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They seemed as eager for the oats as he was for the ham. He sat in the kitchen trying to ignore the scents rising from the oven, but his belly was rubbing against his backbone. Tomorrow, luxury of luxuries, he would have ham and eggs and some baking powder biscuits. Maybe he would have some hash browns, too, if he didn’t devour all the potatoes roasting in the oven. The earthy scent of the potatoes was seasoning the ham in his mind, making it irresistible.
    Standish was leaning over the stove when he heard a stick crack outside. He stiffened, and then forced himself to relax. Could be nothing. Could be a coyote drawn to the scent of roasting ham. A coyote didn’t pose any danger to him.
    Another snap! Whatever was moving out there was larger and harder shod than a coyote. Natural hard-footed animals, elk and deer and horses and cows, wouldn’t be pulled to the scent of roasting meat. Human. It had to be human, and whoever it was stood outside in the dark, watching Standish in the full light of the cabin.
    The oven door screeched as he opened it, and Standish felt as though the point of a sharp knife had run down his back. He reached into the oven, towels wrapped around his hands, and pulled the roaster out. Just as he was setting the roaster on the table, he heard the scuff of boots on the step outside. Not much he could do. Someone had the drop on him. He had to be good to get this close, too good for Standish to try anything fancy.
    â€œMight as well come in,” he called to the darkness.
    No movement. Standish didn’t blame the visitor. He had the advantage. Why should he give it up?
    Standish opened the lid of the roaster and a cloud of steam rose into the cooling air. He heard a gasp outside, the noise a man might make if he had been punched in the gut. He lifted the ham from the roaster, and placed it on one of the plates he had bought in the Last Chance Emporium. He picked up a long, ugly knife and began slicing the meat into thin slices. Let the stranger come through the door pistol in hand. He will find a knife in his gut for his trouble.
    Standish reached again into the roaster, pulling potatoes browned in the juice from the ham to his plate. He heard a step and turned toward it, his body hiding the knife from the stranger’s view.
    Standish blinked. A boy, seven or eight at the most, stepped across the floor. He stood beside the table for a moment, staring at the ham as a miner might stare at the mother lode. The boy squeezed into Standish’s chair, and carved a bite of ham. His hand quivered as the fork’s burden reached his lips. His mouth settled around the ham, and he chewed. His face glowed with rapture. He cut another bite of ham and chewed it. Standish stood spellbound with the ritual. The boy served himself a potato, gently as a mother bathing a newborn.
    â€œWater,” the boy said, just that, nothing more.
    Standish brought the boy a blue-enamel cup of water from the spigot. The youngster drank it in one gulp.
    â€œMore,” he said.
    Standish stepped again to the spigot and filled the cup.
    The boy ate until Standish saw a decided swelling in the child’s belly. The boy rose from the table. He picked up the ham remaining in the roaster, jumping back and shaking his hand at the sting of the hot grease. He reached again, and Standish said, “Not yet.”
    The boy looked up. “Ma.”
    The word stung like the shortest verse in the Bible—“Jesus wept.”—but when the boy reached for the meat, Standish reached across the table and stopped the boy’s arm. “Just a minute. Okay?”
    The boy nodded.
    Standish pulled a clean dishtowel hanging from a nail beside the stove. He cut some of the ham and loaded the remainder, along with some of the potatoes, into a pouch he created from the towel. “I’d like this back.”
    The boy’s face wrinkled into a question.
    â€œThe towel.”
    The boy took the pouch and