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admitted. “I’ve never had a beer.”
    Harding laughed. “You’ve never had a beer?”
    â€œNo, sir. My mom didn’t hold with drinkin’. Not even beer.”
    â€œWhat do you think about it?”
    â€œI’ve never give it much thought, one way or the other.”
    â€œThen it’s time you did give it some thought,” Harding said. “You’ve got some catchin’ up to do. Come on, it’ll be a pleasure for me to buy you your first beer.”
    * * *
    The sign in front of the building read WATSON’S DRAM SHOP. Inside the saloon was a potbellied stove that, though cold now, still had the smell of smoke about it from its winter use. A rough-hewn bar ran across one end of the single room, while half-a-dozen tables completed the furnishings. The room was illuminated by bars of sunlight, shining in through the windows and open door. Flies buzzed about the room, especially drawn to those places where there was evidence of spilt beer.
    â€œMr. Harding, good to see you back in New Madrid again,” a man behind the bar said. He was wearing a stained apron over his clothes, and a green top hat over a shock of red hair.
    â€œHello, Mr. Watson. I hope you haven’t sold all of your beer.”
    â€œI just got a new shipment down from St. Louis,” Watson answered, taking a glass down from the shelf, then holding it under the spigot of a barrel of beer. “What about the boy?” he asked.
    â€œDon’t let his looks and age fool you,” Harding replied. “Art’s as good a man as I’ve ever come across. I reckon he’ll have beer too.” He looked over at Art. “That right?”
    â€œYes, sir. I’ll have a beer,” Art replied, watching as the mug filled with a golden fluid, topped by a large head of white foam.
    â€œHere you go, boy,” Watson said, sliding the first mug over to him.
    Art raised the glass to his lips and took a swallow. He had never tasted beer before and had no idea what to expect. It was unusual, but not unpleasant.
    â€œHere’s to you, Art,” Harding said, holding his own beer out toward Art. For a moment, Art didn’t understand what he was doing, but when Harding tapped his mug against Art’s, he realized it was some sort of ritual, so he followed along.
    Art had that beer, then another.
    â€œLet’s go,” Harding said, suddenly getting up from the table.
    â€œWhere are we going?”
    â€œThere’s a certain etiquette to spendin’ money in a town like New Mardrid, and part of it is that you spread your money around. This is my favorite place. I spend all my money with Watson, then he’s liable to start takin’ me for granted, while all the other places will be resentful. Do you see what I mean?”
    â€œI guess so,” Art replied.
    â€œBesides, we all have our own way of looking for the creature,” Harding added with a twinkle in his eye. “I’ve always been of the opinion that it might be in the next dram shop.”
    Art followed Harding out the door, then up the boardwalk toward the next drinking establishment.
    A wagon rolled by on the street. Driving the wagon was a tall, rawboned man, dressed in black. He had beady eyes, high cheekbones, a hooked nose, and a prominent chin. A short, stout, very plain-looking woman was sitting on the bench beside him. The wagon had bows and canvas, but the canvas was rolled back at least two bows. As a result, Art could see the third occupant of the wagon, a girl about his own age. She was sitting on the floor with her back leaning against the wagon side opposite from Art. As a result, when he glanced toward her, he saw that she was looking directly at him. For a moment their gazes held; then, embarrassed at being the recipient of such scrutiny, Art looked away.
    â€œAh, here we go,” Harding said. “Let’s pay a visit to Mr. Cooper.”
    Cooper’s saloon was almost