Kavalov pushed his lips together and nodded slowly.
“He wasn’t there when I went back,” I said.
He blew out his lips with a little puff and cried excitedly:
“I do not care anything about your black men and your roads. I care about not being murdered.”
“Have you said anything to the sheriff’s office?” I asked, trying to pretend I wasn’t getting peevish.
“That I have done. But to what good? Has he threatened me? Well, he has told me he has come to watch me die. From him, the way he said it, that is a threat. But to your sheriff it is not a threat. He has terrorized my people. Have I proof that he has done that? The sheriff says I have not. What absurdity! Do I need proof? Don’t I know? Must he leave fingerprints on the fright he causes? So it comes to this: the sheriff will keep an eye on him. ‘An eye,’ he said, mind you. Here I have twenty people, servants and farm hands, with forty eyes. And he comes and goes as he likes. An eye!”
“How about Ringgo’s arm?” I asked.
Kavalov shook his head impatiently and began to cut up his lamb.
Ringgo said:
“There’s nothing we can do about that. I hit him first.” He looked at his bruised knuckles. “I didn’t think he was that tough. Maybe I’m not as good as I used to be. Anyway, a dozen people saw me punch his jaw before he touched me. We performed at high noon in front of the post office.”
“Who is this captain?”