The room was cleaner than he had expected. Wooden floors, an iron bed frame, a window looking straight out over endless ranchland. The sun was sinking below the horizon, staining the whole sky the amber of whiskey.
Li Jie took a shower. When he came downstairs, he found a few more people in the bar, all dressed like ranchers. Their jeans were muddy, their boot heels worn, their faces carved with wrinkles by years of sun and wind. One old fellow even had snow-white hair and a beard to match.
"This is the survivor from Gotham I told you about," Hank, the bar owner, told the others. Then he waved Li Jie over. "Come on. Everyone wants to meet you."
Li Jie walked over, and they all turned to look at him, their eyes full of curiosity.
A middle-aged man in a broad-brimmed hat held out his hand. "Travis Clay. I run the ranch west of town. Heard things where you come from are... unsettled?"
"Not too bad," Li Jie said, shaking his hand. "Not much worse than Iraq."
Everyone laughed, and the mood relaxed. They ushered Li Jie to the big round table in the corner. Old Hank brought out a pot of beef stew, a whole roast chicken, a large platter of mashed potatoes, steaming cornbread, and several pitchers of freshly brewed beer.
Robert Garcia, the oldest of them, sat beside him with his back ramrod straight. He wore a faded army-green shirt, and the wrinkles on his face ran as deep as the rock strata of the Grand Canyon.
The old man gripped his cane tightly, his blue eyes fixed sharply on Li Jie.
"Forgive me, Sheriff, but I need to ask you something first. Are you Asian? What country are you from?"
"Me?"
Li Jie figured