I shifted the jug to one knee and took it. “Arika,” I said.

On the cusp of replying, his face scrunched up. Booster and the others leapt backwards. A second later, I understood why. Hurley sneezed violently one, two, three times in a row. The blast was gigantic, spraying wetness so wide, the fire sizzled.

Voltaire moaned. “Obi, Hurley! Where is your handkerchief?”

I wiped my moist face discreetly.

“Lost it in the scuffle, boss.” He held a hand over his mouth.

The man in the apron handed Hurley a towel.

Hurley blew his nose for several seconds and slung the towel across his shoulder. He looked gratefully at the man in the apron. “Thanks, Walker.” He still sounded stuffy.

“No problem, boy.” Walker pushed aside his apron and squatted so he was eye level with me. “I’m Walker. I do the cooking around here and I like company. Come by anytime.”

I nodded.

“Are you thirsty?” he asked. “Sure you are,” he answered. He went to the fire. “The main waterhole is through those trees there, but I’ve always got a bucket by the hearth.” He filled a rough wooden cup with water and returned to take the jug of spirits from me.

“Thank you,” I said, taking the water. I was so thirsty, I drank in large gulps.

When I’d finished he filled it again, then got water for William and Hosea. He picked up a large hat, styled in a manner I vaguely remembered seeing in a Reel Room movie about the old-world American cowboy. His kind had lived it in the western lands and eaten a dry grassy leaf that the old Americans had called hay.

“I’m Walker,” he said again, settling the hat on his head. “You know Hurley here, with the nose. That’s Voltaire and over there’s Fly Man with the horses. Those two bean-poles are Finch and Pidge. And the mean one’s Booster.”

The burly man, Booster, grunted and sat down, his arms crossed over his chest.

* * *

Later, as the fire died, the bandits wandered off with full bellies. The stew had been heavy with meat and seasoned with herbs and spices. Finch had eaten with gusto, slurping his drink and patting his stomach appreciatively. What he couldn’t get across in funny gestures, Pidge translated.

“Finch likes the stew,” Pidge had surmised.

“Finch always likes the stew,” Fly Man said, giggling.

Booster grunted. “I wish he’d shut up about it. For a mute, he’s noisy.”

Finch had laughed quietly and smacked his lips.