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argument there,” Beau said. “Of course the town should pay for it, which doesn’t mean it will.”
    â€œWho’s the boss of this bunch of hovels?” I asked. “The sheriff mentioned some deacons. Who would they be?”
    â€œWell, there’s Joe Schwartz at the livery stable, he’s one deacon,” he said. “Aurel Stein’s a second, and I’m a third. Old George Murray, who has a spread about twenty miles out, is more or less a deacon—but George is out of sorts right now. In fact he’s Sheriff Bunsen’s number one problem.”
    â€œI know Mr. Murray, he was a good friend of my father’s,” I said. “Is he a killer too?”
    â€œNot by trade, but he’s cranky,” Beau said. “Cranky old men can kill you just as quick as the professionals.”
    â€œThat’s not many deacons,” I remarked.
    â€œI forgot Leo Oliphant. He owns the three saloons,” he said, sliding the pistol into its nice free holster.
    The two boxes of ammunition were still sitting there, in plain sight. It seemed we had come to an impasse. Beau wasn’t willing to give them, and I wasn’t willing to buy them.
    â€œDo any of the deacons have credit with you?” I inquired.
    â€œAll except Leo Oliphant—being a saloon keeper means he’s a bad credit risk,” Beau said. “Few saloon keepers live to enjoy old age.”
    â€œWhat about Sheriff Bunsen—how’s his credit?” I asked.
    Beau winced at the question.
    â€œI should not be talking ill about our gallant lawman,” he said, “but getting blood from a turnip would be a whole lot easier than extracting cash money from Ted Bunsen.”
    â€œI see. If I put those shells on the sheriff’s bill you’d be hard put to collect—is that right?”
    Beau nodded.
    â€œHe’s known to be a slow payer,” he allowed.
    â€œHere’s my compromise,” I said. “My brother, Jackson, is a hard worker, and honest as the day is long. He’s a wage earner now—no reason he shouldn’t pay for his own ammunition, is there?”
    â€œNo reason unless he gets plugged by some killer first,” Hungry Billy remarked. He had wandered in and was standing around exercising his ability to waste time.
    â€œSon, go saw a plank,” his father said. “Now that the sheriff has taken a deputy, maybe the killers will spare us their attention for a while.”
    The upshot of the matter was that two boxes of high-grade ammunition got charged to Deputy Jackson Courtright.
    â€œWhat do you think about George Custer getting massacred?” I asked while Beau wrapped my purchases, which grew to include a pretty cotton frock and several hair ribbons I had succumbed to.
    â€œOh, I try not to think of things like that,” Beau said. “Daily life is hard enough to survive, in these parts.”
    He got a sad look in his eye. I suppose the thought of all those dead boys near a creek in Montana put him in mind of his own pretty wife, Glenda, who passed away less than a year ago, from the bite of a copperhead snake. Most people can survive a copperhead bite, but Glenda Wheless had been in delicate health to begin with. The snake got her while she was picking snap peas from their garden—she sat down by a bush, and before anyone missed her she was gone for good.
    â€œI’m sorry about your father,” Beau said. “I liked the man, but I could never understand why he chose the frontier life. He didn’t seem to be the frontier type.”
    â€œHe read too many brochures,” I explained, before I headed across the street to give my brother his gun and ammunition.

8
    M Y BROTHER, JACKSON , had already done admirable work with his broom. When I walked into the jail he was just sweeping a substantial pile of litter out the back door, where the wind would soon scatter it over thousands of miles of prairie. The