Recalling the gruesome demise of Mary, Beatrice asked T.W. and Goodstead, “Have you learned anything more about that Frenchman who cut up Jim’s coydog?”
“Nope,” said her father. “He hasn’t been back since we ran him out of town.”
“We’re not positive it was him that did it,” added Goodstead.
“He did it,” said T.W.
“You make swift convictions, T.W. Maybe you should move on up to judge, and I’ll be sheriff.”
“What would Judge Higgins do?”
“Become my deputy.”
“Why would he do that?”
“I’d be a pretty compelling sheriff.”
“Good-bye,” said Beatrice, who then kissed her father on the cheek and nodded at Goodstead. She knew that the pair could turn nonsensical talk like that for hours, and she had things to do.
“I don’t even get a handshake?”
The petite woman extended her right hand, and
