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St. Louis. Folks see something in a magazine and they think they got to have it. Even Mrs. Garvin’s ordering from Paris, France.”
    Cobb’s eyes narrowed as he tried to place the name. He couldn’t draw it out, but before he asked, Mr. Collins offered the information.
    “That’d be the milliner. It’s her older daughter, Millicent, who’s getting hitched. She’s marrying Mr. Irvin. He’s the undertaker. My wife says I shouldn’t be so surprised that Mrs. Garvin is ordering from Paris, France, but then she doesn’t have much of a head for geography and the notion of distance.”
    Cobb angled his ear toward the back room when the sounds of a scuffle erupted. “The boys?”
    Collins remained unperturbed. “Better be, else the station’s infested with the biggest rats this side of the Continental Divide. You have that letter, Mr. Bridger?”
    “No. I haven’t written it yet.”
    “Three days express. Six days regular.”
    “I remember.” He paused. “What’s the slowest way to get a letter to Chicago.”
    “Slower than six days, you mean?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Well, I suppose putting off writing it would take care of that.”
    One corner of Cobb’s mouth edged upward. “I’d prefer to write it this evening, post it tomorrow, and have it take a month to arrive.”
    “A month? The pony express was three weeks faster than that. I suppose I could get Finn or Rabbit to walk it there.”
    “Something more practical,” Cobb said dryly.
    “It’s an interesting idea, sending something by way of a slow boat to China. That’s just an expression, you understand. No telling what would become of your letter if it went by way of China. You
do
want it to reach Chicago, don’t you?”
    “I do.”
    “You expecting a reply to your correspondence?”
    “I am.”
    “Then I guess it’s your intention to stay put for a while.”
    “For a while.”
    “I pegged you for a gambling man right off.”
    “I remember.”
    “My wife will tell you that I’ve made that judgment before and been wrong about it.”
    “She already has.”
    “Sure. I should have known.” The station agent looked Cobb Bridger in the eye. “Am I wrong?”
    “No one seems to think so, not even your wife.”
    “I’m asking you.”
    “I’ve been playing poker at the Pennyroyal every night since I arrived. That’s four evenings running. Tonight will make my fifth, and I’m winning more than I’m losing. Just this afternoon, Walt Mangold told me I’m good for business.”
    “I reckon he’s right. He might have mentioned I don’t hold much with gamblers.”
    “Walt never said a word. Mrs. Collins warned me.”
    “That so? Well, I reckon she was right to, but maybe she also told you it’s not personal.”
    “She said your son left Bitter Springs to take up the sporting life. I’d say that was very personal.”
    Jefferson Collins snorted softly. His Adam’s apple bobbed above his stiff collar when he swallowed. “More like he was run out of town. Couldn’t pay his debts, and the Burdicks would have taken it out of his hide. I paid up, but he still had to leave. The Burdicks are gone now, but I don’t suppose he knows that, and I don’t suppose it would matter if he did.”
    The station agent’s mouth curled to one side, regret stamped on his narrow face. He knuckled his bearded chin. “I can’t think why I’m telling you this.”
    Cobb said nothing. He didn’t have to. The reasons for the station agent’s confession chose that moment to charge out of the back room. Rabbit wielded the broom with the flair and deadly purpose of St. George wielding Ascalon, and Finn used the dustpan like a shield to protect his flank. To their credit, they made an attempt to put on the brakes when they spied him. The beans made that impossible. Both boys lost their footing at the same time, and all their flailing was in aid of nothing except comic effect. They landed on their backsides hard enough to jar the floor. Rabbit managed to