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moved to fill fresh glasses from a tap.
    Jimmy stirred a packet of sugar into his coffee and had a better look around. He saw that although everything was old, it was also clean, the bottles on the bar shelves gleaming and the countertop without so much as a crumb. Shane winced slightly as he walked, and his back was oddly stiff as well. But he seemed in good cheer as he talked to Brandon and a couple of the other guests.
    Belatedly Jimmy noticed a subtle decorating theme: snakes. Framed prints of reptiles hung here and there on the walls, a few of the chair backs had squiggly shapes carved into them, and instead of a mirror, the wall behind the bar boasted a subdued mural of a rattler curled up and sunning itself on a rock.
    The images took Jimmy back to his childhood, when he and his brothers used to go snake hunting. At the time, the family lived in a shack at the edge of some unmemorable town. Across the street, acres of fields stretched toward the horizon, broken only by a small woods with a tiny creek. Mama worked nights, so during the summer, she insisted they stay the hell out of the house so she could get some sleep. Jimmy’s brothers wouldn’t have let him tag along if she hadn’t required it. He’d been so thrilled to hang out with the big kids that he really hadn’t cared what they were doing.
    Every time Mama kicked them out, the four boys scampered into the fields. Jimmy’s oldest brother, Derek, was the best at finding snakes. They weren’t rattlers, of course, just harmless creatures with yellow stripes down their back. Privately, Jimmy thought they were pretty. But he didn’t say so, or else his brothers would have called him a pussy or a faggot. And when they captured one of the animals and poked at it with sharp sticks, watching it writhe in pain before finally stomping it to death, Jimmy hadn’t asked his brothers to stop. Not even when watching made his belly feel inside out, and not even when he knew he’d have nightmares when he went to sleep. He just watched, and if one of his brothers looked at him, Jimmy pretended he was having fun.
    “How about a refill?”
    Lost in thought, Jimmy hadn’t even noticed Shane return behind the bar, where he now stood with the coffeepot in hand.
    “Sure. Thanks.” Jimmy watched him pour. “So how come they named a town after a venomous reptile anyway?”
    Chuckling, Shane set the pot on the burner, grabbed a clean white towel, and began to polish the counter. “They didn’t. They named it after a man. George ‘Rattlesnake’ Murray. He was one of the first prospectors to find gold near here, and he used his money to build a town. They say he got a lot richer selling supplies and booze and whores to miners than he ever would have by digging around in the dirt.”
    “Why’d they call him Rattlesnake?”
    “Most of the time, he was really calm, slow moving—sleepy, even. But if someone pissed him off, they say he’d strike out as suddenly as a snake. And that somebody would end up just as dead. There’s a cemetery up the hill about half a mile. Legend has it, thirteen of the men buried there were put there by old George.” Shane gave his crooked smile. “He’s a relative of mine. Great-great something.”
    “And how many men have you put in that cemetery?” Jimmy teased.
    Shane’s expression turned dark. “Only one,” he said before limping away.
    After that Shane mostly stayed away from Jimmy, returning only to warm up the coffee in his mug. Although his movements were a little slow and clearly painful, Shane never remained still for long. He progressed from customer to customer, chatting or bringing them refills, and when none of them needed his help, he cleaned tables, polished the bar top, or washed glassware. He smiled a lot too, although maybe just because it was expected of him.
    The older quartet paid their bill and cleared out, as did two groups of young people. Shane returned to the bar, where he brewed a fresh pot of coffee. He