The trading post’s interior was dim and warm and smelled of cooked bacon and charred wood. Behind the counter, cutting meat with a large blade, stood a squat, bearded man with thick forearms. Across the room, seated at a table with a bottle in front of him, was a very tall, heavyset, man wearing a long wool coat and a top hat. Despite the coat and hat he appeared disheveled, as if he’d been sleeping in the rough like Pritchard and Ditch were.

Seated on the dirt floor next to him, tied with a rope around one ankle, was a young girl. She was clad in only a crudely sewn burlap dress, wore no shoes, and appeared cold and malnourished. She looked to Pritchard to be perhaps thirteen or fourteen years old, though she was too thin for him to tell, and he unconsciously thought of Idelle. The girl stared at the wall with vacant eyes, and it was only after his own eyes adjusted to the darker interior of the cabin that he realized what he could see of the girl’s unwashed body was covered in welts and bruises. The other end of the rope was tied to the man in the top hat’s chair.

“What can I do for you two gentlemen?” the man behind the counter asked without looking up. Pritchard noticed a shotgun leaning against a chair behind him.

“Need some powder, salt, and whiskey,” Ditch said. “A knife if you got one, a razor, and we’d also like to see what you have in the way of garments suitable for two traveling men.”

“You fellers seem a mite young,” the proprietor said. “Before I start setting out goods, I’ll need to see the color of your money.”

Without thinking, Ditch foolishly produced the bag of gold coins and displayed them all for the proprietor to see. He instantly stopped cutting meat and looked up. Across the room, the man in the top hat’s eyebrows lifted. He swiveled in his chair to face Pritchard and Ditch.

“I have everything you want,” the proprietor said. “Give me a minute to set you up. While you’re waiting, you boys care for a drink? Best whiskey in three counties.”

“No thank you,” Pritchard said, before Ditch could answer.

“How about some food? Got pork stew, made yesterday.”

“How much?”

“Five cents a bowl. I’ll throw in the corn bread for free.”

“We’ll take two bowls,” Ditch said.

“Coming right up.” The proprietor vanished through a raggedy curtain to a room behind the counter, presumably the kitchen.

“Hello, pilgrims,” the man in the top hat said. “Couldn’t help overhearing you’re traveling men, like myself. Where did you say you were heading?”

“Didn’t say,” Ditch said.