Tucson beamed, bless his heart, at my model speech, and found tongue. “That’s right,” he said, leaning toward us earnestly, “There won’t nobody hurt you in this country.”
We shook hands all around. As we were nearing our tent, Biron followed us with something in his hand, which he proffered with the flourish of an eighteenth century marquis.
“Here,” he said, “take this.” I jumped. It was his ferocious revolver.
“What is this for?” we asked.
“For protection.”
“Against what?”
“Against us.”
“Oh, no, thank you. We feel quite safe without it,” we prevaricated.
“Go ahead and take it,” said Biron, politely stubborn.
Here was a dilemma. Could one accept such an offer from one’s hosts, even though on their own confession unhonored and unhung horse thieves, light-hearted murderers and easy philanderers? And yet he seemed so sure we should need it.