Hunter swivels the black vinyl bar stool around, lays his helmet on the floor, sits down, props a booted foot up on the brass rail. It feels good not to have pavement racing beneath him. He says to Al, “Miller Lite, double cheeseburger, and an order of fries, glass of water on the side.”

“You got it, brother. Bottled water okay?”

“Yeah, long as it’s cold.”

“Only way we serve it, brother. And you two?”

Nugget and Itch ask for some version of the same.

Off to the side is the game area, with crazy designs running over gray flooring, a circular table with green chairs surrounding it, an oak bar attached to one of the walls. Underneath a creaking ceiling fan, a green felt pool table commands the room’s center, and an old-school Ms. Pacman and Galaga video game combo stands against the left wall.

Behind the bar, the usual clears and darks for well drinks line the shelves. From the back comes the sounds and tantalizing smells of burgers frying. The three travelers are road worn, their frames still humming from the long ride with no stops. Hunter is still tilting his mind, trying to shake loose answers about his father that aren’t there. Al lays the beers in front of them, pops the cans. Their openings foam up. Placing a cold bottle of water beside each, Al asks, “Where you-all from?”

“North Carolina.” Hunter replies.

“You’re out a pretty fair ways. Just a road trip, taking in the sights?”

Hunter listens to himself say, as if by rote, “Father passed away. Headed out to California.”

“Sorry to hear that. Know much about Kansas?”

Hunter’s eyes home in on a sign clipped to the napkin holder: “Support your local bartender, helping ugly people get laid.” He chuckles.

Itch says, “Lot of cowboy stories and the Wild West, is all.”

Hunter sips his beer and laughs, tells Al, “Give us a quick history lesson.”

“Will do—”

“Oh, sorry, I’m Hunter. This pickle dick beside me is Itch, and the other’s Nugget.”

“Cool. Nice to make everyone’s acquaintance. Appreciate you-all stopping in. So, Abilene became the first real cow town of the West. Joseph McCoy hogged up two hunnerd and fifty acres. Built a hotel, named it Drovers Cottage. Had stockyards that could handle two hunnerd head of cattle. Stables, too. Kansas Pacific brung in a spur line—let cattle cars be loaded. Sped to their destinations. Next thing you know, Abilene’s the first cow town in the West. And that was that.”

“No shit?” says Itch.

“None,” Al assures him. “From 1867 to 1871, the Chisholm Trail ended here. Wild Bill Hickok was marshal in 1871.”

“Wild Bill?” Nugget says.