"There will be."

He nods to Dixon who nods back, refilling his glass. "And how about something for the boy."

"He's got his."

Huck sits with his milkglass clutched in both dirty hands and looks up at the cardplayer as if nothing in all the world, neither wealth nor plaything nor talisman, could make him any happier than he is at this moment.

"Time comes to put away childish things." Taking up his drink.

"Time ain't come yet."

"Let him try."

"I ain't ungrateful, but."

"Not even a black and tan? Dix, help the boy to a black and tan." The cardplayer hoists his glass and winks at Huck. "May as well get used to it, son."

Finn coils. "He ain't your son."

"I'd not have him. But that don't mean I can't be gentlemanly to his kind."

Finn rises like weather and steps around Huck with one hand grazing his small shoulder in an instant's offhand tenderness, and with his greater bulk he moves to pin the cardplayer against the bar. The other falls backward and drops his glass which shatters spilling ale upon hardwood and piled coin alike. Amid the wreckage the thick bottom of the glass remains intact with its remnant jagged rim and Finn's hand falls upon it in a black rage. "I'll teach you to talk."

Behind the bar Dixon dares neither arrest Finn nor speak up in defense of the cardplayer or even of basic civility so he comes around and takes the boy and puts his milk on the bar, and removes him to the kitchen while his father attends to the defense of either his boy or himself or some other.

The cardplayers at the table turn as one and for a moment they believe that the activity under way at the bar is merely the usual. Which of their number first spies the glint of that bit of glass cannot be said and will become a point of prideful contention in the years to come, but glint it does in the light of the lamps behind the bar and the candles on the tables, and as they watch transfixed Finn raises its sharp jagged circular end to their fellow's blasphemous mouth. He twists it and blood bubbles up black from around its perimeter and although the man dares not scream or even breathe the other cardplayers fall upon his assailant and drag him to the plank floor. One of them will remember bringing his boot-heel down upon Finn's wrist and thereby knocking free his makeshift weapon. Another will recall kicking the ugly gleaming bloodstained thing off into the darkness beneath a table, where a third will remember trying to find it for use on Finn himself but to no avail. In the end they subdue him with their fists and the task requires all of them even in his state or perhaps because of it.

Two of them help the cut man down the steps and up the hill to where the doctor lies dreaming of a place where incidents such as this do not happen. Finn sleeps off his injuries and alcohol on the floor and his boy gets a pallet in the corner of the room behind Dixon's kitchen. Come morning they head home to find Mary frantic with worry, but after one look at Finn she knows better than to complain or demand reason. He will tell her when he is ready, later on in the day once the boy has gone off somewhere, and when he does she will not know whether to respond with satisfaction or with alarm.

HE IS ASLEEP in the skiff when the marshal comes to arrest him. The marshal, a boneyard of a man in loose gabardines whose deputy sits by his side brandishing a pistol, looks no more equipped to wrestle Finn into compliance with the tenets of civilization than to outswim an alligator gar, but the deputy with the weapon provides all the authority he requires. They bump Finn's boat with the bow of theirs and rouse him up.

"How I hear it," the marshal says, lazily leaning against his pole, "that feller may not talk again."

"He'd be smarter not to."

"Now Finn."

He has not seen the interior of the jailhouse previously and so he knows not what to expect. The marshal leads him down a gray hallway and locks him behind iron bars and advises him that he may smoke if he likes provided he has makings. His lawyer will be along presently.

Will.

"You look like hell," he says when he arrives.

"I feel it," says Finn.

The marshal has given Will the key on a great iron ring and he admits himself to his brother's cell and takes a seat on the hard bed. "You know what you've done."

"I reckon."

"He may never talk again."

"That would suit me."

"You ought to keep your voice down."

"If you say so."

Will clears his throat and tugs at the knees of his trousers to preserve their crease. "I hear he had some words to say about the boy."

"He did."

"You didn't like them."

"No."

"This can't go on."

"I know it."

Will sits silent for a moment and draws a deep breath to remind himself of the reason he is here with his brother in this prison cell and not merely consorting with him in some spot less full of portent. "This is going to be terribly serious."

"How serious?"

"It depends on the prosecutor."

"They all know the Judge."

"I would advise you to take no comfort in that."

He does not, but he has other ideas for his defense. "Look what they did to me." Indicating his raw face.

"That came later."

"So they say."

"The chronology is plain enough."

"They were drunk, the lot of them."

"Those men won't be on trial."

"So put them."

"I can't."

"Then go after them on the stand."

"You leave the law to me."

"I'd like to."

Three days pass before he sees the courtroom. Mary and the boy visit him twice, and upon each occasion he is so pained by the thought of their witnessing him in his caged state that he insists they leave. On the third day they come not at all, or at least not in time.

"Which judge you suppose?" Finn inquires of the marshal as he leads him out, for he knows them all at least by name and reputation.

"Can't say."

"You don't know or you can't say."

"I can't say, on account of I don't know."

The marshal plants him in a chair within a small chamber containing a high bench and several rows of empty seats and then stands behind him waiting. Neither of them speaks for the longest time until at last the door behind the bench opens and out steps the Judge.

He speaks first to the marshal. "You may go."

"I believe it's my duty."

"Not today."

"But."

"I can handle this."

"Yes sir." Leaving Finn hard up against his own father for the first time since that day when the Judge broke down the cabin door and turned him out.

"Properly speaking, I ought to have recused myself."

"I know it," says Finn, and know it he does, for he did not come of age in that white mansion belonging to his father for no reason.

"It's a matter of conscience, though. As I see it, so long as I am of the belief that I am capable of executing my duties in a fair and impartial manner, I shall proceed."

"Are you sure."

"You don't need to ask." Studying a paper before him. "You have no right to ask, come to that."

"Where's Will?"

"He'll be along."

"Where's the prosecutor?"

"He'll not be needed."

At which idea Finn's spirits rise unaccountably.

"I've already spoken with him at some length, and although we are not precisely of the same mind on all points he has seen fit to yield to my greater wisdom." He speaks to his son as to a child, flashes a brief and reflexive smile, and bows his head to his paper again.

"I understand."

"You do."

"Yes sir."

"Then you understand why you'll be spending the next twelve months in the state penitentiary at Alton." Without so much as looking up.

"Where's Will."

"He'll be along."

"I'll appeal."

"You'll get nowhere."

"This ain't right."

"I shouldn't think that you would be a trustworthy judge of right and wrong." He deigns at last to lift his eyes unto his son.

"You know it ain't right."

"I know you need to be taught a lesson."

"Where's Will."

"He'll be along."

"When."

"Be patient."

Finn sits plaintless for a moment as if compliance will do him the slightest good. His bruised face pains him still and the beaten muscles of his arms and shoulders and chest are sore but he touches them not lest he be judged even more severely than he has.

"That's better," says his father, just as sweet as pie. "You're learning already." He adjusts his reading glasses and tilts his massive head back and draws out a pen with which he signs some lengthy document to which his prisoner is not privy. While he blots up the ink Will enters and stands between the two of them wearing upon his face a look of resignation.

"This ain't been much of a trial." Finn to his attorney.

"I suppose not."

"You have no idea," says the Judge. He motions to Will, who approaches the bench and takes the pen from him and signs.

"While I'm gone," Finn hazards to his brother's back, "what's to become of."

"I'd counsel you to travel no further down that line of reasoning in my presence," says the Judge.

"They're my concern."

"They're none of mine. Should those creatures go feral and starve, then perhaps their deaths will teach you the full wages of your sin. It might be the best thing for you."

"Father," says Will.