“I’m lookin’ for John Dirsts,” Cameron said. He clinked the glass down and tapped it for another shot.

“Lots are,” Murray replied, deftly dispensing a fresh belt of whiskey. “What makes you think anyone here knows a whit about ‘im?”

Clink. Tap. “Only liquor for miles around that won’t blind you. Now how about that John Dirsts?”

Murray hesitated until Cameron sent his shot glass back with a silver dollar in it. “Lots of folks come through here askin’ after Dirsts,” he said. “It’s them posters what done it. Problem with posters is they ain’t always current. Dirsts is dead.”

“Another man took ‘im in?”

“Naw. Poisoned by moonshine, or so the doc said. He’s been under a cross on the hill goin’ on a week now. General store sells shovels if you wanna see for yourself.”

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