It had that tired smell some places get after too many men have leaned against the counter with bad news in their pockets.
The boards were sun-bleached on the outside and dark with hand grease near the door.
Dust gathered in the cracks.
Old tack hung from pegs under the awning.
Somewhere behind the wall, a fly kept throwing itself against a window it could not understand.
Jonah Hail sat outside with his back against the planks and tried not to make a sound.
His right shoulder had not stopped throbbing since noon.
By sunset, the throb had turned into something deeper, a hot pulse that seemed to beat under his collarbone and down his arm.
He had tied cloth over the wound that morning, but the cloth had gone stiff by the time his horse reached the trading post
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