As Quinten Hare left town on the back of his horse, Jump Rope, he could smell his wheel of chèvre cooking in his saddle bag. The flames had spread to consume every building on the south side of the only road in Woodrose. This inferno was unbeatable with the limited options of Gay 90’s Colorado; pale after pale of well water would not slow this blaze. Soon it would make its northern expansion to the other half of town once the evening breeze inevitably made its appearance. Quinten was not welcome to stay and watch manifest destiny. He left his homestead behind him and slowly galloped towards the mountain that towered over the town to the West. A piney fourteener with a grey gendarme shaped like a coyote. Mt. Triduum, they called it.

Quinten knew the next nearest town was just on the other side of Mt. Triduum. He’d seen traders take their leave in that direction when they finished business in Woodrose. While these traders circumnavigated the elevation, Quinten didn’t shy away from taking the direct path over top. It was a difficult path with uneasy texture and stones that would collapse, but Quinten and Jump Rope had extraordinary coordination when paired. They’d gained their remarkable agility working in the Hare family’s pea fields. Mice in the pea fields attracted snakes that were best untrodden lest Jump Rope be bitten. This trained set of eyes makes crossing a mountain easy, picking the right boulders to weigh on.

Quinten made the trek in just under a day. The way down was a lot easier than the climb. He slid his horse gracefully down the western face of Mt. Triduum; skidding lip to lip like a set of stairs. After one particularly perilous scuttle, his horse needed a second to rest having almost sent them into a barrel roll.

“You’re better off taking the slow way down,” came a xyloid drawl from the cloud of dust they’d ascended. “You just might miss out on something valuable…” The old man stepped into view. He was wearing a pair of black waders that took up most of his bottom half. The rest of his top portion was covered in a green linsey woolsey and a matching green gibus. His arm was outstretched and in his hand was an angle made of thin copper wire. He held it loosely in his palm so it would twist, pointing every which way. Suddenly, it stopped on a pile of rubble to their right. The old man looked shocked, then his face was filled with glee. He quickly attacked the pile of rock, rummaging around the stones till he shouted, “Yellow cake!” He pulled out his hand and stuck it out in front of Quinten’s stirrup. 

Quinten looked down at the little golden speck that rested in the old man’s palm. “You a prospector, dotard?”

“You should mine who you’re calling a dotard,” said the old man. “The gold in these hills is my strongly guarded secret; or else those celestials out in Pike’s Peak will come and steal it all. I don’t share this type of information with just anyone!”

“I take it the only way to find the aforementioned gold is with one of that there compasses your holding?” asked Quinten.

“It’s not a compass… it’s a doodlebug!” said the man enthusiastically. “It’s formed from a special vein of copper found only in the Orient. It’s drawn to gold’s scent like a truffle hog.”

“And you’d be happy to part with it?”

“Mine? No!” said the old man stuffing the doodlebug into his boot. “I have one more… but it’s back at my camp.”

Quinten patted his stomach. “I’d be more than happy to discuss this matter over some chuck,” he reached into his pouch and pulled out his wheel. It had lost most of its shape having melted in the fire. “I got some cheese to share… if you got some chile?”

“Yes. Yes please! Follow me!” said the old man. He led Quinten down a modest slope of grass and weeds to a log cabin just a few more minutes west. The house was very rudimentary: a doorway but no door, no windows; and very little furniture. Inside was a bed roll resting on a pile of leaves and two barrels. On one barrel was a chest with a steel padlock on it; on the other, was a pile of gold. “The fruits of my labor,” said the old man proudly. He then walked over to his bedding and brushed aside the leaves near the bottom. He unveiled a loose floor board which when displaced revealed a holding area for his food. He picked out two cans of pinto beans and took them outside to a cauldron over his fire pit. “Come and sit!”

Quentin did as he was told. He tied Jump Rope to a tree and sat on a log placed around the fire. He pulled out a knife and started stripping his cheese; throwing chunks into the pot of beans. He picked up a spurtle lying on the ground and brushed the dirt off on his sleeve. He stuck it in the chili and began to stir.

“How much would you be willing to part with for one of these?” said the old man with a sly grin. He picked up another doodlebug from behind his seat and waved it around like a magic wand. “It can practically make gold appear… out of thin air!”

“Sounds like you’d want a whole lot for it.”

The old man shrugged. “How much is eight dollars?”

“A whole lot,” chuckled Quentin.

“Seven dollars,” countered the old man. He teetered the doodlebug between his fingers.

“What does a man with all that gold need with seven dollars?” questioned Quentin. “Sounds mighty greedy.”

“Well I can’t use the gold yet!” shouted the old man. “Once it's cashed in there’s no stopping ‘em from finding out where I got it. This place will be swarming. No, no, it’s better to lie low for now; I keep all my transactions to paper money.”

“I see.” Quentin pulled out the spurtle and watched the bright white cheese stretch from the bottom of the pot. “You don’t like dotard. How about a real name?”

“Stot,” said the old man plainly. “Everyone calls me Stot.”

“And you live alone, Stot?”

Stot rubbed at his whiskers. “That’s the type of question you might ask before you rob someone of their gold…” cautioned Stot.

Quentin laughed. “Oh no, Stot. I’m not a thief, I’m a pea farmer. Even if I were... there’s nothing in that fort worth stealing.”

Stot stared through the fire with a look of confusion. “Just a year's worth of digging...”

Quentin stood up and walked slowly into the cabin. Stot came chasing after. “Hey! Hey! Where are you going? What are you doing?”

