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and buttoned him inside his shirt. The bird made happy sounds. Juan took the dead thing by one leg and dragged it away into the darkness. Imarte went flouncing off to her room.
    “Ay-ay-ay.” Porfirio put his face in his hands. “And was your day good? Tell me your day was good.”
    “It was good,” I said. Einar took down the creel—the coyote twitched and growled in its sleep—and unsaddled our horses. He led them off to the stable, whistling a little tune.
    “Hell-oooo, everybody, I’m home,” said Oscar as he strode into the circle of firelight, leading his mule. Behind them the patent peddler’s cart lurched from side to side, catching its roof on the lower branches of the oak trees.
    “And you had a good day too,” Porfirio said.
    “Oh, first-rate. Finally persuaded Mr. Cielo over at the walnut orchard that he absolutely required the civilizing influence of music in his home. He took a flageolet and six pieces of sheet music. Any day now his neighbors (when he gets them) can expect to hear the strains of popular selections from
The Bohemian Girl
wafting through the walnut trees.”
    “Nice going.” Porfirio poked up the fire. “Get any good material on him?”
    “Oh, certainly.” Oscar set the hand brake on his cart and let the mule out from between the traces. “Got a fair holo of his kitchen and a splendid one of the parlor, all furnishings in situ. Extensive vocal recordings, too. Got him to tell me half the story of his life. The archivists will be pleased with yours truly, I shouldn’t wonder.” He patted his mule fondly.
    “So that’s what you do?” I asked. “You go around pretending to peddle stuff, and while people are talking to you, you record details of historical interest about them?”
    “Yes indeed! Though I hasten to add that no pretending is involved. I am a true and bona fide salesman of the first water. It’s more than a matter of personal pride with me, you see, that I can play the golden-tongued orator with the best of them when it comes to persuading a reluctant dweller in adobe that he or she wants—nay,
must
have—a patent cherry-pitting device superior to all previous models.” Oscar was completely serious.
    “Yeah, you are one nickel-plated Demosthenes, all right,” Einar said, emerging from the stable to take charge of the mule. “Hey, Amelia, sweetie! How we doing, babe? How’s our little hooves today?”
    “No trace of lameness, I’m pleased to report,” Oscar said. “She appears to have regained her customary surefootedness.”
    “Great.” Einar led her away, and Oscar strutted up to the fire, hands in pockets.
    “Yes, a most successful day. Might I inquire what’s for supper this evening?”
    “Grilled beef, tortillas, and frijoles,” Porfirio said. “I just haven’t had time to put it on yet.”
    “H’m.” Oscar stood there in the light of the fire, rocking back and forth, a small frown on his bland face. “No chance of any cabbage, I suppose.”
    “What do you want, man? It’s February.”
    “Oh, quite, quite, I see your point. You know what I’d like to do, though, when we can get a little more garden produce? I’d like to serve you folks a real authentic New England boiled supper. Yes,
sir
. You’d enjoy it no end. I daresay I could make the brown bread to go with it, too. I’ve got cans of molasses and a cake of raisins in my cart. Just the thing for a nippy night.”
    “Sure,” Porfirio said without enthusiasm. He gave a narrow-eyed smile. “I meant to ask you: have you managed to sell that Criterion Patented Brassbound Pie Safe yet?”
    Oscar’s face lost some of its aplomb. “Well, no, not yet.”
    “Aw, that’s a shame.” Porfirio’s grin of sympathy was very white under his mustache. “I can’t think why nobody’s interested in that thing.”
    “Neither can I,” Oscar said. “You’d think, in this wild country overrun with mice and insects, that the natives would fight for a chance to possess such a marvel