The warden picked up the papers.
"What's he up for?
Murder?"
"Nope," the deputy replied. "Unlawful use of a weapon.
He beat the murder rap – self-defense." He let go a wad into the spittoon.
"This guy caught him in some fancy lady's bedroom."
"I was the lady's bodyguard, Warden," Max said.
The warden looked up at him shrewdly.
"That didn't give you the right to kill a man."
"I had to, Warden," Max said. "He was comin' at me with a knife an' I had to defend myself.
I had no clothes on."
"That's right, Warden." The deputy cackled lewdly. "Naked as a jaybird he was."
"Sounds like a genuine case of self-defense to me," the warden said. "How come they hang a bum one like this on him?"
"It was a cousin of the Darcys he croaked," the deputy said quickly.
"Oh," the warden said. That explained everything. The Darcys were pretty important people in New Orleans. "In that case, you're lucky you didn't get the book." He signed the papers and pushed them across the desk. "Here y'are, Deputy."
The deputy picked up the papers and unlocked Max's handcuffs.
"So long, rooster."
The warden got to his feet heavily.
"How old are you, boy?"
" 'Bout nineteen, I reckon," Max answered.
"That's kinda young to be bodyguardin' one of them fancy women down in New Orleans," the warden said.
"How'd you come to that?"
"I needed a job when I got out of the Army," Max answered. "An' she wanted someone who was fast with a gun.
I was fast enough, I reckon."
"Too fast," the warden said. He walked around the desk. "I'm a fair man but I don't hold with no trouble-makers.
You-all just get up every mornin', do your work like you're tol' an' you'll have no trouble with me."
"I understand, Warden," Max said.
The warden walked to the door of his office.
"Mike!" he roared.
A giant Negro trusty stuck his head in the door. "Yassuh, Warden." "Take this new man out and give him ten lashes." The surprise showed on Max's face. "There's nothin' personal in it," the warden said quickly. "An ounce of prevention, I always say.
It kinda sticks in your mind if you ever think about makin' any trouble."
He walked back around his desk.
"C'mon, boy," the Negro said. The door closed behind them and they started down the corridor.
The trusty's voice was warm and comforting. "Don' you worry none about them lashes, boy," he said.
"I knocks you out with the first one an' you never feels the other nine!"
Max had reached New Orleans about Mardi Gras time early that year. The streets were filled with laughing, shoving people and somehow he absorbed the warmth of their mood.
Something about the whole town got inside him and he decided to stay over a day or two before riding on to West Texas.
He put his horse in a livery stable, checked into a small hotel and went down into the Latin Quarter, looking for excitement.
Six hours later, he threw down a pair of tens to three sevens and that was that.
He had lost his money, his horse, everything but the clothes on his back. He pushed his chair back and got to his feet.
"That cleans me, gents," he said. "I’ll go roun' to the stable an' fetch my hoss."
One of the gamblers looked up at him.
"May I be so bold as to inquire, suh, what you intend to do after that?" he asked in his soft Southern accent.
Max shrugged and grinned.
"I dunno. Get a job, I reckon."
"What kind of job?"
"Any kind.
I'm pretty good with hosses. Punch cattle. Anything."
The gambler gestured at Max's gun. "Any good with that?"
"Some."