Auggie had nothing against the deputy---didn’t even know him, really---it was just that he was wearing regular clothes and had that big Colt Peacemaker riding low on his hip.
He didn’t seem like a bad guy as far as U. S. Marshals went, he just had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
He pulled the tumbleweed wagon off the road into the shadow of some split red rocks just east of the Gila Mountains, stepped down from the driver’s seat, and Auggie watched him through the bars of the cage as he put together a small fire of mesquite branches and dry ocotillo wands.
“I’ve got to pee, deputy,” he mumbled from the tiny cage.
“Pee your pants.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, man,” he groused, clutching the bars. “You’re taking me back there to hang by the neck until dead in front of half the damned town and you know it. Leave me a little dignity, will you?”
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