Catarina, meowing softly, jumped onto the stove. She had smelled the stew outside in the alley, its warm, beefy odor mingling with the familiar scent of horses, hay, manure, and tobacco, and as soon as the Woman opened the window, she had climbed through it, hoping for a chance to investigate.

"You might as well dish it out now," the Man said, sitting down at the table. "I might not . . . I might not have time to eat it afterwards."

The Woman picked up Catarina and, swatting her softly on the flank, dropped her onto the floor.

"It's not ready," she said, stirring the pot with a wooden spoon. "The potatoes are still hard."

"That doesn't matter. I told my brothers I'd meet 'em outside in ten minutes." The Man looked at the clock hanging beside the back door. "They're waking the dentist now."

Catarina, rubbing herself against the Woman's ankles, meowed again, but the Woman ignored her.

"It's not ready," she said. "The potatoes still need to cook."

The Man slammed his palm against the edge of the table, which rocked from the blow. Startled, Catarina darted up the stairs. Then, at the landing, she paused and, eyeing the Man carefully through the banister, began to lick her paw.

The Man sighed. "Just serve it," he said softly. "I've got to go."

"I don't see why," the Woman said, her voice loud and nervous. She sat down at the table and, taking the Man's hands in hers, looked into his face. "It's not worth it."

Catarina watched the two without interest.

"What's he done?" the Woman asked. "Stolen some Mexican cattle? Let him have them. They killed my father's brother in the war. Now my husband's going to get himself killed for their cattle?"

"I'm not doing this for the Mexicans."

"Who are you doing it for, Virgil? You're not doing it for me. You're not doing it for your son."

Outside, a wagon rumbled down the street, its wooden axles creaking gently. Catarina lifted her head, her left ear twitching. Through the glass windows in the parlor, she could hear the driver singing to himself, his high-pitched voice rising above the steady clop of his horse's hooves.

"You want the Cowboys to run this town? You want them giving the orders around here?"

"Maybe I do. Would that be so bad?" The Woman sounded upset, and Catarina, turning her head, watched her from the stairs. "They spend money here, don't they? They don't cause any more trouble than anyone else. You and your brothers, you're the only ones who hate them."

The Man looked at the clock, but he said nothing.

"Ike's drunk. Let him go. You can reason with him when he's sober."

The Man shifted his weight in the chair.

"I don't want any trouble," he said.

Upstairs, a door opened-very softly. Catarina could smell the Boy, who had bathed last night and still smelled faintly of soap. He smiled at Catarina. Then, holding his finger to his lips, he crept down the stairs to the landing.

When the Woman spoke, her voice sounded hard, bitter. She had let go of the Man's hands.

"If that . . . gambler . . . is with you, there'll be trouble. Don't you know that?"

"If there is trouble, we could use him. He's got fast hands."

The Woman stood up, the legs of her chair scraping against the wood floor. "Sure, he's got fast hands. He can take care of himself. But what about you? Maybe you-or one of your brothers-kill Ike. Maybe you kill the McLaurys. What then? Do you think it'll end there? His friends will find you some day, some day when your brothers aren't by your side."

Catarina, purring softly, rubbed her head against the boy's leg. She thought that he might want to play, but he just scratched her between the ears and listened.

"When you're dead, Virgil, and your brothers are dead and your friends are all dead, what's going to happen to us? What's going to happen to me-and your son?"

The Woman, when she said this, pointed toward the stairs and saw the Boy perched there.

The clock by the door began to chime.

The Man and the Woman looked at each other.

"That clock's fast," the Man said, his voice thick. "I'll take care of him."

"Just go," the Woman said. "You're going to leave us with nothing. Why pretend to be a good father now?"

The Man rose and, crossing the room, picked up the Boy, who was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. He carried him up to his room, Catarina following behind them.

"You're supposed to be taking a nap," the Man said, laying the boy down on his bed and covering him with a blanket. "You can't grow if you don't sleep."

Catarina jumped onto the bed. Her place was there, between the Boy's legs.

"I heard what Momma said. You're really going to face him, Papa? You're going to face Ike Clanton and his gang?"

The bedframe creaked, and Catarina could feel the mattress sinking under the Man's weight.

"We're just gonna ask 'em to hand over their guns. That's all."

Catarina lay down next to the Boy. She wanted to sleep, but she could sense his excitement. She could sense something else, too, a sort of tension in the air.

"You know what I'd do, Papa? I wouldn't even ask him for his guns. As soon as I saw him, I'd start shooting. I'd shoot him six times before he hit the ground."

The Man stroked the boy's blond hair.