“Look I know your trick mister,” said Quentin, stomping up to the pile of gold. “My friend on the other side of this here hill does the same damn trick.” Quentin picked a nugget off the top.

“There’s no trick!” shouted Stot. “These tools just don’t work for two out of three people. It’s all about mental glint. Some people lack it.”

“I’ll show you lacking glint,” sighed Quentin. He took the nugget and rubbed it against the black lock on the chest. “What color is that streak there?”

The old man squinted. He shook his head; he couldn’t make words; his lips just quivered.

“It’s dark green,” groaned Quentin, pointing at the mark. “This is fool’s gold!” He chucked the nugget over his shoulder. It wedged in the crack between two of the wall’s planks. “I reckon there’s a whole stash of doodlebugs here in this box,” scorned Quentin tugging on the lock. “You must get them from the same guy as Ox back in Woodrose!”

“I don’t know any Ox!” shouted Stot. “I’m the sole conspirator in this here activity.” Stot looked worried; his eyes traveled to the gun in Quentin’s holster. “Iffin’ your willing to leave peacefully, I’ll let you take the rest of the chili with you. That’s about all I got to grovel with in full honesty.” The old man’s head turned to the empty compartment by his bed.

Quentin shook his head then patted the man on the shoulder. He left the cabin and motioned for Stot to join him around the cauldron. “Come get some grub,” said Quentin, taking a seat. “You got any bowls?”

Stot shook his head.

Quentin snickered. “How about a couple big leaves, so we don’t burn our hands eating this?” 

Stot nodded. He rummaged through his leaf pile till he found two hand-sized catalpa leaves and brought them out to the fire. They filled their leaves with chile like little plates. They held the leaves up to their mouths and let the chile slide into their lips.

“I’m not looking to ruin your business, mister,” explained Quentin. “Hell, Ox and I got along just fine; and I’m certain the two of us could too. That is, if you’re willing to call me your nephew.”

“You humiliate me, then ask to be my family?”

“My old town was tight knit. We didn’t take kindly to strangers and I doubt your home is any different. You’re the devil they know. I’m the devil they don’t. But, if I say I’m your kin, they’ll take to me much faster, agreed?”

Stot slurped down a fat wad of cheese from the tip of his leaf. He wiped his chin with his sleeve and nodded. “You’re my son.”

“Nephew.”

“My brother was a monk. He never had children. I, on the other hand,” the old man cackled, “I had my fair share of ladies.”

“Fine,” said Quentin. “You must have laid with a girl with a hell of a chin though, because we look nothing alike.” Stot set down his leaf and rubbed the top of his neck. It was attached to a round, receding cleft. Meanwhile, the top of Quentin’s neck met with a sharp v-shaped jaw.

When the two finished their meals, they both got up on Jump Rope and made their way down the mountain. There was too much weight on Jump Rope to keep sliding, so they took a slow path plotted out by Stot. As they reached the bottom of the mountain, the pines cleared from sight to reveal gorgeous fields of green cultivated with rural life. It was so much like Quentin’s old town, his first thoughts were how am I so blessed to have returned home.

They galloped past a pair of ranch houses at the start of the road then moved inwards towards a farmstead with rows of tall steaks stuck in the earth. Stripes of copper wire ran between the stakes, offering a rudimentary trellis for which the crops could climb.

“Where are you taking me?” asked Quentin.

 “A farm,” said Stot. “Blu Leveret’s farm. You’ll like him a lot. He reminds me of you.”

“He grows peas?” asked Quentin, staring at the pea plants creeping up the wires.

“Peas and short ribs are the preferred meal here in Rosebud,” replied Stot.

“How traditional,” replied Quentin. It was the same in Woodrose.

Stot directed Quentin past the pea fields towards a tiny blue barn in the distance. The outside was decorated with colorful flowers and thick, black quotes: “Till this moment I never knew myself” painted across a field of columbine; “To be the idol of one's idol” beneath a row of fireweed. Quentin didn’t recognize the materials these stemmed from. He didn’t do much reading.

Stot took Quentin around to the structure’s back wall where three of these sunflowers had been repurposed into targets. Stot stopped them from walking into the line of fire. He pointed at his friend several yards away from the targets standing in front of a two-room horse stall. The horse inside had a towel wrapped around his ears to protect his hearing.

Quentin stared in bewilderment at the man aiming his pistol at the makeshift galley. He had long hair, lighter than Quentin’s, but parted at the same point over the right eye. It was combed all the way back; curling towards the nape of his neck. He was dressed similarly to Quentin too, the only difference being the color scheme: a brown vest swapped for a blue and a white long sleeve swapped for a red. Facially speaking the two could not be more dissimilar though. Blu’s face held none of Quentin’s sharpness, instead sporting a box under his teeth.

Quentin watched this man’s firing technique. He would cut the top layer off of a cheese lying on a barstool to his left. He’d make sure to get a little rind mixed in with the creamy center. He’d stick his tongue out and lap the cheese off the blade of his knife. He then drew his weapon, two-handed, one thumb resting on the knuckle of the other. He swallowed the cheese like a pill, then pulled the trigger firmly.

A loud bang sounded off. The horse behind Blu stood motionless. A tight hole formed in the center of the brown spot representing the flower’s disc.

Quentin felt like he was looking at an impressionist with an impossible amount of insight into his history and personality. “Is that kunik?” asked Quentin, pointing to the wedge laid out on the barstool.

“Have you a slice, stranger,” offered Blu. “Given you're a friend of our town’s faithful psychic.” He said it with a slight sarcasm; something only Stot would pick up on.

