The Beginning of the End

by Sevenstars

SUMMARY: A prequel to the events of "Men of Defiance."

In the episode, it's never explained why (or how) Trim Stuart recruited Jess for his pursuit of Frank Bannister. Yet Jess at one point tells Stuart the story of his family's murder, and although they may have bonded over the pursuit, with each being the only person the other has to back him up, it seems inevitable that Jess must have had to give Slim, whom he's known so much longer, some kind of rational excuse for tearing off after this outlaw of whom Slim has perhaps never heard, abandoning his job and the ranch that has at least started to become his home. I wanted to tell the story of that exchange, and also explain why Bannister (who was in Texas when he killed the Harpers) was far enough north to attract Stuart's and Jess's attention. (If he was in Wyoming all along, and Jess knew it, why hadn't Jess gone huntin' long since?) Hence this fic. Beta'd by Lisa.

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"There's a rider up on the ridge, Slim," Andy said suddenly. "I think he's got a badge on his vest."

Slim looked up from the portable forge, along the twisting course of the stage road. Sure enough, a horseman stood silhouetted against the sky, just where they were accustomed to see the inbound coaches first appear. The sun, almost exactly halfway between noon and setting, struck a bright flash off something in the approximate region of his left chest. Slim marvelled again at his kid brother's acuteness of vision. Looking at Andy's big, soft, black-brown eyes, you'd expect him to be nearsighted, but the fact was he could see farther than any of the men. Slim was reminded of how Andy, like their mother before him, also seemed to have the ability to judge human character with a disconcerting accuracy, and at barely any acquaintance at all. It was a large part of why he had latched onto Jess from that very first day and remained stubbornly loyal to him through all the long months since: he had known, long before Slim had been willing to admit it, just how much potential for good there was in the young Texan gunslinger.

As the Shermans watched, the rider nudged his horse into motion and began descending the long switchback at an easy jog. The badge flashed again, intermittently, like a heliograph, in the sun as its angle changed. Like it's sendin' a message, Slim thought out of nowhere, and shook his head at his own uncharacteristic fancy.

The stranger reached the bottom of the hill, checked a moment as he looked the pair over, and came on, the horse walking now. He was somewhat older than Slim, his hair going gray but his face smooth and unlined except for the squint crinkles at the corners of his eyes, his dress and rig and the gear packed on his saddle little different from any ordinary drifter's or small rancher's. But his gun was tied down like Jess's, the holster carefully cut away to give quick access to the trigger, and his horse showed plainly the marks of having been bred for endurance and long-distance toughness. He pulled up, pushed his hat back so they could see his face clearly, and leaned forward on the horn. "Trim Stuart, U.S. Marshal," he offered. "Would this be the Sherman Ranch?"

"It is," Slim agreed, "and I'm Slim Sherman, the owner. This is my brother, Andy."

Stuart nodded polite acknowledgment. "Word is," he said, "that you've got a man working for you by the name of Jess Harper."

Slim drew in a quick breath. He knew there was a lot Jess hadn't told them yet, and he had better than a passing notion that Jess had been in trouble with the law more than once in his young life, but he hadn't thought any of it was serious enough to put a Federal officer on his trail. Indeed, he knew that Jess had actually worked for the government at least once, carrying dispatches out of Fort Lincoln, besides his stint as a Galvanized Yank down in New Mexico toward the end of the war. He could feel Andy's attitude changing alongside him at the prospect that his friend and hero might be in trouble. "Yes," he said slowly, "I have. He's ridin' fence today, but we expect him back in time for supper." A moment's hesitation, then: "Do you have... some... business with Jess, Marshal Stuart?"

Stuart suddenly smiled. "Not the kind I think you're thinkin' I do, Mr. Sherman. I hear he's one of the best trackers to be found in southeast Wyoming. And I need a tracker."

"In that case," said Slim, "get down and turn your horse out. You've got a few hours to wait yet, and by the time you've eaten with us and offered your proposition, it'll be too dark for even Jess to do you any good on whatever trail you're following."

**SR**

In honor of their guest, Jonesy made Jess's favorite oyster patties and the "kitchen-sink" pie he'd first attempted at Christmas, with stewed prunes, apricots, slices of apple, and bits of canned pear in it, and a little dab of dandelion wine in the juice. Jess got back in time to help with the last stage, and seemed comfortable enough with the concept of a U.S. Marshal in the house; a bit wary, but he was usually wary around people he didn't know. Stuart mentioned another marshal he knew, a man named Branch McGarry, and this seemed to ease whatever misgivings Jess might have had; apparently he'd met McGarry somewhere down south a few years ago.

