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EotL 2 - Nickel-a-Horn

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LimeyJack:
End Of The Line
by
LimeyJack
(cc) by-nc-sa

2. Nickel-a-Horn

The barbershop spun clockwise above Adam's head.  Leaning back in the chair, he could feel the vomit rise in the back of his throat.

Adam closed his eyes and bit down on his lower lip.  He counted to three.  Opening his eyes again, the sickness and the spinning receded. 

There was no barber.  No combs and brushes.  No sickly sweet overpriced cologne water that left you smelling like a call-girl.  Adam lay fully reclined in the dusty barber's chair, staring up at the cobwebs, a half empty bottle of whiskey wedged between his side and the leather.  He was drunk as he could be.  Had been for a week.  Every time he sobered up it hit him- the insanity  -so he kept drinking.  One of the benefits to suddenly owning a saloon.

The barber, whoever he had been, had nailed the door shut upon abandoning the shop.  Adam had to kick his way in.  The barber must have left in a hurry, taking only the essentials of his trade that could be carried.  Expectations must have been high to leave behind what must be a fifty dollar barber's chair.  Can't pack a barber's chair on a mule, though.  Can't pack a barber's chair all the way to Deadwood.  No, combs and brushes are all you can take when the siren's song of gold comes calling.  Adam wondered if  the barber had headed to Deadwood to cut hair or prospect.  Didn't really matter.  Either would be more profitable that staying in End of the Line. 

The room began to spin again, and Adam took a gulp off his bottle.  The whiskey chocked on the way down, and Adam coughed it up in a fit of retching.  Turning on his side to stop from drowning, Adam became aware of a figure in the open doorway.

“Well, if it ain't the Dude!”  The figure said joyfully and chuckled.  Adam tried to focus on the figure in the top hat.  Middle aged.  Mustache.  “You'll forgive me.  We haven't been introduced.   Name is Fish. Harry Fish.  I own the bank down the way.  I'm also Mayor of End of the Line...”

The figure offered out a hand.  Adam could feel the whiskey dribbling from his stubbled chin.  The Mayor said 'End of the Line' with a sing song familiarity that made it sound like 'Endaleleen'.  Adam was focusing now.  Mayor Fish looked like a banker.  Dark suit.  Cravat.  Adam knew a thousand men like him back in Saint Louis. 

“You don't mind if I call you Dude, do you?  That's all folks around here been calling you:  The Dude.  Little Bobby's been talking up your tale too a mighty big deal.  You walking into the Hinny Saloon like you did, and putting a fright into the Gaffa.  Gets better every time he tells it, and he's been been telling it a bunch.  Yes, sir.”

“You'll forgive me if I don't get up.”  Adam managed, and lay back into the chair.

“Oh no, don't mind me.  Just thought I'd stop by and jaw with you some.  You being new in town and all.  I feel it's important to meet all the new faces we get he in Endaleleen.  Ain't many, as you can probably guess.  Simple town this, since the gold shinned out.  Cows out number the folks most days!”

Adam braced himself as the room began to spin again.  He found that listening to the Mayor speak was contributing heavily to his queasiness.  He moved the end the conversation.

“Is there something I can help you with, Mayor?”  Adam said, sounding almost sober.

“Well, yes.  Two things actually.  One item you can help me with, and then I think I can help you with the other...”

“Oh, yes?”

“Yes.  First off:  It has been traditional for the Town Council of Endaleleen to conduct it's meeting at The Singing Hinny.  It being the largest place in town, an us not having formal facilities for conducting such town business.  Now, we're off a mind to call just such a meeting tomorrow morning, and since you are apparently the new owner of the aforementioned establishment...”

“My home is your home, Mayor.”

“Well, thank you most kindly, sir.  The Town isn't able to requite you for the use of the space, but the members of the council have always paid our tabs at the bar...”

“Drinks will be on the house.”

“Why, that is most generous of you, Dude-  I mean...”  The Mayor puffed at his insult, but Adam drunkenly waved it away.

“The second matter?”

“Ah, yes.”  The Mayor continued.  “As I was saying before, young Bobby Goodfellow has been telling of your confrontation with the Gaffa to all that will listen.”

“He the urchin I met when I got off the train?”

