He calculated rapidly. 'Two hundred dollars and forty cents plus a two-dollar delivery charge. Sorry about that. Things keep going up.'
I paid him. 'Much obliged. Delivery buckboard leaves at eight tomorrow morning. Best get here a bit early. Likely think of a few more things you'll need.'
'Any place to stay here?'
'Yep. Saloon Hotel three doors down.'
Drugstore next door. Old Chinese behind the counter. I bought tincture of iodine, shaving lotion, permanganate crystals for snakebite, a tourniquet, a scalpel, a five-ounce bottle of opium tincture, a five-ounce bottle of cannabis extract.
Saloon Hotel. The bartender had russet hair and a face the same color. A calm slow way about him. Two drummers at the bar drinking whiskey, talking about the rising wholesale cost of fencing. One fat and clean-shaven, one thin with a carefully trimmed beard. Both of them looking like they stepped out of an old photo album. Poker game in one corner. I buy half a pint of whiskey and a stein of beer and carry them to a table. I measure myself some cannabis extract and wash it down with whiskey. I pour myself another shot, sit back and look around. A boy turns from the bar and looks at me. He is about twenty with a wide face, eyes far apart, dark hair and flaring ears. He has a gun at his hip. He gives me a wide sunlit grin and I push a chair out with one foot. He carries a glass of beer over and sits down. We shake hands.
'I'm Noah.'
'I'm Guy.'
I hold up the bottle of cannabis extract. 'Want some?'
He reads the label and nods. I measure it out and he drinks it with a splash of beer. I fill two glasses with whiskey.
'I hear you rented the Camel shack on the river,' he says wriggling his ears.
'That's right.'
'Could you do with some help fixing it up?'
'I sure could.'
We drink in silence. Frogs croaking outside. It's dark when the bottle is finished. I call to the bartender.
'Got anything to eat?'
'Passenger pigeon with corn bread, hominy grits and fried apples.'
'Two orders.'
He steps to the end of the bar and taps on a green panel. The panel opens and the Chinese from the drugstore looks out. Bartender gives him the order. When the food comes we eat ravenously. Time travel makes you hungry. After dinner we sit, observing each other with impersonal attention. I can feel the chill of silent space and a second we our breath in the air. One of the drummers shivers and looks around at us then turns hastily back to his whiskey.
'Shall we take a room?' I ask.
'I've got one already.'
I pick up my bag. The bartender hands him a heavy brass key. Number 6, second floor. He goes in first and lights a kerosene lamp on a table by the bed. Room contains a double bed with brass bedstand, faded rose wallpaper, a wardrobe, two chairs, copper luster washstand and pitcher. I see a Gladstone bag like mine but this one has seen a lot of wear. Travel-stained, the stains unfamiliar. We take off our guns and hang them on the bedstead.
'What caliber?' I ask.
'32-20.'
'Same here.'
