've got a reputation, you know that? People always talking about what a shrewd customer that Mr. Hiram Page is. I even hear you got two wives.
    Hiram blinks and again purses his lips almost imperceptibly. Both are sweet and pretty. And they smile when I walk up.
    Jack Brown grins. You got me there.
    Did you come in just to get acquainted? asks Page.
    Brown steps forward, speaks in a hush. Thing is, he says, I need to borrow some money. I got to buy a pickup.
    You do.
    I know what you're thinking. Just 'cause he's my wife's second
cousin he thinks he can saunter in here like the king of England and get some money for nothing. But that's not it at all.
    It's not the half of it, I'd wager.
    How much you give me to borrow off a carat- and- a- half diamond wedding ring? You know, as collateral.
    Carat plus? That's a big diamond.
    You're telling me. I'd say it's worth twenty grand.
    Hiram raises his eyebrows. These days you can buy a house in Little Pueblo for less.
    I got no use for a house.
    Hiram sighs. A pock- faced teenager scuffles in the door. He smells like weed and looks like trouble. His oil- black hair hangs in his eyes and between the bangs his gaze slides by Hiram and Brown like they're museum pieces and he's on a high school field trip.
    Hiram paces down the counter, away from Jack Brown and toward the kid. What can I do you for? Let me guess. You're looking for something? A birth certificate?
    The kid is chewing gum and pauses in midchew. He shakes his head. He wears sneakers with the laces untied and spiderweb tattoo sleeves decorate his arms.
    Is the drum set in the window for sale?
    You bet it is, says Hiram. And if you can play a drum solo, I'll drop the price 40 percent. Hiram looks at Jack Brown and winks.
    The teenager smiles. I'll try.
    You interested in that diamond ring or not? asks Brown.
    Let me see what you have.
    I don't have it here with me.
And you want to know what it's worth?
Ballpark figure, yeah. I mean, what I could borrow for it.
    I can't estimate a value on a mythical ring, says Page. King Solomon had three hundred wives, but he still knew you have to bite gold.
    I can get that ring. This afternoon, most likely.
    The teenager gives the drums a steady roll and drowns out Jack Brown's voice.
    Pardon? asks Hiram.
    I can get it, shouts Jack Brown. It! he shouts. The ring! Later today.
    So where is this Star of India?
    It was my grandmother's! He shouts again to be heard above the drum noise. Two teenaged girls who have just wandered in cringe and go wide- eyed.
    Hiram nods. Let me guess. She's no longer among the living?
    Died two years ago.
    The kid kicks into a drum solo. Jack Brown shakes his head. After a moment the kid stops and calls out, I get that 40 percent off ?
    You got it, Ringo, says Hiram.
    The whole set?
    The whole set. I'll even throw in an extra pair of sticks.
    The kid smiles and extricates himself from the drum stool. I'll be back later with the money.
    You do that.
    Hiram calls out to the teenaged girls in the electronics aisle and tells them to give him a holler if they have any questions.
    Now, where were we? he asks Brown. Oh, yes. We were tak
ing a diamond ring off your deceased grandmother. Right. Have to dig her up and soap her finger, do we?
    I gave it to a woman is what I did. Now I'm having second thoughts.
    Hiram smiles. Clear as mud.
    I asked for it back. I'm going to pick it up later. It's early yet.
    And this Ophelia? She's happy to return said expensive romantic keepsake you gave her free and easy? She hasn't sold it already?
    Not if she knows what's good for her.
    Hiram steps away, wiping his hands, mock Pontius Pilate. You bring the ring and I'll take a look.
    I'll be back before you can get bored watching the two fillies there on aisle two.
    Hiram stares back into his eyes. Okay, Cousin Jack. I'll be waiting. But remember what Margaret Thatcher said about patience.
    Margaret who?
    Thatcher. Former prime minister of England. I assume you've heard of the nation of England? Beef eaters and blood pudding? Soccer hooligans? Ring a bell?
    Don't be talking down to me, okay? I know you got me over a barrel, but there's other pawnshops in the world.
    Yes, there are.
    So tell me already. What did this Margaret lady say that I should remember?
    She said, I'm extraordinarily patient, provided I get my own way in the end.
. . .
L i k e s o m e t h i n g out of legend, an equestrian patrol officer appears before La Iglesia de los Niños de Jesus Cristo on a chestnut horse. He dismounts and ties his mare to the crèche, squatting down to get a good look at the girl in the hay. The nun meets him and they speak for a moment. Both wear gauze face masks, struggle to hear each other over the shovel scrape and high- pitched beeping of a passing snowplow. The nun mentions the word
fever.
    Officer Israel James comes to stand above Ruby curled in the wheelbarrow. He shakes her shoulder. She does not respond. He calls in a report to the dispatcher. She tells him that all the ambulances are busy, that he should transport the girl to the hospital himself. He explains that he's on horseback. The dispatcher tells him to wait while she directs a patrol car his way. He listens and nods, replaces the wireless unit in his shoulder harness.