“He’s my boy!” said Stot, feigning enthusiasm. “A relic from my days with Sprout. Finally, he’s come back to his daddy.”

“Where’s your mother been raising you boy?” questioned Blu. “Miss Sprout used to teach me and my brothers when we were real little.”

“Woodrose,” said Quentin. “Just over the hill.”

Blu nodded then handed him a slice of cheese. I took it into my mouth like communion, then took a second to savor it. Once it melted down my throat, I whipped out my pistol and made a hole just above Blu’s.

“Remarkable,” he said with a nod. “You know, I know the cheese helps because-”

“-when I was a young man, I was the only one of my brothers who wasn’t lactose intolerant,” interrupted Quentin. “I was the only one who could shoot the pit out of a palisade peach from our kitchen window.”

Blu stared at Quentin strangely. A crumb of rind hung from his bottom lip. As he perked up into a smile it fell down onto his brogans. “You're a new part of his act, aren’t you?” snickered Blu. “So, your son’s a psychic too... Hell, I know it’s all a trick and you almost got me. You're gonna’ sell a hell of a lot more of that wire, Stot!”

“I never told him about that, Blu,” said Stot, matching Blu’s level of amazement. “This kid just pulled that shit out of thin air! No kidding…”

“Well then how’d you know that, son?”

“I’m no son, I’m twenty-five, same age as you,” replied Quentin.

Blu was amused by the boy’s talent. He nodded with a look of excitement. For a second, he thought he was talking to a genuine magic man.  “I am… Hmph, not even the old man knew that and he’s known me for years.”

“I’ve never bothered with remembering birthdays,” snorted Stot.

“And the reason you're turning your barn here into emmental is because you're tearing it down,” continued Quentin, “on account of your wife…”

“Wait, hold on now!” Blu suddenly turned red. “The trick’s not funny anymore. Not when you bring up a missing person. Makes me think you know something about her disappearance.”

Quentin shook his head and motioned for Blu to calm down. “Sandy, my wife, went missing three weeks ago. And the sight of her old writing studio was making it hard to accept she was gone for good.”

Blu swallowed his anger. He just winced, holding his breath in. He didn’t know what this all meant and he was hoping Quentin would just come out and say it.

“I think we're connected somehow,” said Quentin. He turned to Stot and pictured his friend Ox. Both scheming old men, living in the woods, roughly the same age, and having laid with their school teachers. “It might not just be us,” pondered Quentin. “Take me into town and we’ll see how far this thing extends.”

Blu offered Quentin a place to tie up Jump Rope, next to his own horse, Hopscotch. They then strolled down the only road into Rosebud. Soon the fields vanished and in their place rose modest structures built from blue spruce and iron spikes. Every building seemed familiar, by the shapes of their roofs and their placement in town. Looking closer, Quentin felt the cool touch of deja vu in the center of his face. He’d walked this road two days prior in Woodrose on his way to drown his sorrows at Pal’s Saloon.

He remembered the songs sounding from behind the church doors, trying to lure him into a better choice for his morning activities. “Somewhere, somewhere, beautiful isle of somewhere, Land of the truth where we live anew, beautiful isle of somewhere...” Their pitch was off but in a different way than Woodrose. It sounded worse, but it might just be a tolerance he built up to his own choir. 

Quentin saw Blu eyeing the church doors. He knew what he was thinking. Maybe the lord could offer better medicine than his days at the bar. Right on cue though, a distraction pulled him away from the light.

“Bluford come and help me with your Uncle!” called out an aggravated voice from the barbershop. If Blu’s Uncle was anything like Quentin’s; he had court today for drunken harassment. “I caught him before he crawled into the courthouse without a pair of pants.”

Sitting in the barber’s chair was a frail man thrashing about in his seat. He pounded a bottle of laudanum on the leather arms like a gavel. He was wearing nothing but a baby blue greatcoat oversized enough to cover his genitals. A long belt was wrapped around the man’s belly and the back of the seat; tightening him in place.

“Hold him down while I give 'em a shave!” called out the barber. “We have to make him look professional. Less wasted. Maybe your friends can go fetch him a pair of pants from the tailor.”

“There’s no point,” sighed Quentin. “You sober him up, you get him there, but he’s still found guilty. Judge hates him, remember?”

Blu looked displeased with Quentin’s projection. “So, you’ve gone from mind-reading to fortune telling?”

“This all already happened to me,” replied Quentin with a jaded frown. “Now it’s all happening to you.” Quentin undid the strap around the old man’s waste and set him free. “Might as well bring him with you. Today’s the last day you’ll see him before they take him to Territorial.”

“Fine,” conceded Blu, “but this stays here.” He pried the launadum from his Uncle’s vice and put it next to the jars of disinfectant in front of the barber’s mirror. “No outside drinks at Stranger’s.”

The Stranger’s Saloon was a tent fortress with a piebald cloth tied around a tobacco-stained frame that creaked in the wind. Inside there were three stools at the bar, and three round tables. One of which was nearly full, seating four men dressed from head to toe in crimson furs playing cards. A barkeep delivered fresh drinks to these red fae, homemade whiskey from a golden-steel distillery kit in the back. 

The barkeep’s name was Dawn, a stranger to Quentin, but a pal to Blu. He wore clothes yellow as the sun; a blinding bowler hat and a matching vest. For a man dressed so joyously, his expression was rather gloomy. Dawn glared angrily at the sight of Blu’s Uncle as they dragged him inside. “Oh, that cannon’s about to blow!” shouted Dawn pointing towards the exit. “You can bring him back when he’s sober!”

