knees, he sat not caring, not hearing the voices. Only a while later did he start to wonder what they were waiting for. In the other room the men were sitting around a flat box, talking in low voices, playing cards. Some sat on chairs, others on a bench, and the sheriff on Catell’s car seat.

“Put up or shut up,” said one of the players.

The sheriff was chewing on a cigar. He threw his cards down and said, “Damn you, Shivers, I’m out.”

Catell threw his head back and started to laugh. He laughed loud, hard, and with a shrill fury. When he looked again the sheriff was standing by the iron door, fumbling with the lock.

“Come out, you bastard.” He flung the door open.

“Tell ‘im, Harry. Tell ‘im you don’t always lose.” The men laughed. They were looking toward the cell.

Catell got off his cot and walked to the open door with an arrogant swing, grinning. When the two men were face to face, the sheriff took one step backward. He crouched.

“All right, city feller, smile good. There won’t be nothin’ to smile at when I get through with you.”

His voice was low and hoarse, but Catell kept grinning. He stood easily, never taking his eyes off the sheriff’s face. Then he took one step closer to the sheriff. The sheriff hesitated a moment, shot a quick glance at the card players behind him, but he saw they weren’t looking. The sheriff straightened up, his voice loud now.

“Try something, hog face. Go ahead!”

Catell just stood still, fixing the raging man with his eyes.

“Go ahead, you bastard. Hit me!” The sheriff’s voice was cracking. His head was thrust out, the cords of his neck twitching, and slobber came through the hole in his teeth. Catell could feel the man’s breath.

“Hit me!”

One of the players turned around.

“Harry, for chrissakes, pipe down.”

“Come on, you yellow, no-good sonofabitch, hit me!”

“Harry, boy, stop that yelling.” They kept on with the cards.

Catell didn’t move a muscle. He stood still, a slight smile on his face, and his voice was even.

“Did you want something, Sheriff?”

“Hit me!” The sheriff’s voice was a screech.

“Do we deal you in this time, Harry?” One man was shuffling the cards; another was lighting his cigar; some were arguing about the game. Catell stepped back into his cell and pulled the door shut. Then he sat down on his cot and looked at the ceiling.

“You’re yellow, you bastard. You lousy, stinking sonofabitch of a bastard!” The sheriff was shaking the bars of the cell, his face red, his voice a harsh, rasping scream. “You no-good, chicken-livered bastard, you’re yellow!” he screamed.

One of the men came up and took the sheriff by the arm. “Stop that yellin’, Harry. We’re trying to get a game started.”

“Lemme at that bastard! I’ll kill ‘im, I tell ya, I’ll kill ‘im!”

“Now shut your mouth, damnit. Sit down over here and shut up. Else we take the game to Charlie’s.”

“Take your lousy game to hell for all I care. Leggo my arm. You’re interfering with the law.”

“Harry, for chrissakes—”

The men had stopped their playing and were standing around, undecided.

“Nobody interferes with the law around here, unnerstand? Nobody! I’m gonna teach that filthy jailbird a lesson he ain’t gonna forget any too soon. And you guys, stick around if you wanna have some fun. Stick around and I’ll show ya how to enforce the law around here.”

But they weren’t listening to his raving. One by one they took their hats and walked out of the door.

“We’ll be at Charlie’s if you want in,” said the last one. “See ya, Harry.”

The sheriff stood in the empty room. Panting, cursing under his breath, he kicked the door shut and walked around the empty chairs and boxes a few times. Then he sat down on the car seat. The sheriff’s hunched figure moved only with his breathing, and there was an expectant glint in Catell’s eyes as he watched him.

For a while nothing happened. In the silence the thudding of a moth against the bare light bulb made a noise like a wet rag. With an irritated motion the sheriff tore his hat off and flung it at the light. He missed. Catell snickered in his dark cell. The sheriff jumped around as if stung. He got up from the seat slowly and walked to a part of the room that Catell couldn’t see. When he came back, he carried a six-shooter and a long stick.

Standing by the cell, he peered into the