    The girl has the fever no doubt and to touch her is forbidden if you are anyone but family or a doctor. He guesses a lawman fits somewhere between the two categories. A risk of his life it is and he will do it without thinking, looking at this pale face. How can you turn away? You can't. If it's your time to punch the big clock, so be it.
    The chestnut mare shakes her head and mane, whinnying high- pitched and petulant.
    The policeman takes a handful of sugar cubes from his pocket and holds them out, the horse's tongue warm against his cold fingers. Now, calm down, Apache, he says. This girl's hurt and I think you can wait a few minutes till the wheels arrive.
    Before long he sees a patrol car turn at the intersection and head his way. He stands over Ruby for a moment, plants his feet wide, hefts her into his arms. He carries her to the patrol car, her body limp and lifeless. He waits as the patrolman opens the door and, grunting and breathing hard, he maneuvers her into position on the rear seat. She parts her lips and moans, her eyes half open and dreamy.
Later Officer James is called to defuse a domestic disturbance. At a motel no less. The dispatcher says some couple is shouting and threatening mayhem. Sober guests have complained.
    Israel James does not like motels. They bring out the worst in people. The good take home a bar of soap or vial of shampoo, the polishing cloth for a shoeshine they will never use, maybe the Gideon Bible in times of spiritual doubt. The bad rip the blow dryer out of the wall, burn a hole in the carpet, then strangle a hooker to death after failing to perform, leaving her body beneath the bed or stuffed in the closet, covered with a blanket, behind an ironing board. And the people who are torn between good and bad? They hear the devil whispering, and they listen.
    The Buffalo Head Inn has seen better days, perhaps during the Dust Bowl of the 1930s, when the Joads offered to sweep and mop to pay for the room. It's two stories of bleached and weather- beaten wood done imitation- ski- lodge style, with pine railings adorned with bucking- bronco woodcuts, plank walkways outside the rooms, and room numbers wood- burned on aspen cuts.
    Israel James rides his horse to the office breezeway and dismounts, the leather of his gunbelt creaking. Apache snorts, her shoes popping the pavement. The carport roof above the breezeway catches the sound. He ties her to a wrought- iron bench.
    You behave now, girl, he says. Don't bite the paying cus tomers.
    The parking lot is spotty with old pickups and new Minis, cars so small you expect a troupe of clowns to emerge at every stoplight. Cigarette butts dot the asphalt amid the deadbeat jewelry of broken glass.
    Inside the lobby, a bleached blond sniffs a magazine perfume insert and watches Israel approach. Country music sad- sacks out from a radio. Behind her sits a bassinet with a sleeping child in it. A handwritten sign above the sign- in counter advertises happy hour
5â 7 in the wagon wheel lounge, free beer & wine.
    Her ID tag reads, Fufu. You must be here for the honeymooners, she says. They're in 117.
    You know anything about them?
    Fufu shrugs. The gal's been staying in the room alone mostly. I think lover boy just showed up and if I'm guessing right, she's pissed he found her. Maybe she's just not that into him. Or he wants into her, and she wants out.
    The female must be an Amish schoolteacher, right? A looker?
    Fufu pulls a face. Nothing special. My guess is she's the kind of woman men like. You know. For their earthly pleasures.
    James is thinking of Fufu along similar lines. It's the devil on your shoulder in the motel zone. She wears a tangerine western shirt with pearl- snap buttons and saddle stitching, a gap between the snaps revealing a peek of lily- white bra cup. He guesses she's sometime past high school and somewhere before second divorce.
    Well, it's my job to keep the peace. Should I be worried about these two?
    Fufu shrugs. He smells like lowlife, you ask me. Like he'd beat a dog if it took to barking.
    You're saying maybe I should use some caution.
    Fufu smiles. A horse cop trying to break up a domestic? Maybe you should call in the Mounties.
    You watch my back, would you?
    She grins. I could do that. But I got to watch him first, she adds, indicating the sleeping baby.
Officer James takes it slowly, counting his paces down the warped wood planks to the stairway. He passes a room illuminated by the glow of a TV flickering against the drawn curtains, laughter and loud voices. At another room a woman holds a door open for a man carrying a baby in a car seat. An alarm honks from the used- car parking lot, no one nearby.
    Although Israel Franklin James is a man of the law, supposedly he's a descendant of Jesse James, hothead outlaw and one- time Missouri boy. He suspects it's just a family myth. Kin always get a little vague when asked for proof, citing some long- lost letter from Independence, Missouri, with Jesse's name on it. Israel figures Jesse wasn't much of a letter writer, what with the bank robbing and all. His hands must have been full, holding six- shooters and bags of cash.
    And he doesn't particularly like the name Israel. He's uncomfortable with the biblical, Red Sea tone of it. He isn't a Bible thumper and doesn't want to be confused with one. But a name is a gift one doesn't give back. Friends call him Elray. His sister named him that. She gave it a hillbilly twang, just to yank his chain.
    Elray hears bedlam before he reaches the top of the stairs. A man and woman both talking at once is what he'd say with his eyes closed, which they are in effect, just a pair of voices somewhere above and down the breezeway to the right. The woman raises hers loud and clear, calling for the comfort of the public sphere.