“I know where the sawdust is,” replied Blu, setting his Uncle down in a seat. He stared at Quentin then back at Dawn. “He stays drunk till the sheriff picks him up, you hear?”

“He gets beer then!” called out Dawn, picking out a blue glass bottle from a dusty cabinet. People rarely went for beer with his whiskey so renowned, but if Uncle was going to keep alive, he needed something with less burn.

Dawn popped the top on the bottle and plopped it down on the table. Suds spewed from the top and landed in Uncle’s lap. The drunk suddenly sprang awake and began binging on his new treat. He took a few big swigs then took a second to speak. “Could use a little poppy!” shouted Uncle gleefully. He began fishing around his pockets.

“Uncle no!” Blu slapped the man’s wrist. “Stick with booze.”

“Thank you,” sighed Dawn. “What will the rest of you be having?”

“What’s the latest experiment?” asked Blu.

“Plums,” answered Quentin. Blu glared at him. Quentin was already a stranger in this town; he didn’t need to be showing off any strange powers. Quentin explained away his foresight, “It smells like plums .”

“Prune juice base,” explained Dawn, looking complimented by the man’s perception. “Then I added the rye and some Belgian yeast. Two weeks later and it distills just under 90.”

“Three of that,” ordered Blu. Dawn was quick to deliver. Once the drinks were flowing, their imaginations began to speculate on the seemingly parallel lives of Quentin and Blu.

“It’s not just me and Blu. You each have a counterpart back in Woodrose,” summarized Quentin.
“It’s like Rosebud and Woodrose are living out the same story but not at the same time. Rosebud is in the past.”

“By how many days?” questioned  Stot.

“It took me a day to get here, and now it’s two days before the day I left,” counted Quentin. “That means it’s three days in the past.”

“Why three days?” pondered Blu, pairing his whiskey with a fitting cheese. The smoky sweetness stirred well with some brie. “There’s something to that detail…”

“Come to think of it, that’s how long the trip here took,” called out Stot.

“Which trip?” questioned Blu.

“You were too young to remember... Hell, were you even born before your mother moved here?” questioned Stot.

Blu shook his head. “I was born in town.”

“Well the journey was perilous. We were pioneers. Columbia was overcrowded and the land was expensive. We sought greener pastures. Identical twin brothers, Otis and Alan Yoke, outspoken Free Soilers, assisted in a treaty with the Native Americans. They freed up some land in northern Colorado. Otis and Alan volunteered to lead a group of ten families to start a settlement as long as they should be elected mayor and deputy mayor respectively.”

“Otis Yoke was still the mayor when I was born,” interrupted Blu.

“And Alan Yoke was ours when I was born,” followed Quentin.

“Well, the brothers split up when they reached Mt. Triduum. Alan saw the coyote on its east side and said ‘this must be the place’. A coyote had saved him as a child, bit a scorpion off his face while he was sleeping. But Otis saw the coyote differently; having made friends with the Indian chiefs. He adopted their belief that the coyote was an omen.” Stot took a sip of his drink and cringed as it burned his throat. He looked over at Quentin. “It may have only taken you a day to cross on your horse, but the caravan was slow and had to go all the way around the mountain. There were many stops, many delays. It took three days.”

“So these twins had the same vision, for the same town,” replied Quentin. ‘It just started three days apart.”

“They split their followers evenly, so they each had the essentials,” continued Stot. “Each took a farmer. Each took a rancher. Each took a trapper.”

Quentin gazed over Blu’s shoulder at the trappers in question. In both towns, these men made their fortune on primarily fox skins, and they wore these treasures proudly on their bodies. Red cossacks. Red strollers. Red fluffies. Red carriage boots. Quentin could tell which of these men was the leader just by the way he played poker. Barrow, his oldest friend, was the leader back in Woodrose. This man and Barrow both wore their hats backwards so that the tail covered their tell: a pair of winks whenever they lied.

Blu caught Quentin gazing at the gentleman behind him. Quentin widened his eyes and turned his attention to Blu. “If I weren’t here, you’d be over there betting your lunch money with the Cracklings.”

Blu felt at his pocket. It was true; he’d packed his pants for some gambling that day. He turned to the men in red. He stared at his best friend with the tail over his face. His name was Farrow. Blu shook his head. “Don’t call them Cracklings. Sounds like their weak and dying,” grumbled Blu. “We call ‘em Punks. The start of the flame. They bring in most of the money from outside the city, then trade it with the rest of us.”

Quentin reached into his pocket and handed Blu enough money to double his in. “Go trade with ‘em.”

“You really don’t mind waiting here with, uh…” Blu looked over at his Uncle; his eyes turning frantically, following the ghosts hidden in the walls.

“Actually, I’m gonna’ be by your side,” Quentin smiled devilishly, “offering you advice. After all, I know how this game turns out.”

“What are you suggesting?” carped Blu.

“I can’t remember every hand, but I remember when they’re bluffing.”

“You want to cheat our best friend,” grimaced Blu.

“Like Barrow’s never done anything disrespectful to you.”

“It’s Farrow,” corrected Blu, “and everything’s square last time I checked. No reason to gouge.”

“You’ll need the money,” pressured Quentin. 

Blu looked surprised. “For what?”

“The Silver Baron finds you, Blu, and he wants interest,” explained Quentin with a look of despair.

Suddenly Blu looked horrified, “Damn… those seeds were supposed to pay for themselves…”

Quentin turned his eyes down toward his drink. “Well we’ve been putting a whole lot of our profits into drowning our sorrows...”