"You got to give him a chance."

"I wouldn't. I'd shoot him. You know what I'd do, Papa? I'd shoot his ear off. Then I'd shoot him-bang!-right in his eye."

The Man smiled.

"If you talk like that, you'll never be a man. You'll be a boy forever."

The Boy pulled the blanket up to his chin.

"I don't wanna be a man," he said, "if it means gettin' shot."

The Man rose. When he spoke, his voice sounded different, and Catarina watched him carefully.

"Go to sleep," he said.

Catarina curled into a ball, hoping that the Boy would scratch her belly, but he didn't. She heard the slow, heavy tramp of the Man's footsteps on the stairs. The Woman was saying something to him, was whispering so softly that not even Catarina could hear her.

"I wouldn't let them kill me," the Boy said, rolling over. "I wouldn't give 'em the chance."

The Woman was crying now, and Catarina, curious, rose and, jumping down from the bed, crossed the room. The door was open a crack, and she squeezed through it and crept down the stairs, her ears alert for the smallest sound.

The front door shut with a bang, making the glass in the transom rattle, and through the parlor window, Catarina saw the Man standing in the street, his black hat in his hand.

In the kitchen, the Woman was standing motionless in front of the stove. Every now and then, she stirred the stew a little with her spoon.

"Fifty dollars," she murmured, wiping the tears from her eyes with the hem of her apron. "Pay the butcher. Pay the grocer. That leaves forty-seven dollars."

Catarina climbed onto the window and jumped down, her paws landing in the dusty soil outside the house. The alley was empty, but she could hear the sound of a piano, accompanied by shouts of laughter, coming from a distant dance hall. A gray moth, fluttering sluggishly on the still wind, caught her eye, and she chased it down the street, batting at it now and then with her paw.

The moth, rising on the wind, disappeared, and Catarina, bored now and hungry, sat down and pawed at her ear, which itched terribly.

In the narrow street behind the corral, five men were standing around nervously, some of them fingering the pistols in their belts. Catarina, sniffing the air, could smell the oil on the guns, and she approached the men, but one of them threw a bottle at her, which shattered on the hard soil, and she hissed and ran off.

She wandered for a while, looking for something to eat, and not far away, in the street in front of the hotel, she saw the Man, who was talking to a girl. Her perfume smelled familiar, and Catarina watched her from beneath the adjacent porch.

"I had to see you," she was saying, her hands on the Man's shoulders, "before you left. You don't have to go over there."

The Man stood up a little straighter, and he put on his hat and smiled.

"Yes, I do. It's my job."

"Virgil . . . I don't want you to go. Promise me, you'll stay away from there. Those men, they're hoping for a fight."

The Man bent down, and his lips touched the girl's cheek, but she pulled away and gestured vaguely toward the hotel.

"Don't," she said sullenly. "I'm with a client."

An uneasiness hung in the air, and Catarina, licking the dust from her paw, watched them from the darkness beneath the porch, her green eyes glittering.

"He's waiting for me. I need to go back."

The Man was holding her by the arm. Twice, he started to say something.

"I have to go," the girl whined. "I need to get back."

"Then why come out here?" the Man asked, looking up at the hotel. "Why didn't you just stay in there-with him?"

In the tree behind the hotel, the last of the cicadas began to buzz feebly, but Catarina ignored it.

The girl, looking at the ground, turned away, and Catarina tensed. She kept her body small, low to the ground. Her left ear twitched.

"You owe me twenty dollars," the girl said softly.

The Man's voice, when he spoke, contained no emotion.

"And if I go out there," he said, letting go of her arm, "you won't be able to collect it from my wife."

The girl nodded, and Catarina heard the silver dollars clink as they changed hands. The girl, hurrying now, rushed back to the hotel. When she opened the door, the sound of men and women laughing and shouting emptied into the street, filling it with noise. Then the door closed; the girl disappeared; and the street fell silent. In the tree behind the building, the song of the cicada grew weaker and weaker until it died away completely.

The Man stood there, his eyes scanning the front of the hotel, his hat once more in his hands. Then he turned and began walking, very slowly, up the street.

Catarina, emerging from beneath the porch, started to follow him. All of a sudden, she wanted to rub her head against the soft leather of his boots, to feel his rough hands scratch her behind the ears, but as she crossed the dusty street, the moth reappeared, fluttering down from somewhere up above, and she chased it, striking at it again and again until, with a swipe of her paw, she brought it down, and it lay, broken, but twitching feebly, in the dirt, and so fascinated by this was Catarina, who now and then touched its wings gently with the tip of her paw, that she never even heard the shots.