On my left is a blackened kerosene stove on a shelf attached to the wall, supported in front by two two-by-fours. On the rusty burner a blue coffeepot with a hole in the bottom. Above the stove are shelves, some dented cans of beans and tomatoes, two jars of preserved fruit covered with mold. Two chairs and a wooden bedstead at the end of the room, a stepladder by the bed . To the right of the bedstead is a door which opens onto a bathroom with two oak toilet seats side by side, a bucket black with rust, a brass faucet covered with verdigris.
I go back to the street and look around. At one end the street ends in a tributary. I walk the other way and the road turns inland. There is a shack with the sign SALOON at the turning. I go in and a man with eyes the color of a gray flannel shirt looks at me and says, 'What can I do for you?'
'Where can I buy tools and supplies? I just rented the Camel shack.'
'Yes I know. Do with a bit of fixing up, I guess.... Far Junction ... One mile up the road.'
I thank him and start walking. Dirt road, flint chips here and there, ponds on both sides. Far Junction is a few buildings and houses, a water tower and a railroad station. The tracks are weed-grown and rusty. Chickens and geese peck in the street. I go into the general store. A man with pale gray eyes and a black alpaca jacket looks up from a seat behind the counter.
'What can I do for you, young man?'
'Quite a few things. I've rented the Camel shack.'
He nodded. 'Do with some fixing up, I guess.'
'It sure can. More than I can carry.'
'You're in luck. Deliveries twice a week. Tomorrow.'
I walked around pointing: copper screening, tools, tacks, hinges, two-burner kerosene stove, five gallons of kerosene, ten-gallon water container with spigot and stand, water barrel, cooking utensils, flour, bacon, lard, molasses, salt, pepper, sugar, coffee, tea, case each canned beans and canned tomatoes, broom, mop, bucket, wooden washtub, mattress, blankets, pillows, knapsack, bedroll, slicker, machete, hunting knife, six jackknives. The proprietor walks behind me writing the purchases down on a clipboard. Alligator Gladstone bag? Fifteen dollars. Why not? Jeans, shirts, socks, bandanas, underwear, shorts, pair extra walking boots, shaving kit, toothbrush.
I pack the clothes and toilet articles into the bag....fishhooks, leaders, sinkers, lines, floats, minnow seine.
Now for the guns. Colt Frontier six-inch barrel 32-20 caliber, a snub-nosed 38 inside belt holster (this I pack in the bag), double-barrel twelve-gauge shotgun. I look at the lever-action rifles.
'It would be handy to have a 32-20. Same shells for pistol and rifle. Anything around here need a heavier load?'
'Yep. Bear. It isn't often a bear attacks ... when he does, this'—he tapped a box of 32-20 shells—'would just aggravate him.'
He paused and his face darkened. 'Something else needs a heavier load and longer range....'
'What's that?'
'Folk across the river.'
I picked up the Colt 32-20 and holster. 'Any law against packing a gun in this town?'
'There's no law in this town, son. Nearest sheriff is twenty miles from here and keeps his distance.'
I loaded the gun and strapped it on. I picked up the Gladstone bag.
'How much do I owe you?'
