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given him.
    He crossed the aisle. A velvet muzzle sought his palm, nipping when there were no oats. Sweet, hay-scented breath blew in his ear. Phin shivered.
    Good-bye, he mouthed, and went down the dark aisle.
    Bang! The stallion kicked the wall. It sounded like a gunshot.
    Shocked, Phin blundered into a shovel and sent it clattering. Horses snorted and whinnied and stamped, and Phin ran out the front door into the lantern-lit yard.
    The team was only half hitched. Swearing, Dennis fought to fasten the second tug as the gray horse swung wide, shoving, almost trampling him. Phin hesitated, torn between helping and the bushes so invitingly black, the back of the wagon yawning before him, a box, a trap, a hiding hole….
    Hooves thundered down the barn aisle. Phin dived up into the wagon, rolled head over heels to the front, and flattened behind a tarp as the stallion galloped out the barn doorway. The rider bent over his neck, long coat billowing out behind. The horse lengthened in a run, up the street toward the depot.

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T RAIN TO M EET
    â€œW hoa! Now stand—I mean it!”
    The horses plunged, making the wagon lurch. Under cover of the noise, Phin drew the tarp over him and lay flat, pressed to the front of the wagon box.
    â€œThere now, you old fool—there! What do you think you’re going to do, catch him? Now back, back—” A big sigh; Dennis must have fastened the second tug. He kept up a low growl to them as he climbed onto the seat. It sank and squeaked above Phin’s head, and the wagon started with a jolt.
    â€œWalk now, walk—all right by jing, trot if you’re a mind to! What’s goin’ on around here? Sell up and head west—got a good mind to! That boy never—And who is he ? Mule dealer, my eye! Easy, now!”
    Should he speak? Phin wondered. An old cuss; that’s what Dennis was. He kept his kindness for cats and horses, and a little, unsuspected until today, for Phin. How far would Dennis go for him? Best not to find out; stay quiet, keep the favor nearly accidental—
    â€œ Now what’s he doin’?”
    Rub-a-dub rub-a-dub —galloping hooves on the road ahead. Near Phin’s face was a rough C-shaped chink of light in the front of the wagon. A knot in the board; heat and sun had shrunk and loosened it. He jabbed it out with his thumb, making a tiny oval window on the lamp-lit street.
    Too late. The horseman had passed already—passed and turned and came up beside the wagon.
    â€œSeems I’m going away for a few days,” the mule dealer said. “Want to pay my shot in case I don’t get back. What do I owe you?”
    â€œI don’t carry my figures with me,” Dennis said. “You’ll have to come to the office.”
    â€œNo time for that. Here—this should more than cover it.”
    The wagon checked slightly as the money changed hands; Phin heard the stallion breathing. “Obliged,”Dennis said in an unobliged voice. “You’ve waited this long—why don’t you stay till morning?”
    There was no immediate reply. The stallion danced beside the wagon, a foot away from Phin.
    â€œWhat do you think about this murder?” the mule dealer asked.
    â€œDon’t know much about it.”
    â€œThe lad worked for you.”
    â€œYou think Phinny did it?” Dennis asked.
    â€œI don’t mind admitting that I have my doubts.” The mule dealer’s voice was light and nearly laughing. “But I’m a dubious man by nature.”
    Nearby came the great hoot of the train whistle. “Here she is, right on time,” Dennis said, raising his voice. “The Ladybird, bound for Mauch Chunk and points north.”
    That was for Phin. It wasn’t the kind of thing Dennis would say otherwise. Points north. He’d thought of himself as going west, but north would do—
    â€œWhat’s this?” the mule dealer asked.
    Now Phin heard voices