"Slim told me you're wantin' a tracker," he said toward the end of the meal.

"That's right," Stuart agreed. He glanced toward the rancher. "You might want to take this someplace a little more private."

Jess sucked in a breath. For a moment he seemed to hesitate, thinking about what the words might mean. Then: "If you're like to be takin' me away from the ranch, Slim's got a right to know why. Plus which, he's saved my life a couple times. I owe him and I trust him."

"The porch," Slim suggested, inwardly touched that Jess would admit so much, would use that word trust,to a man he'd only just met. "We often sit out there while Jonesy and Andy clean up."

The three of them adjourned outside, and Slim found a third chair for their guest. "I won't dance around the subject," Stuart began. "From what I know about you, Jess, you deserve better than that. A couple of years ago I nailed a man, a really bad man who'd been on the run since before the war. His name was Frank Bannister."

Jess went stark white; even in the dim light of the reflectored lantern beside the door, Slim could see it, and he could hear the way his friend's breathing hitched. "Jess?" he queried, leaning forward, concerned, remembering Jess's delirious dreams when he'd had the fever back in January, the things Jonesy had said about the Texas gang that went by that name.

" 'S okay, Slim," Jess assured him, though his voice was unsteady. And to Stuart: "That... was you? I heard he'd been took, just not who by."

"That was me," Stuart agreed. "I might never have managed to do it, if it hadn't been that most of his original Texas gang wasn't with him any more." To Slim, suddenly: "You ever hunt geese, Mr. Sherman?"

"In season, yes," Slim said, wondering what that had to do with it.

"When you want whole flock, you start at the end of the flight and work your way up the line," Stuart reminded him. "The one out front is the last to go, and he doesn't know what's coming till it's too late. That's what somebody had been doing to Bannister. The gang started out as stock thieves and guerrilla raiders, looting ranches and houses and small wagon trains in isolated parts of Texas, and hitting the odd stagecoach—"

"I've heard," Slim agreed, and caught the flash of Jess's eyes as he shifted his attention momentarily from the lawman to his boss.

"About nine or ten years back," Stuart proceeded, "something happened to change that. Somebody started getting after the gang—the way you'd hunt geese: going after the small fry first, trimming away Bannister's backups. They used to split up after each job, to make it harder for the law to track them; one or two men are a lot harder to find than a bunch, and the Bannisters at one point had close to twenty counting themselves. Had to; you can't move stolen stock off a range without a fair-sized crew, not to count the men you have to have watching your back trail or keeping guard while you rework the brands, and you need more men to take a building than to defend it."

Slim nodded; Jess didn't say anything. "The core of the gang was Frank, his three brothers—Tom and Steve and Bert—and their brother-in-law, their sister's husband, fellow name of Greg Burroughs," Stuart went on. "A few times the Rangers got lucky; they, and later other lawmen, accounted for seven gangmembers that I'm sure of, over the last ten years or so. Well, that was a hazard of the business; but a time came when Frank realized that somebody else was out to get 'em. So some time during the war the gang moved out of Texas, into New Mexico, then up into Colorado, Kansas, Nebraska, and shifted their attention from livestock and private homes to banks and stages and such. In between times, when they were split up, some of 'em worked as hired gunmen in range disputes and as 'regulators'—basically strikebreakers—for mines, or rode with other gangs for a while, and during those times another seven were shot; some probably by this 'somebody' who'd gotten after them, others as part of whatever jobs they were doing at the time. By late '68 the only ones left were Frank, Tom, and Burroughs; Steve and Bert had been killed in a gunfight in Kansas a few months earlier. Then in '69 I got called in. The remainder of the gang had hit a stagecoach west of Rock Springs and looted the mail, which is a Federal offense. I had one deputy with me; we set up an ambush, killed Tom, wounded Burroughs pretty severely—he died in prison a few months later—and brought the two survivors in."

"I heard about that holdup," Slim agreed. "I had the relay contract by then, and the drivers gossip. I don't recall ever hearin' that the Bannisters were responsible, though."

