“Got him, did ye, Anse?” he said.

“Got him, Squire.”

He opened a huge dusty book and drew it to him and dipped a foul pen into an inkwell filled with what looked like coal dust.

“Look here, mister,” Shreve said.

“The prisoner’s name,” the squire said. I told him. He wrote it slowly into the book, the pen scratching with excruciating deliberation.

“Look here, mister,” Shreve said, “We know this fellow. We⁠—”

“Order in the court,” Anse said.

“Shut up, bud,” Spoade said. “Let him do it his way. He’s going to anyhow.”