“Sheriff, I’m so sorry about this,” I muttered apologetically, having doused the fire, demoosed Bradshaw and helped a very damp lawman to his feet. He was over six foot tall, and had a weather-beaten face and deep blue eyes. I produced my badge. “Thursday Next, head of Jurisfiction. This is my partner, Commander Bradshaw.” The sheriff relaxed and even managed a thin smile.

“Thought you was more of them Baxters,” he said, brushing himself down and drying his hair with a “Cathouses of Dawson City” tea cloth. “I’ll be mighty glad you’re not. Jurisfiction, hey? Ain’t seen none of youse around these parts for longer then I care to remember—quit it, Howell.”

The drunk, Howell, had awoken and was demanding a tipple “to set him straight.”

“We’re looking for the Minotaur,” I explained, showing the sheriff the photograph.

He rubbed his stubble thoughtfully and shook his head. “Don’t recall ever seeing this critter, missy Next.”

“We have reason to believe he passed through your office not long ago—he’s been marked with slapstick.”

“Ah!” said the sheriff. “I was a-wonderin’ ’bout all that. Me and Howell here have been trippin’ and a-stumblin’ for a while now—ain’t we, Howell?”

“You’re darn tootin’,” said the drunk.

“He could be in disguise and operating under an alias,” I ventured. “Does the name Norman Johnson mean anything to you?”

“Can’t say it does, missy. We have twenty-six Johnsons here, but all are C-7s—not ’portant ’nuff to have fust names.”

I sketched a Stetson onto the photograph of the Minotaur, then a duster, vest and gun belt.

“Oh!” said the sheriff with a sudden look of recognition. “That Mr. Johnson.”

“You know where he is?”

“Sure do. Had him in jail only last week on charges of eatin’ a cattle rustler.”

“What happened?”

“Paid his bail and wuz released. Ain’t nothing in the Nebraska statutes that says you can’t eat rustlers. One moment.”

There had been a shot outside, followed by several yells from startled townsfolk. The sheriff checked his Colt, opened the door and walked out. Alone on the street and facing him was a young man with an earnest expression, hand quivering around his gun, the elegantly tooled holster of which I noticed had been tied down—a sure sign of yet another potential gunfight.

“Go home, Abe!” called out the sheriff. “Today’s not a good day for dyin’.”

“You killed my pappy,” said the youth, “and my pappy’s pappy. And his pappy’s pappy. And my brothers Jethro, Hank, Hoss, Red, Peregrine, Marsh, Junior, Dizzy, Luke, Peregrine, George an’ all the others. I’m callin’ you out, lawman.”

“You said Peregrine twice.”

“He wuz special.”

“Abel Baxter,” whispered the sheriff out of the corner of his mouth, “one of them Baxter boys. They turn up regular as clockwork, and I kill ’em same ways as regular.”

“How many have you killed?” I whispered back.