"They were," Stuart said. "We found some of the loot on 'em, and that was enough to get them sentenced to ten years for robbing the U.S. mails. There were other wants enough on 'em, including some murder charges from Texas, but the Federal one was the most recent, so that took precedence." He was watching Jess now. "Two weeks ago Bannister broke out of prison. Turned up in Cheyenne a day or two back, hit the bank—for road money, I'd guess—and was seen takin' off south, him and three or four others who'd escaped with him."

"And you want him." Jess's voice was rough.

"I want him," Stuart said. "And I think you can help me get him."

Jess put his head down and sat very still for what seemed a long time. Slim watched him, not sure what to think; he'd never seen the Texan behave quite this way before.

"Reckon you'll want me to put a badge on," Jess suggested after a while.

"That's right. And you'll be on the payroll, forty dollars a month. Ten a week, if we can do the job quickly enough."

"Don't care about the money," said Jess, half sharp, half sullen. He glanced toward Slim. "You mind givin' us some space, Stuart?"

"I should unpack my gear, maybe," the lawman said at once. "Where do I bunk, Mr. Sherman?"

"Tell Jonesy to set you up in the bunkhouse," Slim told him. "Breakfast's at six-thirty."

Stuart vanished inside. Jess was quiet for several minutes. Slim didn't press him; he'd learned that sometimes the younger man needed time to get his thoughts in order.

"You recollect that time Gil Brady led us that chase up to Canada, and I told you about my sister Francie?" Jess began abruptly. "How I went on the drift when she wasn't but sixteen?"

Slim nodded. "I remember."

"I didn't tell you why I took out," Jess said. "There was six of us young'uns home then, and Pa; Ma'd died the year before, and Francie was pretty much runnin' the house, lookin' after the kids and the cookin' and all such. I was just turned fifteen and already workin' for pay; had been six years, cook's louse, wrangler, workin' up by then to full cowhand. There was three older ones that'd left home—Sophie, she was twenty and married, and my big brothers, Ben and Jake, they'd been gone close on ten years.

"Was springtime when they came, the Bannisters. Figured on hittin' the ranch for the remuda; roundup time was comin' on, and the horses'd had to be fetched in ahead, so's to see to their feet and all. We heard the shootin' down toward the barn, and Pa grabbed his rifle and told the rest of us to stay set—told me 'you watch out for your brothers and sisters, boy,' and took off that way. He hadn't got more'n halfway when he met a bunch of 'em comin' up. They shot him where he stood.

"Francie and me and our kid brother Johnny—he was twelve—we tried holdin' 'em off, but there was too many. They got around the back, some of 'em, and set the house afire. We didn't know till it was almost too late; the smoke got Johnny first, and I wasn't much better. Francie got us both out, I don't know how. I tried to go back in, get the little boys and Julie, she was the baby, only three..." His voice trailed off, his eyes dark and fathomless with the memories.

I understand a lot, now, Slim thought, remembering Jess's ravings when the fever had him: "No, no, lemme go... Francie... I gotta... don't... no, no, NO!... Francie, no—I—we can't let 'em... Francie, please!" Remembering Jess's half-sobbed invocation of "Billy" and "Davy" and "Julie," and remembering, too, the way he'd spoken of the twelve-year-old brother of whom Andy reminded him, the brother who had died of cholera three years later. Remembering his delirious pleading: "Where... where's Johnny? Wha'... what you done to him? Johnny!"

"They died," he said softly. "Didn't they?"

Jess only nodded, unable to speak.

Silence for a minute. "Jess... I..."

"Don't say it, Slim." Jess's voice sounded choked-down and dry. "Just... don't. I know what you want to tell me, and I'm grateful for it, but... but it won't make no difference. They died and I lived, and I reckon I'll carry the guilt of that failure to my grave. They was only little, Slim. Billy wasn't quite eight, and Davy was five, and Julie—"

"Was three," Slim finished. "You said. And that's why you have to go after this Bannister."

"That's just why," Jess agreed. He was silent a moment, then let out a long quiet sigh. "That day I first come here... I reckon you got it figured by now, it was Andy that made me want to stay. I looked at him, and I—suddenly I didn't want to drift no more. I wanted to stop, and maybe try to forget... but I should'a' known that couldn't be. I should'a' known all along this day would come. I been here all these months, I ain't hardly thought of... of my duty. I don't know how that could'a' happened—I shouldn't'a' let it. I should'a' held it in mind, I—" Another pause, a struggle for words. He looked suddenly tired, resigned, and sad. "I don't regret none of this time, not you, nor Andy, nor Jonesy—not one minute of it, but—but there's somethin's gotta change, now." He looked up, his eyes gone ice-pale and hard as glass. "I gotta finish what I begun, Slim."