“Yes, that the little fella.  He hangs around town doing odd jobs for nickels.  Harmless, but fond of a tall tale.  He's really making a story out of your deeds.  He can be quite the raconteur when the spirit is with him.  Anyway, seems like word has gotten back to Anacreon- that's the Squire's ranch -of how you pulled one over on the Old Gaffa.  Sent him packing.  And you with your empty gun and all.  Bobby's making it sound like the Gaffa, quaking at the sight of you, turned tail and run.”

“Wish it'd been that way.”

“However it was, that the story folks are hearing, and word's come back that word has gotten to the Gaffa, if you know what I mean.  They're saying that the Gaffa's steaming mad.  Fit to put things right.  Fit to put you in your place.  Or in the ground.  Whichever being of your choosing.”

The Mayor paused to let this sink in.  Adam sat very still, letting the room spin.

“Luckily for you, the Gaffa and his boys are finishing the last roundup of the season.  They're all neck deep in beef.  But come this time next week, all that cattle is going to be charging down that there Main Street on it's way to the railhead.  The Gaffa and twenty guns will be right behind it, and you can sure as bet that they'll be coming to call on you.”

“I thought this Gaffa was supposed to be the Sheriff?”

“That's right.  And that badge making anything he sets his mind on doing perfectly legal.  So I reckon, unless you think that empty pistol of yours is going to scare away the Gaffa a second time, you should get your affairs in order with regard to the saloon, gather up some of your best sipping whiskey, and drag yourself onto the next train out of here.  The Gaffa might be sore, but his badge don't protect him beyond the county line.”

The Mayor paused again, waiting for Adam to speak.  After a moment of silence, he shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, I've had my say.  Ain't no reasoning with so folks.”  The Mayor said, and turned to leave.

“I know how to load the gun, you know.”  Adam said to the Mayor's back.  The Mayor turned.

“Dude.  You may be brave man or it might just be the liquor talking, but trust me:  When the Gaffa blows into town, you'd better have blown out.  He means to kill you this time, and he can get it done.”

And the Mayor left, leaving Adam in his barber's chair watching the room spin.

LimeyJack:
The next morning Adam sat at the window of The Singing Hinny, reading a month old copy of the Saint Paul Gazette, sipping at a beer, and eating a plate full of eggs.  The beer and the eggs helped a little with his hangover.  Truth be known, all he wanted to do was climb back into bed or a bottle; whichever he found first.  However, his conversation with Mayor Fish the day before had left an impression upon him, and he needed to be sober for the town council meeting.  Adam had heard that a  representative of the Anacreon Ranch was be in attendance.   Anacreon and its Squire had come to interest Adam greatly.

The cast of characters began to dribble in.  Gully gave Adam a whispered commentary as he busied himself with sweeping the floor.

First the Mayor stomped up the front steps of the Hinny, brushing the dust of the street off his frock coat.

“Only Mayor the town's ever had.”  Gully said.  “Don't remember there ever being an election.  Only man with money in town, though.  Guess that sort of automatically makes a man the Mayor wherever you might be.”

The Mayor seated himself at the pool table Gully had converted for the meeting.  A bottle of whiskey and a number of glasses were already on the table  The Mayor helped himself.

Next a barrel chested man in an ill fitting jacket came in and scanned the room.  He had a mane of red hair, and hands that size of slabs of meat.  He exchanged a muted greeting with the Mayor, and removed his jacket. 

“Big Ben Bell.”  Gully whispered.  “Blacksmith.  Doesn't speak much, but you sure listen when he does.”  Big Ben sat, and the Mayor poured him a drink.

As if in contrast, a small, quick man entered after the Blacksmith.  His eyes darted back on forth around the bar, as if quickly auditing the contents of the room.  He wore spectacles and and dark suit, carrying himself slight hunched over. 

“Josey Thibodaux.  A Gentleman of the South before the war, so they say.  Was the Assayer here back when there was something to Assay.”

Josey sat and took a drink.  He exchanged greetings with the Mayor, and Big Ben acknowledged him with a nod and a single booming word: “Reb.”

Finally, to complete the council, a thin man with a thin mustache and a preacher's collar blew into the saloon.  He fidgeted with his hands, obviously uncomfortable with his surroundings.  He took a seat at the table.  No one offered him a drink, and he didn't reach for one.

“The Reverend Evan.  The less said there the better...”

