"What does that mean?"
"It means they decided they didn't want to work here anymore."
"Why would they do that?"
Reacher shrugged. "How would I know? Maybe they were just exercising their prerogative inside a free labor market."
"What?"
Reacher said nothing. Bobby's absence and the voices on the porch had pulled people to the door. Rusty Greer was first out, followed by the sheriff and the guy in the seersucker suit. Carmen stayed inside, near the rifles, still looking numb. They all fell silent, looking at Reacher, Rusty like she had a social difficulty to deal with, the sheriff puzzled, the new guy in the suit wondering who the hell this stranger was.
"What's going on?" Rusty asked.
"This guy says Josh and Billy quit on us," Bobby said.
"They wouldn't do that," Rusty said. "Why would they do that?" The guy in the suit was looming forward, like he expected to be introduced. "Did they give a reason?" Rusty asked.
The sheriff was looking straight at Reacher, nothing in his face. Reacher made no reply. Just stood there, waiting.
"Well, I'm Hack Walker," the guy in the suit said, in a big honest voice, holding out his hand. "I'm the DA up in Pecos, and I'm a friend of the family."
"Sloop's oldest friend," Rusty said, absently.
Reacher nodded and took the guy's hand. "Jack Reacher," he said. "I work here."
The guy held on to his hand in both of his own and beamed a subtle little smile that was partly genuine, partly you-know-how-it-is ironic. A perfect politician's smile.
"You registered to vote here yet?" he asked. "Because if so, I just want to point out I'm running for judge in November, and I'd surely like to count on your support."
Then he started up with a self-deprecating chuckle, a man secure among friends, amused about how the demands of democracy can intrude on good manners. You know how it is. Reacher took his hand back and nodded without speaking.
"Hack's worked so hard for us," Rusty said. "And now he's brought us the most delightful news."
"Al Eugene showed up?" Reacher asked.
"No, not yet," Rusty said. "Something else entirely."
"And nothing to do with the election," Hack said. "You folks all understand that, don't you? I agree, November time makes us want to do something for everybody, but you know I'd have done this for you anyhow."
"And you know we'd all vote for you anyhow, Hack," Rusty said.
Then everybody started beaming at everybody else. Reacher glanced beyond them at Carmen standing alone in the foyer. She wasn't beaming.
"You're getting Sloop out early," he said. "Tomorrow, I guess."
Hack Walker ducked his head, like Reacher had offered him a compliment.
"That's for sure," he said. "All along they claimed they couldn't do administration on the weekend, but I managed to change their minds. They said it would be the first Sunday release in the history of the system, but I just said hey, there's a first time for everything."
"Hack's going to drive us up there," Rusty said. "We're leaving soon. We're going to drive all night."
"We're going to be waiting on the sidewalk," Hack said. "Right outside the prison gate, seven o'clock in the morning. Old Sloop's going to get a big welcome."
"You all going?" Reacher asked.
"I'm not," Carmen said.
She had come out onto the porch, quietly, like a wraith. She was standing with her feet together, both hands on the railing, leaning forward from the waist, elbows locked, staring north at the black horizon.
"I have to stay and see to Ellie," she said.
"Plenty of room in the car," Hack said. "Ellie can come too."
Carmen shook her head. "I don't want her to see her father walking out of a prison door."
"Well, please yourself," Rusty said. "He's only your husband, after all."
Carmen made no reply. Just shivered slightly, like the night air was thirty degrees instead of ninety.
"Then I guess I'll stay too," Bobby said. "Keep an eye on things. Sloop will understand."
Reacher glanced at him. Carmen turned abruptly and walked back into the house. Rusty and Hack Walker drifted after her. The sheriff and Bobby stayed on the porch, each taking a half-step toward the other, to put a subliminal human barrier between Reacher and the door.
"So why did they quit?" Bobby asked.
Reacher glanced at them both and shrugged.