The rancher frowned. "Begun? How?"

"You heard Stuart, about somebody gettin' after the gang, small fry first." His face was grim. "That was me, partways anyhow. I wanted Bannister, but after I pondered on it some, I knew I wouldn't have a chance against the whole gang, so I had to take as many of 'em out of play as I could, first. Everybody knew that way they had of splittin' up—I even had an uncle on Ma's side who was a Ranger, he'd talked about 'em when he come to visit. I met up with a feller who taught me to use a handgun—use it better'n I already could, I'd been packin' since I was twelve—and after he was done with me I took two of 'em before I joined the Confederate Army. Afterward, a lot of the driftin' I done was as much followin' rumors of 'em as anythin'. That gunfight in '68, the one where Steve and Bert Bannister was killed... that was me too. But they died without tellin' me where Frank was. Then I heard he'd been caught, and I wasn't gonna break into no prison to get him. Figured I knew where to find him; I could wait. He'd keep, and I could be waitin' outside the gates the day they let him out."

Slim stared at him. "Is that why you came here? To be in easy reach of him?" Suddenly he was angry—at being used, being deceived; he felt betrayed. "Is that all we were, just a convenient place to get a bed and three square meals a day while you waited to take your revenge?"

"No!" Jess's reply was sharp. "No, I come up here from Kansas chasin' Pete Morgan, just like I told you. It wasn't nothin' to do with Bannister, what fetched me here, exceptin' as I was kinda at loose ends after I heard the news. I signed on with a trail drive headin' up to the northern ranges, that was where I met Morgan. And even if it was—if it'd been your pa, if it'd been Andy, what would you'a' done?"

"I wouldn't have gone looking for fights!" Slim snapped. "I wouldn't have killed four men in cold—"

"—Cold blood?" Jess finished. "Well, maybe it was. But I didn't take no pleasure in it. It was an obligation, nothin' more. They deserved it! And they had their chance! I fought 'em fair, Slim, and if you don't believe I'd give even that kind of scum an even break, then—" he hesitated— "then maybe we was both wrong about each other."

Slim's breath caught. "What do you mean?"

"I reckon you know," said Jess quietly. "You knew what I was—what I am. I done my best to make it clear to you, that first night here. I tried to do it your way, Slim. Tried to follow the law and turn myself around. But what's been is. I can't wipe out my past, I reckon we've both learned that a few times already. And I never made you no promises. But I made one to Pa and the littl'uns, and I got to keep it." He stood abruptly and turned toward the door.

"Wait. Where are you going?"

"I'll get my gear together, and spend the night in the bunkhouse with Stuart," Jess answered levelly, almost flatly, not turning around. "That way we can get off first thing, soon as we can see, and not wake the rest of you." With that he opened the door and was gone.

As Slim's original anger and disappointment ebbed, he found himself feeling more bewildered than anything else. What just happened here? he asked himself, confused. What did I do? How could I have thought those things, said those things? Surely I know him better than that, by now.