“Reverend Evan?”  Adam said, mopping up the last of his eggs with some crusty bread.  Gully just shrugged.  As Adam raised from his chair, the man from Anacreon pushed through the swinging doors.    He dressed like a cowboy, but his calfskin vest was too spotless, and the brass of his belt buckle too shinny to be any sort of working man.  On his hip in an leather holster he carried some sort of nickel-plated revolver that Adam didn't recognize.  He was flanked by two sinister looking weather beaten men who we obviously the real deal.  He paused at the threshold of the Hinny to give Adam a bemused look.  Satisfied, he continued to the pool table with his men following.  Adam positioned himself at the bar near the table, well within earshot.

“Gentlemen of the Council-”  He said before even sitting down.  He accent betrayed education.

“Now hold on,”  Mayor Fish interjected.  “First thing gotta be first.  Robert's Rules and all...”

“If it pleases the chair-”

“Didn't I tell you to hush?  Seems to me, that I got the roll call here...”  The major began to dig through his papers.

“First things heck!”  The small man named Josey said.  “We all know who's here.  We gonna have this meeting or ain't we?”

“Ain't an official meeting until we call the roll...”  The Mayor found his paper.

“Well, I'm here ain't I?  You can't miss Big Ben.  You, sure as Dutch, are here, and the Preacher's right there.  There!  Roll is called.  Let the dandy fella of the Squire's say his peace and we can all get back to working!”

“Will you cork it for a spell, Reb!  We also got the minutes of the last-”

“Oh heck!” 

Everyone began to talk at once.  For a good half a minute, chaos reigned.  Silence was only restored when the mayor pulled a revolver from his belt and rapped the butt on the pool table like a gavel.

“Fine!  Enough with Robert's Rules of Whatever.  You all know Jacob Banner of the Anacreon Ranch, other side of the Big Sue.  He's rode down today to talk with us all.”

“So let him talk!”  Josey said, and poured another glass of whiskey.  The Mayor threw up his hands, and took his seat.  The man named Banner found a chair, and sat.

“Gentlemen of the Council.  I've come to talk to you today on behalf of my employer Clint Burbank.  Known to some as The Squire.  It being less than a week before the final roundup of the year, my-”

“Get to the point.”  Big Ben thundered.  Everyone jumped a little in the seats.

“I'm getting there...  Seeing as this is the last week to drive cattle across the Big Sue before she gets mudded in, and as the Squire is planning on driving as many as ten thousand head through town.”

“If your boss wants a break of the stockyard fee, you can tell him to forget it!”  The Mayor interrupted.  “Endaleleen's got preciously little to tax as it is, and cattle drives tear up the streets something awful.”

“No no, you misunderstand me.”  Banner said with a grin.  “The Squire ain't looking for a break on the corral fees.  In fact, he's thinking he'd like to pay more.”

This was met with a table full of silence.

“Squire was reckoning End of the Line was in a hard way what with the miners and their money all going to Deadwood.  We got to thinking that perhaps it was time for the Council to flex it's muscles a little, if you understand my meaning.”

“Not really?”  The Reverend spoke up.

“Well, with beef constituting the largest voting block in town, it seems only fit that they pay their fair share.  Why tax the people of End of the Line, when cattle is worth so much more.”

“You suggesting we tax the beef?”  Josey said.

“A nickel.”

“A nickel?” 

“A horn.”

“A nickel a horn?  Why, that's....  That's a lot of money...”  Josey tailed off, while everyone did some mental arithmetic.  Adam had heard enough, he turned away from the pool table and got Gully's attention.

“Another beer, Gully.”  he said.  This got Banner's attention, and he turned to size Adam up.  With beer in had, Adam turned back to the proceedings.  He raised his glass to Banner.  Banner seemed a little put off by Adam's knowing grin, but he continued. 

“Think of it, Gentlemen.  This time next year this Council could be meeting in a real Town Hall, not a foul smelling beer hall, being gawked at by drunks.  With the amount of beef hoofing through this town on its way to the abattoirs of Chicago, this town could be something.  Why let all that money fill the pockets of the ranchers, when you could make this into a good, decent town where folk could raise their families and be happy to call home.”

“Nickel a horn seems totally reasonable.”  Said the Mayor.  “After all, what's beef selling for in Saint Paul?”

“Seems only right to keep a little of that money here...”  Josey added.