Blu looked down at the bare ice in the bottom of his glass.

“Farrow makes plenty of money, Blu,” pushed Quentin. “He can handle the hit.”

Bluford sighed, capitulating. “Be honest, did you come here just to screw with people in the past?” questioned Blu. “Or did you really not know things were like this?”

Quentin shook his head rapidly. “I came here…” he frowned. “I just came here looking for my wife, Pearl.”

Bluford stared for a moment and saw the despair in the man’s eyes. He nodded and reluctantly agreed to play along. He took his glass to the bar for a refill, then settled down at the poker table where the Punks greeted him excitedly.

“Cool Blu!” shouted everyone at once; they raised their whiskies and clinked their tumblers.

“The sky! The sea!” shouted one with a beard.

“The ol’ spruce tree!” shouted another with his front teeth missing.

“A friend to you and me?” said a third with hunched shoulders.

“The man who brings us peas!” laughed Farrow, bringing the cheer to a close. He punched Blu in the arm and dealt him a hand. “How goes the peas, farmer?”

Blu, feeling guilty, found it hard to look his friend in the face. He turned his head upwards and forced a grin. “It’s a Hell of a lot easier than fox hunting,” he said bashfully.

Farrow stared back. He could tell something was off. He had a feeling he knew what it was.

“You know Blu I wanted to tell if my wife was a real princess,” said the man with the hunch, “so I stuck one of your peas under her pillow to see if it’d leave a bruise. The next morning she wakes up and she’s got green stuck in her teeth. Turns out she’s Princess Mary Adelaide!” The man started laughing so hard his head kept dipping lower and lower till his neck was growing out his chest.

Nobody else seemed to share in the laughter.

“Now’s not a good time to talk about wives,” murmured Farrow, drawing the flop to push the game forward. He snuck a look at Blu; whose sunken expression was hidden behind his cards. Suddenly, Farrow watched as Quentin dropped a barstool to Blu’s side and squeezed his face in front of Blu’s hand. Farrow looked annoyed. “You mind not barging in on my friend’s business,” he warned.

“It’s alright, Farrow, he’s with me,” said Blu dryly. He shoved Quentin’s face back behind him. “He’s the spawn of the prospector.”

“He sell magic wands too?” laughed Farrow.

“No, I’m a humble pea man myself!” answered Blu with a nod. “Nothing compared to a Farrow like yourself. You’ve got a tomb picked out yet?”

“Yeah, well…” chuckled Farrow. He’d heard plenty of jokes about his name.

“They gonna’ bury you with your slaves here?” Quentin pointed to the other Punks.

“Calm down!” Blu swatted at Quentin. “Too much drink in you…”

“Gosh,” laughed Farrow. “Remind me not to make fun of this guy’s daddy again.” Farrow laid the turn. Two sixes were now on the table; hearts and spades. Quentin could see that Blu had the six of diamonds, and if he remembered correctly Farrow should have the six of clubs. What he didn't have, however, was the high card. 

Farrow smiled smugly and pushed ten silver dollars into the center of the table. The man with the hunch folded. The man with the beard folded too. The man missing teeth raised a dollar. Blu hesitated to make a move. Quentin pinched his leg; that was their signal. Blu would push through to the end. 

Betting was completed. Farrow drew the river. A three of hearts.

“Two pair!” shouted the man missing teeth.

“Three of a kind!” revealed Farrow, overtaking his opponent. His high card was a king. Blu had him beat.

“Three of a kind… aces high,” said Blu, stoically. He scraped in the winnings and hesitated to look at Farrow’s reaction. Quentin nudged him to stop acting so stiff. It would seem suspicious. Blu looked up and stared at Farrow. Farrow was smiling wide.

“Bested again!” chuckled Farrow. He began collecting everyone’s cards to shuffle for the next round.

Farrow slid two cards in front of his fellow trappers. He came to Blu last. He raised his eyebrows and widened his eyes. He held out two cards, snipped between his fingers. “You in or out, bud?” he asked, wiggling the cards.

“I’m in,” conceded Blu, plucking his cards from Farrow’s hand.

Suddenly the turns started to go by more quickly as the pleasantries tapered off and competition began to take over. Blu never won enough hands in a row to look suspicious, but he sure did take home the trophy whenever it came down to Farrow’s bluff. Farrow didn’t seem particularly angry at Blu for having good fortune for a change, but he was mad at himself for playing so sloppily. He kept fiddling with the tail on the front of his fat; wondering if he’d accidentally covered the wrong eye.

Soon the competition tapered off as well and what was left was four drunken players keeping the game alive for the sole purpose of legitimizing their drinking. Although not playing per se, Quentin kept up well with the competitors. He drank till it didn’t matter anymore if he’d lived the day once already; he couldn’t see a damn thing coming.

Soon the men were all singing. The bartender watched in horror. Uncle joined the boys and sang the loudest. “Somewhere, somewhere, beautiful isle of somewhere!” They went out into the streets and shouted into the night. “Land of the truth where we live anew, beautiful isle of somewhere!”

Once outside, everyone’s natural instinct was to head home. Quentin and Blu said goodnight to the Punks and leaned on one another as they made their way back to the farm. As they reached the pea field, both their heads had the same idea at the same time and they ran off in separate directions. Blu ran inside his home and fetched himself a piece of cheese. Quentin ran to his horse outside to do just the same. But as Quentin lifted the wheel out of his pack,  he was surprised to see a pair of words he’d carved into the wax earlier: DONT SLEEP.

