“Hey, Fats,” Ebrooks greeted me without malice. He called Kesey “Curly.”

The man was nearly bald. “How’s the gravedigging business these days?”

“Cold,” I told him, and he laughed as if it were funny. Then Ebrooks lowered his face to his soup bowl to spoon up more food. He always ate like that. His spoon never had to travel more than a couple of inches. I sampled mine. It tasted like wet sheep smelled.

“What brings you to town?” Kesey asked. He was an older man and had lost several teeth in the front of his mouth, but I didn’t know if it were to fighting or rot. He made a lot of sucking noises at meals as he freed the food trapped in his mouth.

“I had some questions for the colonel. And I wanted to do some shopping.

Do either of you know anyone who’s headed west on the road soon? I’ve got a package I’d like delivered.” I stirred the stew in my bowl. A quarter of an onion, three carrots, and some crumbling lumps of potato. There were two gristly lumps of meat coiled defensively in the bottom of the bowl and little slivers of meat in the flour-thickened broth. And pepper. Lots of pepper. I think it was the only spice they used. I chose the carrot first. It had been cooked too long; its texture was gone. But the flavor had lingered and I savored it.

“Delivered where?” Kesey demanded, breaking into my food reverie.

“Dead Town. There’s a woman named Amzil there, with three kids. She put me up for a while and loaned me a rucksack. It’s time to send it back to her.”

“Oooooh, Amzil. Yessir. That’s a nice bit, when you can get it. I’m surprised you don’t want to ‘deliver’ that yourself.” Ebrooks waggled his tongue appreciatively.

“It’s nothing like that. Just a return for hospitality.” I tried not to let my annoyance show.

“You’re out of luck, Fats. All the carters have stopped for the winter. If a winter storm catches you on the road this time of year, you’re a dead man.

Snow comes down, wind blows it smooth, and whoops, where did that road go? Most of them won’t chance it. There won’t be much traffic until spring. You might find a scout heading out that way, but good luck getting a favor from any of them. You might have to make the trip yourself if you want it delivered. Just go. Who’s to know?”

“I might,” I lied. My feelings about Amzil were decidedly mixed. I wanted to send her the gifts, not just for the children’s joy but to make her think well of me. At the same time, I wasn’t sure I wanted to see her again. I’d heard too many men casually refer to her as the Dead Town whore. I wasn’t sure I could visit her without her seeing that in my eyes.

“I think that one of the scouts might take it for you. Hitch, or that new fellow, Tibber, Tiber, whatever his name is.”