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seen something so fancy, not in Minnesota, maybe not even in Kentucky. What’s more, there he sat, leaning over a mite, offering me Navy plug.
    “Thanks,” I said, “but I found mine.”
    “But mine hasn’t been lying in manure.” He grinned, and I glanced at my boots and all the filth lying down in the wagon. So I tossed my tobaccy aside and took his, carved off a small bite, and started my chaw. When I give him back the plug, he bit off a mouthful, and held out his hand.
    “Name’s Wood,” he said. “Ben Wood.”
    “Joe Brown.”
    I couldn’t think of anything else to say, so we just sat there, working our chaws, till I finally asked: “You-all lost?”
    “Wouldn’t say that,” Ben Wood said. “Debating on which way to go. On our way to find some tim-berlands.”
    “That would be north of here,” I shot back. “Long way north.”
    Ben Wood had an easy smile as he looked over the rolling plains. “Yes, sir, I’d dare say this is country for farming, not logging. Grew up on a Tennessee farm myself, yet my calling led elsewhere.”
    “Tennessee, huh?”
    “Land of Crockett and Houston and Jackson. Some say Eden.”
    “I grew up in Kentucky, come out here, though, before the rebellion.”
    Said this because I was still suspicious of these guys. They spoke like Southerners, and I wanted to see how they’d react to me calling the war a rebellion, secesh being touchy on that subject.
    “Lot of good Union men in eastern Tennessee, Mister Brown,” Ben Wood said, like he was reading my mind. And with that, the rest of the men come up over to the wagon, walking their horses now, and shook my hand, telling me their names. Seven of them. With eight horses. Really friendly gents, though I couldn’t recollect most of their names. There was a Horton and a Howard and a Chadwell, but I couldn’t tell you which was which five minutes after introductions.
    Well, we started talking about the timberlands, and my suspicions faded. War was over, had been for ten, eleven years, and they were most interested in hearing all about northern Minnesota, so I talked and talked till I had worn out my first chaw of tobacco and Ben Wood offered me another. I like to talk. Takes me a while, but once I get started…just ask Matilda.
    “Timber seems to be a sound investment,” Ben Wood said.
    “Better’n farming, I warrant,” I said.
    “Oh, farming’s a noble endeavor,” Ben Wood said. “Practically all of us grew up on farms, except Mister Chadwell there. He’s a city boy but has lived some up north of here. Why his tales of all that forest, that’s what led us out of eastern Tennessee.”
    “There’s some fine woods in that part of the country, too.”
    “Indeed. Well, sir, we’ve kept you from your home too long. Let us bid farewell and we’ll be on our way.”
    “No rush,” I said, enjoying the chance to converse with someone other than Matilda or Jezebel or that miser of a mercantile owner back in town. “My place is just a mile up the road.”
    “Still, it’s getting late.”
    “You’re more than welcome to spend the night at our place,” I said. “My Matilda, she sets a nice table, ’specially this time of year.”
    Thunder rolled in the distance. “We won’t im-pose,” Ben Wood said. “Mister King, he’s a fine cook…his food not as dour as his face would lead one to believe.”
    “No imposition,” I said.
    “Well.” The thunder cracked again, and Ben Wood turned to look at his colleagues.
    “Ain’t nobody ever accused me of a-being a duck,” said one of the guys whose name I had already forgotten, the one on the brown mare dusting off his pipe, and he started poking a finger through holes in his hat.
    “Then, Mister Brown,” Ben Wood said, “lead us to Camelot.”
    I released the brake, and rode on down the road, when there come a commotion—man alive!—and suddenly a wagon bolted out of the woods, driven by some fellow in a duster, too, and I almost stopped to see just what the