Michelle stood perplexed. No amount of scrubbing could remove the stains, the blood of an unknown man she had stolen from the scene of a car accident, a stupid drunk with no license who had wrapped his Chevy truck around a very large oak tree. No prisoner except Edgeworth Bess was placed in the same cell with him. It was a gracious gesture, she thought, as he trudged to the Beck’s humble doorstep in his stiff blue polyester uniform. He was well mounted, as was his companion; and had pistols in his holsters, and a hanger at his girdle. What do you say to Brighton——” Anna looked at him quietly—and he never finished his sentence. What he needed most in this hour was a bottle of American rye-whisky and a friendly American bar-keep to talk to. "What's the matter with the man?" demanded Wild.
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