“With the revenues we could build a school house.”  The Reverend thought out loud.  “Offer incentives to reopen the storefronts.  Give people a reason to move here other than gold...”

“With a school,”  Big Ben's brain moved slower than the others. “they'd be children again...”

“It seems I've made my point.”  Banner said, raising from his chair.  “I'll relinquish the floor so the Council can debate the point.  The Squire and myself back the Council, whatever you decide.”  Banner and his two compatriots moved towards the door as the Council began to excitedly discuss how they were going to spend the tax revenues.  Adam followed Banner to the door.

Outside in the brisk autumn mountain air, Banner and his men mounted their horses.

“Nicely done.”  Adam said, leaning against a post, sipping at his beer.

“What's that?”  Banner replied.

“I said, nicely done.  In there.  You sold them on a nickel-a-horn.”

“Just call me civic minded.”

“Yeah, I guess.  Say, answer me something?”

“Sure.”

“Who's going to be collect this beef tax?”

“Figure that'd be the Sheriff's job.”  Banner said with a smile, spurring his horse.

“Figured so.”  Adam replied, staring down into his beer.

LimeyJack:
The next day, waking up with another hangover, Adam importance of acquiring ammunition for his gun began to sink in.  There were only a few more days before the big roundup came to End of the Line, bringing the Gaffa with it.  Bluffs seldom worked twice on the same person.  When the Gaffa showed up again, Adam would have to have a loaded gun.  A loaded gun and the will to use it.

The last remaining hardware store in End of the Line was called Entenmann's.  From the street it looked a tidy, well stocked establishment.  Every morning since arriving in town, Adam had seen the store being opened by a young woman at the stroke of eight o'clock.  It closed at five, on the dot, with the same woman packing up the merchandise.  Not once had Adam seen a customer between those hours.

Stepping into the store, Adam found himself surrounded by sifters and gold pans of all descriptions.  The store was obviously still stocked for the mining crowd, and Adam quickly began to fear that he'd have to search elsewhere for primer and ball.  He was about to leave, when a voice came from the back of the store.

“Can I help you with something, sir?”  It was a woman's voice.  The woman Adam had seen opening and closing the store.  She emerged from behind a stack of wheelbarrows.   He blonde hair was pulled tightly back into a bun, and she had a wide crooked smile that made her look inquisitive. She was wearing a plain grayish-blue dress with a bustle that wouldn't have been out of place in Saint Louis a season ago.

“I was wondering if I could speak with the proprietor.”  Adam said.

“That is I.”  The woman said, securing a pencil behind her ear, and putting a notebook into her apron.

“Mrs. Entenmann?”

“My name is Mrs. Sears.  Mr. Entenmann was the former proprietor, my husband purchased the business going on three years.”  She has a Missouri accent.  Or was it Kansas...

“And didn't change the sign?”

“Why would we?  It's a perfectly good sign.”

“Well, yes...”  Adam's hangover pinched him behind the eyes.  “Could I speak with your husband, then?”

“Did you misunderstand me, sir?”

“Come again?”

“I said I am the proprietor of this store.”  He tone was both direct and scolding.  “If there is something that you need, you can speak to me.”

“I see.”   Was all Adam could manage.  “Then I need primers, powder and .36 caliber ball.”

“I can help you with the power and primers, but I've no lead shot to speak of.”  Mrs. Sears stepped behind a counter that was almost completely concealed by merchandise, and rummaged through some shelves. 

“Ah.”  Adam wasn't surprised.  “Might you suggest another establishment that-”

“It's here or Cheyenne, I'm afraid.”  Looking back up from the counter, she gave Adam a hard stare.  “You're that dude that came to run the saloon, are you not?”

“Owner.  Proprietor.  Only customer this last week, too.”

“I heard about you and the Gaffa.  Little Bobby Goodfellow was here.”

“My personal biographer...”

“Now I understand why you need bullets.”

“The Mayor already suggested I leave town.”

“As well he might.  But if I can't help you with shot, and you're determined to stay, I might be able to help you with a new gun.”

“How's a new gun going to help my without bullets?”

“Don't have shot, but I do have cartridges.”  Mrs Sears pulled a cardboard box up from under the counter.  She opened it to reveal fifty rounds of cartridge ammunition, all shiny in brass.  “Used a cartridge revolver before?”