He thought of Jess's astonishment and delight at Christmas, the weary yet courageous surrender in his eyes when the fever threatened to take him from them, the warm, boyish, slightly lopsided smile that transformed his whole face with its laugh dimples and twinkling eyes (No man with a smile like that could possibly be the kind of... of stone-cold killer I just nearly accused him of bein'; he just couldn't. How could I have believed, even for a minute—even a second—that he could?), the easy contentment that shone from him when he was fully relaxed and feeling safe and well-fed and secure among his adopted family, the gravelly baritone voice with its warming undertones, his laughter with Andy, his patience and gentleness with the youngster (Why didn't I ever realize he must have been a big brother to more than just Johnny?) and the horses, the way he sometimes joshed and baited Jonesy about his cooking; of his boldness and recklessness, his sheer joy in life and in the moment, his apparent determination to live his life to the fullest (Probably because he never knew from one day to the next when it might end), his sense of humor, his ability to find fun in the simplest things—often at first, to Slim's annoyance, in puncturing the rancher's balloons, especially Slim's seriousness, his caution, his dignity, his devotion to responsibility and hard work and legality; his unhesitating righteousness, as if it never occurred to him to doubt the private criteria by which he made his choices, only sometimes—often—to struggle with the issue of revealing his deeper self; his honesty and fierce, steadfast loyalty, so unshakeable even when—as in the case of Roney Bishop—it brought him to trouble; his faithfulness to his word and the code he lived by. The way he had gradually, by his own example, helped Slim learn how to relax a little, how to take time for himself, most of all how to handle a growing young brother with sympathy and understanding and, yes, respect, as he began to understand that every human being deserved that (until he proved otherwise), lack of years notwithstanding; the way he would sit in the rocker, tipping it gently to and fro, his hands moving automatically with his whittling or braiding as he listened to Slim or Andy reading aloud, so totally at his ease, vulnerable in a way that, perhaps—probably—he had never dared to be before; how he never seemed to be afraid, or doubtful, or worried, only sometimes trying to live with painful memories; the way the two of them could share silence, sitting on the porch without feeling any necessity to disturb the night with talk. He remembered how even at their first contentious meeting, Jess had managed to find something humorous in the situation (Mean-lookin' jackrabbit, indeed!); how, slowly, shyly, half reluctantly, over time, he had permitted Slim to begin to see something of the real Jess Harper—a lost, lonely, world-weary, deeply wounded young man who'd been on his own for almost half his life, who'd been forced to work hard and live harder (Did I never think, before that, that he was mostly tryin' not to remember the dark lonely places in his life, in his past? God knows I've had my own, why didn't I sense his earlier?), to grow up far too quickly (which was probably why he was so often on Andy's side when it came to pranks—he was still so young, and here he finally felt safe in allowing himself to experience some of the innocent joy he'd been denied), yet who still had that solid foundation, that core of decency, who longed desperately for a place and a family, for someone he could trust and count on, someone who would care not about his past but about what he had the potential to be, who would accept him, believe in him, stand by him, and support him in his struggle to change. Remembered the gratifying discovery of the formidable team they made as they began to get used to each other, to learn how to work together instead of always running up against their own dissimilarities; how it often seemed that they had known each other all their lives, even though it hadn't been quite a year; how Andy had latched onto Jess and accepted him as another brother, and even cantankerous Jonesy, suspicious of this young gunslick at first, had come to trust him and care for him. How Jess could be at once defiantly irresponsible and one of the best ranch workers Slim had ever seen, a near expert at everything he turned his hand to; how his fiery temper, though still by no means completely tamed, had mellowed under Slim's influence and example; how his stubborn self-reliance had eased over time, as he cautiously allowed himself to trust, to be dependent when circumstances demanded it. How loyally he had stood at Slim's side when Yellow Knife's Indians attacked the house, when Ed Caulder had come to Laramie; how he'd forced himself home, wounded as he was, after Whit Malone had him ambushed on the old road, and done his best to warn the stage off from Malone's and Branton's ambush; how he'd risked himself to save Slim from Ed Farrell even though it was no fight of his, to bring the cattle-drive money through safely. Remembered suddenly understanding just how much Jess had come to mean to him, the words that had come unbidden to his lips: You just hold on, and we'll get through this, you and me, together... pard.

He'd lost one pard in Joey Redhawk, fifteen years ago. Had he now driven another away?

He knew Jess was a fast gun, knew he'd hired that gun out, knew or guessed that he'd been in more than his share of scrapes—he'd seen the scars when Jess lay stripped for sponging, when the fever had him. All that, he'd known. And it hadn't been that hard to accept, because he'd grown up out here, and he knew that sometimes men took the law into their own hands, knew they often had no choice. He and Mort had done it, that time down in Adobe Wells. Why should he be down on Jess for doing the same, and with the provocation he'd had? Was it that he'd been able to accept the notion of killing as part of a job, knowing that in best likelihood Jess—Jess who knew and respected guns far too much to ever push a quarrel with one—had had it forced on him, but not of going out looking for men to kill? Had it never occurred to him to wonder what, exactly, had driven Jess out on the drift to begin with, to think that it must have been something inconceivably dreadful, that such a basically decent man would have left his home behind, the sister and brother he'd so obviously loved? Something that could have driven him to so much more, worse, than merely drifting? He'd heard Jess's nightmares, he'd known there had been terrible things in his past, things that might have twisted many men beyond all hope of redemption. And he knew, he'd seen, how much good there still was in Jess, how hard and how willingly he had struggled to leave the dubious parts of his past and his reputation behind him, how generous and compassionate he could be when his heart was touched. What right had he had to think the worst, to say what he'd said?