At the time, Quentin couldn’t remember why he had to stay up, but he knew he gave himself that note for a good reason. He also knew he’d go hunting for cheese if the drinking got out of hand.

Quentin followed Blu into his house and found him laying out on his dining room table. “Quentin! Quentin…” called Blu. “Quentin, tonight was a good idea.”

“What was tonight?”

“The con we played during poker,” grumbled Blu; he didn’t have the energy to explain this to him. “Somewhere, hmm-hmmmm, beautiful isle of somewhere...” He sang instead, reducing some of the words to meer hums. “Quentin, don't you see this here is your beautiful isle of somewhere. Isn’t this Heaven, knowing everything before it happens?”

“I guess so,” replied Quentin. He was rummaging through the kitchen looking for some water to sober up.

“Quentin! Quentin-” snarled Blu. “Heaven is two days ago. You can fix all your problems if you could just go back two days ago,” he said longingly. “What if you found this place two days before my wife disappeared…” pondered Blu. “You could have told me not to let her leave my site-”

Quentin wasn’t listening, he was gulping water out of a pale.

Blu was exhausted. He stared upwards and saw the Jerusalem crickets crawling in and out of the cracks in his ceiling. He followed the black specks around in circles until he grew dizzy. He blacked out.

An hour would pass by until one of those crickets above him stepped on dew and lost its grip. It fell from the ceiling and lodged itself in Blu’s throat. He suddenly sprang to life, gagging on the free dinner. “Jesus- huk -Christ.” He swallowed the insect and hopped off of his table. He quickly rested his palm on the wall before he completely collapsed. He was still very intoxicated. He was curious if Quentin had fallen asleep inside the house. He couldn’t remember where he saw him last. He checked the kitchen, then the parlor, then he went upstairs. He checked the guest room, then his bedroom. He pulled back his sheets; no one there. He pulled back his wife’s sheets; no one there. That last part slowed Blu down a little. He paused and sighed sullenly. Then it hit him. Perhaps Quentin fell asleep in his wife’s studio; Jump Rope was hitched up right beside it.

Blu ran out of his house and headed towards the shed. In the dark, it was impossible to read the words on the walls.

“Wha- uh,” Blu stared in confusion as a pattern of Quentins spun around his vision. They were all emerging from the door of the studio with a book tucked under their arms. It was his wife’s book; the one she’d been writing before her disappearance.

Quentin looked terrified seeing Blu; he was certain the man would have been out cold after their adventurous night. Quentin took a few steps towards the direction of his horse. Blu predicted the trajectory and chased right behind him, following him to the stable and tackling him before he could wake Jump Rope from his rest.

The book came flying out from Quentin’s grasp onto the dirt. Desperate, Quentin began tearing at it and throwing dirt and mud onto its pages. He was trying to make it illegible.

“No! No!” shrieked Blu, grabbing Quentin’s wrists. He fought hard to remove the crumpled pages from Quentin’s palms. He needed to protect his wife’s memory and that book was all she left behind. “Why are you destroying her?”

“Because you read the book!” shouted Quentin, giving in to Blu’s vice. He lowered his arms to the ground and tried his best to explain.

“I’d never break my promise,” growled Blu, sticking his knees onto Quentin’s back to pin him. He picked up the book and slid the crumpled pages back inside. He tried to flatten them out with his hand. “Maybe we aren’t so much the same…”

“It’s the drink!” shouted Quentin. “If I wasn’t here, all that losing, all that whiskey, you think about the last time you were happy. And you read the book…”

Blu’s wife had made it explicitly clear to Blu, just as Quentin’s wife had made it clear to him, she was embarrassed by her writing and she’d prefer if no one read it till she was certain it was decent. She wrote for children and the childish imagination could be easily ridiculed if not done tactfully. Blu knew little about the story from all she told him; she wrote with characters consisting of mainly anthropomorphised animals, just like the ones they had around the farm. 

“So you’ve been keeping me from temptation,” grumbled Blu, sticking the book under his arm. He slowly rose from Quentin’s back. “I suppose you're only trying to keep me an honest man.” He reached down and helped Quentin onto his feet. “I might have reacted too strongly. There’s still a lot of whiskey in me.”

Quentin brushed the dirt and horse shit off his clothes. He waved his hand about in front of him. “I’m just trying to give you a better life than me.” Quentin sighed and stared at the tattered book. “We should light a fire, and finish destroying it.”

 “You’re telling me that two days makes all the difference,” pondered Blu, “between knowing she’ll come back and losing all hope.”

Quentin shook his head. “She won’t.”

“But Quentin, you said you left your Woodrose to find her…” grilled Blu. “Then have you really lost hope?”

“Yes!”

“...or is there more to this story?” questioned Blu, pulling the book out from under his arm.

“No, Blu!”

He flipped open the book to crumpled pages and began to skim. The main characters were mice, facing off against the rival snakes that live in the pea fields. The main character is a girl mouse married to a rotund boy mouse addicted to cheese. She’s caught in a love triangle between her timid yet jovial husband and a brave warrior fox that wins her heart by eating the snakes in the garden.

Blu closed his jaw and made a wince. “It’s not bad,” he cringed. “It makes you wonder why she wouldn’t let us read it…”

“Blu no, it’s a mistake. You’re reading too much into it!”

“I’m reading too much into the book you were desperate to destroy?”

Quentin rubbed at his face.

“Why…” continued Blu. “Why did you leave your home?”

