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courteously.
    â€œHe’s no kin of William Tecumseh Sherman, your former commander—or was he your former commander?” Uncle Seth asked.
    â€œNo, the little frizzy-hair terrier never got to order me around,” Mr. Hickok said. “The two of you can have a seat.”
    I noticed when I was taking a chair that several of the fellows crowded up in the front of the saloon were looking daggers at us—they didn’t like it that we got to sit with Mr. Hickok and they just got to sit with their ugly selves. Uncle Seth didn’t give them a thought.
    â€œWe had a spot of trouble earlier in the day,” Uncle Seth said. “I believe my niece may have stopped by to talk to you about it.”
    â€œOh yes, Miss Geneva,” Mr. Hickok said. “She’s a fetching lass, if I do say so. I fed her a big juicy beefsteak and she put it away so quick that I fed her another. That young lady can eat.”
    â€œIt was generous of you,” Uncle Seth said. “If I hadn’t just et I’d have a beefsteak myself.”
    â€œWhat
was
the trouble?” Mr. Hickok inquired.
    â€œOh, Baldy Stone borrowed all our mules, and the girls thought he was stealing them. Then Mary Margaret shot Baldy’s horse. At the time she was under the impression that the horse was an elk.”
    The part about the elk, which struck me as so curious, didn’t seem to interest Wild Bill Hickok at all.
    â€œNow why would Baldy Stone need to borrow a passel of mules?” he asked.
    â€œHe was hoping that good mounts would attract a posse,” Uncle Seth said. “I believe he has had about enough of Jake Miller and that bunch over at Stumptown.”
    â€œWell, I don’t agree with his thinking,” Wild Bill said. “You can get shot just as dead off a good horse as off a bad horse. The quality of the posse is more important than the quality of the horses. How many posse men does he have signed up?”
    â€œOne, himself,” Uncle Seth said.
    â€œIt would take a gallant fellow to ride off alone to tackle the Millers,” Wild Bill said. “I haven’t noticed that Baldy is that gallant.”
    After that there was a silence. Wild Bill seemed to be thinking about something. The bartender came over with a whiskey bottle and two glasses. Uncle Seth accepted a shot of whiskey, but waved off the second glass.
    â€œThis youth don’t drink,” he said. “But I do. You might just leave that bottle—that way you won’t have to be traipsing back and forth. It’ll give the dust a chance to settle.”
    Uncle Seth had spoken politely, something he didn’t always bother to do, but the bartender, who was a feisty little fellow with a scar just under his lip, took offense at the remark.
    â€œThere’s not a speck of dust on this floor,” the bartender said. “What do you think I do all day and most of the night?”
    â€œJust leave the bottle—there’s no need for a dispute,” Uncle Seth said.
    â€œWhat does he think I do all day and most of the night?” the bartender asked Mr. Hickok, who didn’t reply. The floor of the saloon had so many cigar butts strewn on it that it would have been hard to find much dust, but there was a pretty good pile of mud just inside the door where several mule skinners had scraped off their boots.
    â€œThat man has been working too hard—it’s made him touchy,” Uncle Seth said. “I get touchy myself, when I’m overworked.”
    â€œLet’s hear more about this expedition to arrest the Millers,” Mr. Hickok said. “The Millers have never disturbed me personally, but that goddamn Little Billy Perkins, who runs with them, has done me several bad turns.”
    â€œLittle Billy has few morals—few to none,” Uncle Seth said.
    â€œHe won’t need morals, if he crosses me again,” Mr. Hickok said. “It would be doing a favor to humanity