Slim Sherman, you're a stiff-necked, self-righteous fool. And Jess was right. You'd have wanted to settle the score just as much as he does, if Pa and Andy had been taken from you like that. You fought back against all those whispers and rumors about Pa and the gold, didn't you? How was that different? Because you didn't have to kill anyone? That was nothing but luck. Because you were tryin' to avenge his honor, to clear his name, not take payment for his life? A man's life doesn't mean anything without a good name, without honor. Why else did the Shermans keep on with that feud with the Parkisons, all those years?

You knew Jess trusted you with his life. He made that clear enough when the fever had him. Now he's trusted you with somethin' that meant nearly as much to him, and you turned him away. You wouldn't have done that to Andy or Jonesy. How could you do it to Jess?

He suddenly wanted to go after the younger man, wanted it as he'd wanted few things before in his life. But he knew it was too soon. Jess was Southern, proud and volatile, and though he tried hard to pretend otherwise, vulnerable too, and easily hurt. He'd offered Slim his trust, and he must be feeling, now, that it had been betrayed. If he was pressed, he might lash out, and then there was no telling how far the disagreement would go. Slim knew himself for a patient, even-tempered man, yet somehow, all too often, Jess seemed to be able to get under his skin as no one ever had—not even Andy; to rouse his temper and push him into saying and doing things for which he later felt deep shame and regret. They both needed time to cool off, to get some distance from what had just passed between them. Surely Stuart will want to get a decent breakfast under his belt before he sets out, Slim told himself. Jess will have to stay long enough for that. I can talk to him in the morning, try to apologize.

But it didn't happen that way.

**SR**

Slim had expected to find Jess's bed, the top half of the double bunk, empty when he woke. He had even expected Jess not to join him right away in the barn for chores; Jess never did get on his feet till he smelled coffee in his sleep, and how was he to smell it when it was on the kitchen stove and he was in the bunkhouse?

But when he stepped out the kitchen door into the first faint light of morning, and paused for his customary look around, he saw that instead of four horses in the corral—Alamo, Traveller, Andy's Chaps, and Trim Stuart's—there were only two.

They've gone, he knew, and for an insane moment he had the thought of saddling up and going after them. Then reason reasserted itself. He didn't know which way they'd gone, although back the way Stuart had come, to pick up Bannister's trail, seemed likeliest. He didn't know how much of a lead they had on him. And he was alone again, with all the ranch work to do, even if Jonesy and Andy could see to the stages.

He gazed up the road and sent a thought after his friend. Take care, Jess. And come home when you're done, so I can try to make it right with you.

**SR**

"Do you think Jess will come back, Slim?" Andy asked, on the porch some fifteen hours later.

"He always has," Slim pointed out. "From Roney Bishop on, he always has, Andy."

The boy thought about that. "I know. But when he came in last night... he said all he wanted to do was get his gear out and move to the bunkhouse so they could get an early start and not wake us. That's what he said, but his face was sayin' somethin' else."

Slim remembered the aftermath of Jess's bout with the fever, how Andy had asked if they should ever let Jess know what he had revealed in the grip of his delirium. Remembered what he'd said then: It wouldn't be fair to him, to take that kind of advantage of what he let slip when he was too weak and ill to know what he was doin'.

But last night he hadn't been delirious. He'd been angry and hurt and struggling with painful memories, but in full possession of his faculties.

Andy had asked, that day: D'you s'pose he'll want us to know about it, someday? I mean, will he want to tell us about it when he does know what he's doin'?

He was willing to let me know about it last night, Slim thought. I've already betrayed his trust once; how much madder can he be at me if I go a little farther? Andy cares as much for him as if he was another big brother. He has a right to know something of what made Jess what he is—and why he felt he had to leave, again. So does Jonesy, for that matter.

"Is Jonesy finished with the dishes?" he asked.

"I guess just about. He sent me out, said I didn't have my mind on dryin' 'em, that I'd be droppin' plates the next he knew."

"Go ask him to join us," Slim said. "You're a bit young yet to hear this kind of thing, but I think you need to. Jess told me something last night that I want to share with the two of you."

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