“I only have my Colt Navy from the war.”  Adam said guardedly 

Mrs. Sears crossed the shop, and led Adam to a glass case.  Inside a number of revolvers were displayed for viewing.  They were of the same make as the gun Banner carried to the Council meeting.

“The new Colt revolver in .45 caliber.”  She removed one of the pistols and handed it to Adam.  It was larger and heavier than his Navy, but the lack of a charging handle gave it good balance.  He half cocked the hammer, and turned the cylinder.  It clicked like a watch.

“Sell many of these?”  Adam asked as he looked in the loading gate. 

“More popular than gold pans.”  She said sardonically. 

“Any chance you also sell hats?”  Adam said, closing up the gun, and lowering the hammer.

Advertising:

LimeyJack:
Adam left with the Colt, two boxes of cartridges, and a wide brimmed hat that really didn't suit him..  Mrs. Sears was left with an IOU, which she took begrudgingly.  Back in the Hinny, Adam loaded five of the six chambers and stowed the handgun behind the bar next to an old scatter gun.  He busied himself for the rest of the day with the Saloon's dubious accounts and the contents of a whiskey bottle.  Come evening, Adam fell asleep at his table by the window, waking the next morning to the sound of tremendous thunder. 

Sitting up, Adam blinked his bloodshot eyes, and tried to focus on the street beyond the window.  It looks windy out, but perfectly dry.

“What the Dutch?”  He managed.  The bottle and glass on the table skip around as the thunder grew louder.  Without warning a single, lone cow trotted down the center of the street, heading downhill.  Adam was stunned.  Raising to his feet, he staggered on wobbly legs to the swinging doors.  A few hundred yards behind the single cow, and mass heard of grunting dust appeared at the top of the street.  By God, the heard was early!  Finding new strength, Adam charged across the room to where he had hidden his gun.

“That'll be the roundup from The Lazy S!” Gully yelled from the bar, sensing Adam's panic.  “Maybe a thousand head!”

“The who?”  Adam yelled back , steadying himself at the bar as the dust and thunder filled the street outside.

“Lazy S!  Bert Stallman's outfit!  They're normally first through the pass come roundup!  Good man that Stallman!  Small operation, but they say he runs a tight ship!” 

A wave of relief washed over Adam.  He reached behind the bar, came up with a new bottle of whiskey, and took a long satisfying drink.  Outside the thundering of hooves began to subside, and the sound off yelping cowboys could just be heard.

“Those boys of a habit of drinking here?”  Adam asked as he fished behind the bar again.  This time he came up with his pistol and shells.

“Reckon they ain't got much choice.”

“You make sure this Stallman talks to me while he's still sober.”   Adam scooped up the empty whiskey bottle off his table, and couple more in reach.  “And while I'm still sober.  Understand?”

“Will do.”

Adam took the back door out the bar into the small yard that backed up against tree covered hillside.  He took a deep breath to calm himself.  In the distance, he could hear the cattle mooing down in their pens.  He put the empty whiskey bottles on the back fence, and walked to the other side of the yard.  Fifteen, maybe twenty yards.  He leveled the pistol, cocked the hammer, and fired. 

One, two, three, four, five. 

The whiskey bottles sat unmolested, mocking him.  The gunshots rung in his ears, adding another layer of pain to his hangover.  He rubbed his eyes, and dropped more cartridges into the revolver.

“Nice shooting, Dude.”  A high voice said behind him.  Adam turned to see the same boy he had met the first day as he had come into town.  Bobby.  Still wearing the same ragged top hat.  “Now I see why you kept your gun empty.  Safer that way.”

Adam reloaded, cocked the hammer, and fired again.  He missed the bottle he was aiming at, but hit the fence post.  The bottle teetered, and fell into the grass.

“Ha!”  Bobby laughed.  “That one's yellow!” 

“You fit me up right good, didn't boy?”  Adam said, cocking the hammer again.  He took a long slow bead, and squeezed the trigger.  Bang.  Finally a whiskey bottle exploded in a shower of glass.

“Fit you up?  How's that?”  Bobby asked through the ringing in his ears.

“You and your storytelling 'round about town.”

“I didn't say nothing I didn't see.”

“Well, they say the Gaffa's got a burr under his saddle hearing your tale.  You making out like he's yellow and all.  He's figuring to come back to town and take another try at that draw down.  Yep.  Fitted me up real good.”