“It takes only a few hours before the story spoils inside your head, leaving you with very unhealthy anger,” explained Quentin, urging his counterpart to remain calm. “If you let those thoughts in, they will destroy this town and the lives of all the people within it.”

Blu twitched; his body unsure what move to make next. “Is there something I don’t know yet that makes Farrow not the fox?”

Quentin looked to his horse then down at the dirt. “He’s not…” He looked at Blu; his eyes welling up with tears. He knew he couldn’t lie. “He’s the fox, but that’s not to say he did it.”

Blu looked at the sunrise just starting to peak up from behind Mt. Triduum. The sky burned bright orange. “Stranger’s makes a good breakfast.”

“I hate him too, but we got his money…” pleaded Quentin, “just leave it at that.”

Bluford left to go into his house. He was off to clean and load the proper arms. If he was going to hunt a fox, it would be with his Sharps rifle.

Quentin shook his head and quickly mounted Jump Rope. He dashed away from Bluford’s farm trying to reach the only other means he could think of to stop the coming inferno. It takes two to start a war and perhaps he could get the other side to retreat. He wasn’t positive who warned Barrow before their fight back in Woodrose, his bet was on Ox, the only other person he told about what was in his wife’s book. Hopefully he could do a better job than Ox to stop the confrontation before it begins.

He rode back into the hills and found the trappers’ tents just as he would have found Barrow’s. The Punk with missing teeth was up early cleaning his horse. He stopped his brushing and stared strangely at Quentin.

“Get your boss,” growled Quentin.

“He’s still asleep, sonny,” said the Punk earnestly.

“No I’m not!” grumbled Farrow, slowly climbing out from behind his tent flaps. He rubbed at his eyes and sported a scowl. “What are you selling, boy? Can’t it wait till after breakfast? Or is that the new strategy: get em’ while they're groggy…”

“I’m just here to warn you Farrow,” called out Blu, staying atop his horse. “Stay the fuck out of town and don’t go to Stranger’s this morning!”

Farrow looked aggravated at first by the demand, but then he smiled. “You must have had one Hell of a premonition,” he sneered. “Did you dream about me?”

“I just heard a rumor.”

“What rumor?”

“A rumor that Blu’s out for your blood.”

“Blu’s my oldest friend. We were raised together.”

“You killed his wife.”

Farrow looked shocked by the mere suggestion, especially coming from a stranger. “Did you tell him that?”

“No,” snarled Quentin. “He found some record of it in his wife’s writing.”

“She wrote that I killed her?” chuckled Farrow.

The man missing teeth started laughing.

“Are there ghosts involved?” continued to mock Farrow.

Quentin was losing his patience. He pulled out his gun and pointed it at Farrow. “Now you listen here, the notes mentioned the affair, Farrow. You’re found out!”

Suddenly, two clicks sounded off behind Quentin’s back. He turned to look over his shoulder and saw the remaining two Punks emerging from the woods with their rifles drawn. They had bear traps at their feet filled with dead foxes caught in their teeth.

“Sandy and I had a special connection,” sighed Farrow. “I would not call it inappropriate.” Farrow gestured for Quentin to lower his weapon. “I’ll talk to him boy, straighten this all out.”

“He won’t believe you. I know he won’t because I didn’t,” said Quentin softly. “I could shoot you right now and save this town.”

“But then you’ll die,” said Farrow, squinting dubiously. “Would you die for a town you don’t belong to?”

Quentin’s hand shook. He hadn’t had any cheese that morning. His aim was shit and his grip was moist. He took a long breath then lowered his weapon.

“You're going to stay here with my men,” said Farrow, motioning for the Punks to surround Quentin. The man with missing teeth pulled out his pistol and completed a triangle of loaded guns that encircled Quentin. “You’re just going to have to trust that I can talk my friend down.”

Farrow walked into town on foot and arrived at Stranger’s just in time for Dawn to finish his first stack of pancakes. Hot cakes were free if you got there before nine. The only thing you had to pay for was the whiskey to pour on top; it was a special variety Dawn brewed up with blackstrap molasses mixed in.

Farrow poured his shot over a thin square of butter and watched the two combine into a blonde puddle on top. He licked his lips, then swallowed his pancakes in three large gulps. He wiped his hands off so he wouldn't get anything sticky on his gun. Once they were perfectly clean, he pulled out his pistol and fired a shot behind the bar. Dawn ducked and shrieked, but it wasn’t aimed for him. Dawn stood up and stared at the tubing atop his pot still. A little hissing noise sounded from a small abrasion.

“I’ll pay for it,” promised Farrow, gesturing for Dawn to leave it alone.

Dawn looked unpleasantly surprised by the random assault on his equipment, but Farrow has also paid for a large percentage of the saloon’s drinks over the years. He gave the man a break and let the pipes hiss.

It was just a few minutes before nine when Blu arrived with his rifle laying his hands beneath his chest. His face was crooked; his jaw tensed on one side. His eyes peered around before landing on Farrow. The rest of the crowd inside of the bar, Dawn and a couple ranchers, took the hint from the rifle and the scowl that they best be leaving.

“You’re just in time to catch the special,” said Farrow, gleaming positively. “Drinks are free.” Farrow pointed to the hissing pipe atop the distillery. 

Blu sniffed in hard through his nose. He could smell the ethanol vaporized into the air. 

“I’m just trying to create a safe environment so we can chat,” continued Farrow. “No guns, okay?”

“What makes you think I’m going to need a gun?” questioned Blu. “Am I not gonna’ like your answers?”

