Horace Mangrove stood at the edge of the dry goods counter, patiently waiting his turn. He observed a customer complaining about the quality of the flour purchased a week prior.
“It was infested with weevils! My wife nearly died from shock as she made the morning bread and found more weevil than ground wheat!”
“If that’s the case, which I sincerely doubt, you may bring the sack of flour for inspection. If your version of events is true, I will issue a store credit. If not, you will be on your way.”
“You would have me carry a bagful of vermin into your place of business? No wonder the flour was tainted!”
“Your lack of foresight to review your purchase before leaving the store is not my concern. I sell quality products at a fair price, at no small risk to myself and my family. Your lament has the odor of regret in it. Not for the purchase, but for your own lack of food stock talents. But I am a fair man in all matters, so bring in the tainted flour, and I will review it.”
“You go to hell!”
“As I said, I am a fair man in all matters. But with your cursing, you have crossed a line from which you cannot return. Best you move along or risk meeting the sting of my shotgun. I will remind you the sting has deprived two men of an eye each, offered two more disfigurements of the nose, and caused three men to exit their fleshy carcass. Once the lead is beyond my barrel, I have little control of where it takes purchase, but I will send those wicked seeds to your person if you dally. So what say you?”
The customer stood as if nailed in place. The muscle of his jaw twitched and stirred as his eyes narrowed in an attempt to divine the shopkeep’s mettle. A small, animated fellow, the customer’s clothes frayed at every seam and cuff, his beard unkempt, and little meat enveloped his bones. His boots offered no more protection than a sandal. He’d had no luck as a prospector and was nearing the edge of his survival. He finally turned and left.
“The man is hungry,” Horace said.
“We’re all hungry, Mr. Mangrove. I can’t carry his misfortune. That’s his burden alone. He can go to the church and ask the minister for help if he’s of a mind to.”
“Hard to know what a man near the edge might do,” Horace added.
“Not my concern. If it was, I’d have given away the store long ago. Now, what can I do for you?”
“A set of sluice nets. Mine wore out.” Horace had good fortune as a prospector. His claim included a productive mine and a creek to process the placer gravel. The sluice nets were placed in series to sort the gravel into ever smaller grains to coax out the gold. The shopkeep reached to a high shelf with grippers on a pole to bring down the nets.
“Do you need anything else, then?”
“Coffee and a pound of hard candy,” Horace said. “And a poultice. Nan’s got a hot spot on her hind leg.”
“You take better care of that mule than yourself, if you don’t mind me sayin’.”
“She has been good to me. Helped me when nobody else would. Was a friend even early on when food was scarce. Loyalty begets loyalty, my daddy always said.”
“Smart fellah. Too little of it these days.”
“Smarts or loyalty?”
“Take your pick,” the shopkeep said as he wrapped Horace’s purchase in Kraft paper, tied it tightly with string, and handed it over to him. Horace kept an advance in his shop account to be sure he’d never again run out of supplies or food. The lean times had left their mark on him.
“I’ll see you next week,” Horace said.
“Always a pleasure, Mr. Mangrove.”
A bell jingled as Horace opened the door. He briefly looked back at the shopkeep, tipped his hat, and left with the bundle under his arm. He barely made it into the street when the unlucky prospector stepped out from behind a water cart.
“You think you’re so goddamn smart!”
“I do not,” Horace said, startled by the man’s demeanor.
“Laughing at me. I saw you there, watching that shopkeep rob me blind!”
“I was waiting my turn. I was not mocking you. I have known my own bad luck with prospecting.”
The weedy prospector thumped Horace in the chest, knocking him back a step. He’d hit Horace with his left fist, keeping his right arm straight at his side. This did not go unnoticed by Horace.
“I do not want any trouble. What is it you want?”
“What do I want?” the prospector scoffed. “I want your claim, you mule, and that parcel under your arm for starters!”
“Robbing me will not change your fortune.”
“Shut your goddamn mouth!” The prospector raised his right arm revealing a long boning knife. As he moved on Horace a shot was fired from the shop, hitting the prospector square in the chest. It knocked him off his feet, crashing into the water cart. Horace saw a hole where the prospector’s heart had been as the light went out of his eyes. Horace looked up at the shopkeep as he popped the spent shell from his gun.
“That seems to be a slug. Not birdshot.”
“Must’ve misloaded.”
“Yep,” Horace replied as he headed back to corral to collect Nan.