“Oh heck, you've got bullets in your gun now.  You ain't scared of that Gaffa is you?”

“Kid, you just seen me shoot.”

“Yeah, there's that...”  Bobby scratched his scalp under his hat.  “I'm guessing my original advice still stands, then...”

“What's that?”

“Time for the Dude to shin out.  Train at four thirty.”

“I ain't shinning out, kid.” 

“No one think you're yellow if you did.  People respect good sense.”

“It ain't that.”

“Then what?”

Adam leveled his pistol again and took another shot.  His split a bottle in two, leaving the jagged base standing.

“Old Scratch has been dogging me, kid.  All my life.  And here I am, with no more room to run.”

“End of the Line.”  Bobby said knowingly. 

“Got the feeling  this hand's gotta play out.  Gotta have a little faith.”

“Faith?  Faith in what?”

“Sorta hard to explain...”

LimeyJack:
That night Adam tended bar as the Hands from the Lazy S sipped at their whiskey.  Just after dusk, the cattle all seen too, Stallman joined his men for a drink.  He was a short, pudgy fellow with a dark complexion and thick, tree-like limbs.  He swaggered into the bar, congratulated him men on a job well done, and poured himself a drink from an open bottle.

“You Stallman?”  Adam asked as the ranch boss poured himself another drink.

“I am.”  Taking down the belt, he finally looked at Adam and smiled.  “You must be that city slicker all the talk is about!  Why heck, you don't look all that plumb terrifying.”

“Ad Liche.  Owner and Proprietor.”  The two shook hands.

“Say, I didn't expect to stumble across you. Word hasn't got to you about the Gaffa and his temper?”

“It has.  Business has kept me in town.”

“Well, I wouldn't let it detain you!  We ran into outriders off the Anacreon herd on our way across Big Sue.  They can't be but a couple days ride out.  What business you got in this town besides to keep you?  If you're thinking of dying over this place...”  Stallman's men laughed and cheered, and everyone drank.  Adam leaned forward so as to lower his voice.

“Word got to you about the nickel-a-horn.”  Adam's words made Stallman's face petrify. 

“Yes it has.  That crook mayor sprung the news on me soon as I corralled the beef.   Of all the hair-brained, half-baked, wastes of my...”  Stallman spat as he searched for words for his indignation. 

“You of an idea who planted the bug in the Fish's ear?”

“Bug?  This ain't the Good Mayor's bright invention?”

“No, sir.  A man named Banner came to the Council meeting the other day.”

“Banner?  Swell from the Anacreon?”

“The very same.”

“Why would the Squire want to tax beef?  He's got more cattle than anyone.”

“Plum crazy, huh?  Say, can I ask you a question, Mr. Stallman?”

“Shoot.”

“Who's got the biggest spread in these parts?”

“Well, the Burke Ranch is mighty big, but the Squire's lay has got to be the biggest.”

“And the most cattle on the hoof?”

“Ditto there:  The Squire.”

“And the deepest pockets?”

“I wouldn't rightly know...”

“But assuming your answers to my first two questions...”

“Assuming that, I guess The Squire's got some coin.”

“And End of the Line is the only railhead to get cows to market?”

“Until they lay more track, yeah.”

“So, it may be true that the Squire's gonna have quite a bill, what with this new tax, but isn't it also true that the Squire is best fit to afford it?”

“I guess.”

“Nickel-a-horn is a scratch to him, but it's gonna make you bleed.  True?”

“True...”

“I hope you won't take this as presumptuous, but it seems to me that this Squire is starting a war of attrition.”

“A war of what?”  Stallman half coughed up his drink.

“Attrition.  Hurting everyone equal knowing that him, being the toughest, can hang in there longest.”

“But it'll cost him a fortune!”

“A fortune he'll easily be able to recuperate when he's dictating the price of beef.”  Adam stepped away from the bar for a moment to let this sink in.  He poured himself a drink, his work done for the evening.

“You're talking sense.”  Stallman said, slowly nodding.   

“And,”  It was time for Adam is drop the other shoe.  “Who collects on taxes owed in this county?”

“I reckon that would be the...”  Stallman went pale.

“I'm thinking you and I got an malady in common...”  Adam shot his drink.

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