“Your herald has prepared me to explain my relationship with Sandy,” smirked Farrow. “It’s just a similar taste in authors Blu!”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“She likes William H. Brewer, I like William H. Brewer!” exclaimed Farrow. “It’s a book club, Blu. Nothing but a book club.”

“A book club I knew nothing about.”

“What do you know about books, Blu?” questioned Farrow. “You don’t read!”

“I read plenty,” snarled Blu tossing Sandy’s book on the bar’s counter.

Farrow stared in confusion then opened the book to where the torn out pages had been hastily reinserted. He began to read. “It’s about talking mice…” snickered Farrow. “This is fantasy- you can’t believe fantasy, Blu!”

“God dammit,” growled Blu. He pointed his rifle forwards. “Keep reading.”

“So she loves the husband…. and she loves this fox…” Farrow continued to read as his eyes bounced back and forth over the words. He flipped the page. The next one was blank. “It doesn’t finish.”

“I can guess the ending,” said Blu. “The fox eats the lady mouse.”

“Why would I kill your wife, Blu?” questioned Farrow.

“Why would you sleep with her, Farrow?” countered Blu.

“I’ve done neither!” shouted Farrow.

“You covered the wrong eye,” droned Blu. He pointed his gun just under Farrow’s brow. Farrow’s face looked horrified for a second. His lower lip shook; he grabbed the tail of his hat and yanked on the tip slowly. He flipped it over to the other side. He’d flipped it back and forth so many times during the poker match, he’d forgotten which side the twitch was on.

Blu stood up and kicked his chair under the table. He turned away from Farrow and walked over to the saloon’s tent-fly. He lifted up the lap with his forearm and stepped outside.

Farrow took off his hat and held it under his arm. He reached for his pistol.

Bang! Blu fired the rifle through the frail cloth of the saloon’s front wall. The bullet struck Farrow’s neck and sent him to the floor. He refused to choke on his own blood, choosing instead to hold his breath and raise his pistol high up in the air. He pulled the trigger out of pure spite.

Kaboom!  Blu went flying backwards as the tent popped like a balloon and sent flaming gas in all directions. It scorched the doctor’s office to the left. It lit the courthouse to the right. Then it slowly worked its way onto the barbershop, then the tailor’s store. Everyone had time to escape from their businesses with what money and merchandise they could carry. Soon the street was filled with hats and suits, deli meats, and guns and ammo. The stores were turned inside-out before they each burned.

The town tried its best to douse the flames with buckets of water, but it was spreading too fast for them to fight it. With every splash they threw, it reached across another curtain or charred another door. Everyone’s tireless efforts lasted a mere thirty minutes, before their racing hearts couldn’t beat any faster. Their legs were worn out and their arms couldn’t lift another bucket. Collectively as a town, they fell to their knees and watched their village fall into ruin, acceding to destiny. Among the collective surrender were the rest of the Punks, having stripped off their warm pelts to counteract the combined heat of the fire mixed with running to and from the well. Dressed down into white union suits, they blended in amongst the crod.w

Quentin was there too. He was probably one of the last folks keeping the water coming, long after most others sat and watched. The other townsfolk thought it was a funny sight watching Quentin continue to poor barrel after barrel. He seemed to be working the hardest for a town he never even belonged to.

Quentin didn’t stop till Blu stepped in his way. He put his hands on the brim of the barrel and weighed it down until it lowered to the gravel. Blu let go and stared at Quentin’s big, red eyes, flooding with tears in an attempt to remove the ash in his face. Quentin let go too. He rubbed his eyes and gave Blu a stare. Blu expected disappointment, but it just looked like self-defeat. 

Quentin joined the rest of the town on the ground. Blu stood up in front of him and took off his hat.

“Your welcome to stay,” said Blu to Quinten. “You’re not responsible after all… you’re not - really me.” 

Quinten nodded. “Where will you go?”

“Wisconsin,” said Blu with a look of optimism. “I heard the cheese curds are extravagant.” He bowed one more time to Quentin and the town before climbing atop Hopscotch and heading north.

Blu stood in the ashes of Rosebud. If there were any minute differences between Woodrose and here, place names and roof colors, they were all burned away. The black skeleton that remained could be rebuilt into something unlike either town before it; it just needed months and months of hard labor to regenerate.

Over these months, Quentin would assist the townsfolk anyway he could. He’d go with the Punks into the forest to gather wood. He’d go with Stot to Denver for nails. He’d join Dawn till sunset putting it altogether. They rebuilt the barbershop, they rebuilt the church, they even rebuilt Stranger’s, turning what was a tent into four solid walls and a real-live false front.

In the evenings, Quentin would retire to a small encampment he made in Blu’s peafield. The barns were destroyed, including Sandy’s shack, but the fields remained fertile and the peas still vined, so Quentin just sort of took over. He wondered if anyone in town would stop him; it wasn’t really his property after all, but overall the town just sort of accepted him as a replacement.

Hearing how the others talked about Blu, Quentin almost felt like he should return home to Woodrose. Some people blamed Blu, but just as many blamed Farrow, and the vast majority called it Sandy’s fault. It’s interesting what the people were willing to tell Quentin that they could never tell Blu. 

Apparently, Farrow was just the tip of the iceberg compared to the vast network of men she slept with behind Blu’s back. Apparently she was a bit of a joke, ‘the tart of the town’. By extension, Blu was a bit of a joke too. Knowing what he did now, Quentin doubted he could ever know what man she was with the night she disappeared.

Even if Quentin could relinquish responsibility for its destruction, he wasn’t sure he could go back to Woodrose ever again. They might forgive Quentin but he could never forgive them.