He remembered how his declaration was met with grunts of enthusiasm. “Now you’re talkin’,” Tater had exclaimed. “If I don’t get some whiskey pretty soon, I’m gonna die!” His testimony was met with guffaws from the others and a race down the bluff to the store.

Like the murdered Quakers, it had been a fateful night for the unfortunate storekeeper and his wife when Booth decided to stop there that night. Inside the combination store and saloon, Grover Dean heard them when they pulled up in front, so he walked over to the window to see. “There’s that Wyomin’ bunch back here again,” he said to Beulah. “I hope to hell they’ve got some money to spend this time.” Like her husband, Beulah, whose Blackfoot name was Walks Behind, was not enthusiastic about another visit from the rough group of outlaws. She had been with Grover ever since he built his trading post almost ten years ago, doing his bidding like any good wife would do. He called her Beulah because he had a sister with that name, who had died as a child, and he liked that more than Walks Behind. “You might better see if you’ve got anythin’ to cook,” Grover suggested. “They might be lookin’ for somethin’ to eat.” He opened the door and stepped out on the porch to meet them.

“Didn’t expect to see you boys back so soon,” Grover said in greeting. Then noticing one extra, he said, “Looks like you picked up another rider since you left here.”

“Howdy, Grover,” Jesse Corbin responded. “Yep, we picked up my brother, Booth, and he’s needin’ a drink of whiskey, same as the rest of us.”

“Only this time, we want the good stuff,” Blue Davis informed him, “instead of that watered-down trash you sell the Injuns.”

“I don’t know why you’d say that,” Grover replied, as Blue pushed by him and went inside. “I ain’t got no watered-down whiskey,” he claimed, and hurried to get behind the bar. “I’ve got some high-priced rye whiskey I sell by the bottle. It costs more than the regular corn whiskey I sell a drink at a time.”

“We’ll take a bottle of that rye whiskey,” Booth called out as he walked in the door behind them.

“And how ’bout some food,” Trip Dawson ordered. “Where’s that squaw you’re livin’ with? Get her ass in the kitchen. I need some decent food.”

“Sure thing, boys,” Grover responded. “That’s what I’m in business for, but last week when you were here, you were pretty tight with your money.”