"Well, they didn't exactly quit," he said. "I was trying to sugar the pill, for the family, was all. Truth is we were in a bar, and they picked a fight with some guy... You saw us in the bar, right, Sheriff?"
The sheriff nodded, cautiously.
"It was after you left," Reacher said. "They picked a fight and lost."
"Who with?" Bobby asked. "What guy?"
"The wrong guy."
"But who was he?"
"Some big guy," Reacher said. "He smacked them around for a minute or two. I think somebody called the ambulance for them. They're probably in the hospital now. Maybe they're dead, for all I know. They lost, and they lost real bad."
Bobby stared. "Who was the guy?"
"Just some guy, minding his own business."
"Who?"
"Some stranger, I guess."
Bobby paused. "Was it you?"
"Me?" Reacher said. "Why would they pick a fight with me?"
Bobby said nothing.
"Why would they pick a fight with me, Bobby?" Reacher asked again. "What possible kind of a reason would they have for that?"
Bobby made no reply. Just stared and then turned and stalked into the house. Slammed the door loudly behind him. The sheriff stayed where he was. "So they got hurt bad," he said.
Reacher nodded. "Seems that way. You should make some calls, check it out. Then start spreading the news. Tell people that's what happens, if they start picking fights with the wrong strangers."
The sheriff nodded again, still cautious.
"Maybe it's something you should bear in mind, too," Reacher said. "Bobby told me down here folks sort out their own differences. He told me they're reluctant to involve law enforcement people. He implied cops stay out of private disputes. He said it's some kind of a big old West Texas tradition."
The sheriff was quiet for a moment. "I guess it might be," he said.
"Bobby said it definitely was. A definite tradition."
The sheriff turned away. "Well, you could put it that way," he said. "And I'm a very traditional guy."
Reacher nodded.
"I'm very glad to hear it," he said.
The sheriff paused on the porch steps, and then moved on again without looking back. He slid into his car and killed the flashing lights and started the engine. Maneuvered carefully past the lime green Lincoln and headed out down the driveway and under the gate. His engine was running rich. Reacher could smell unburned gasoline in the air, and he could hear the muffler popping with tiny explosions. Then the car accelerated into the distance and he could hear nothing at all except the grasshoppers clicking and chattering.
He came down off the porch and walked around to the kitchen door. It was standing open, either for ventilation or so the maid could eavesdrop on the excitement. She was standing just inside the room, close to an insect screen made of plastic strips hanging down in the doorway.
"Hey," Reacher said. He had learned long ago to be friendly with the cookhouse detail. That way, you eat better.
But she didn't answer him. She just stood there, warily.
"Let me guess," he said. "You only made two suppers for the bunkhouse."
She said nothing, which was as good as a yes.
"You were misinformed," he said. "Was it Bobby?"
She nodded. "He told me you weren't coming back."
"He was mistaken," he said. "It was Josh and Billy who didn't come back. So I guess I'll eat their dinners. Both of them. I'm hungry."
She paused. Then she shrugged.
"I'll bring them down," she said. "In a minute."
He shook his head.
"I'll eat them here," he said. "Save you the walk."
He parted the plastic strips with the backs of his hands and stepped inside the kitchen. It smelled of chili, left over from lunchtime.
"What did you make?" he asked.
"Steaks," she said.
"Good," he said. "I like bovines better than edentates."
"What?"
"I like beef better than I like armadillo."
"So do I," she said.
She used pot holders and took two plates out of a warming oven. Each held a medium-sized rib-eye steak, and a large mound of mashed potato and a smaller mound of fried onions. She put them side by side on the kitchen table, with a fork on the left of the left-hand plate and a knife all the way to the right, it looked like a double-barreled meal.
"Billy was my cousin," she said.
"He probably still is," Reacher said. "Josh got it worse."
"Josh was my cousin, too."
"Well, I'm sorry to hear that."
"Different branch of the family," she said. "More distant. And they were both fools."