Hit something on the trail. He'll need to rest it another full day before you push him hard again. You can graze him on the east side softer ground. Good shade. She didn't look up from the fire. 50 cents for overnight.
That's fair. He said she hadn't expected that. Most men argued her prices as a matter of habit, not because the price was wrong, but because the woman setting it wasn't the kind of woman they'd been raised to take prices from. Most men argued until she showed them her cost records. Some argued even then.
He just said it was fair. She wasn't sure what to do with a man like that. I'll water the steer separately, she said. The west trough runs deeper. Better for a leg that's been carrying uneven weight.
He looked at her steadily. I appreciate that, he said, and he meant it. Around midday, a worker named Tomas came in. She'd been serving him for 2 months. young man from Sonora. Reliable with his payments.
He always paid before he sat down. This time he laid three pennies on the counter and stood there looking at them like he was hoping they'd disagree with him. A bowl of beans was 5 cents. She looked at the coins. She knew why he was short.
The payroll wagon had been delayed 4 days and half the crew had come through in the last two fishing for credit. She wouldn't give them. She had rules about that. She had rules because she'd watched her aunt walk the road that led from giving too much to having nothing left. And she'd made herself a different promise.
But she also knew Tomas. She knew what kind of man he was. "You see that fence post on the north side?" she said. He looked. The post had a loose rail bracket.
She'd been meaning to reset it for 2 weeks. "I see it," he said. "Fix it before you eat. I'll call that worth two cents." He frowned at her. "That's not two cents of work, Miss Ash Creek." "No," she said.
"But it's two cents worth of time I don't have." She turned back to the pot. "Go fix it and come back," he went. He fixed it. When he came back, she had a full bowl of beef stew waiting, the good one. Not the beans and a piece of cornbread beside it.
He looked at the bread. That's more than we agreed on. Bread was going dry anyway. He knew it wasn't true. She could see he knew.
Neither of them said anything about it. He sat down and ate. Gideon had stayed at the counter longer than he needed to. He'd been rewrapping a fraying cinch strap, a task that didn't require him to stay in any particular spot. And when Tomas sat down with his stew.
Gideon glanced at Nia. You could have just given it to him, he said. Quiet. No judgment in it. No, she said.
I couldn't. Seems like you just did. He worked for it. She adjusted the lid on the pot without looking up. That's different.
A man who earns his meals sits down to it without owing anybody anything. A man who takes charity even kindly meant he carries it. Every time he sees you after that, he's carrying it. I won't put that weight on a man who's just trying to get through his day with his dignity. Gideon was quiet for a moment.
That's a decent way to think about it, he said. She didn't thank him for the observation, but she didn't tell him to move along either. Alistister Voss arrived at 3:00 in the afternoon, which was when reasonable people weren't making decisions they'd have to stand behind later. He came in a freight wagon with two administrative men not threatening, just the kind of men who carry papers and look at things and write numbers down. He was well-dressed in a way that announced it. good coat, city boots, a watch chain catching the light.
He walked toward the shelter with the unhurried certainty of a man who'd never been turned away from anywhere he intended to go. Nia was cleaning the midday pots. Miss Ash Creek, he stopped at the counter. I'm Alistister Voss, Southwestern Railroad Supply Company. We hold the commissary contract for the construction crews on this line.
I know who you are, Mr. Voss, she said. She kept her hands in the pot. He waited for her to stop. She didn't.
I'll come to the point. He said, "You're operating a food service that competes with my company's contract. The railroads agreement grants us exclusive commercial rates within a half mile of the work line. I have a prior commercial operating agreement that predates your contract," she said. A private agreement with a former landowner, a documented witnessed agreement that was in place before your contract was signed.
She looked at him without particular aggression. If the railroads attorneys didn't account for it, that's their difficulty. He studied her with the flat patience of a man who was genuinely surprised to have met an argument instead of an apology. You're selling meals at 5 cents, he said. My commissary minimum is 12.
You're pulling customers I'm contractually entitled to serve. I'm selling at the price it costs me to make a decent meal plus a small margin. If your prices are higher, that's a decision your company made. She tilted her head slightly. The men don't have to come to me.
They come because they prefer what I'm offering. That's not a problem I created. That's a service I provide. one that may not have legal standing, he said carefully. Then test it legally, she picked up the next pot. In the meantime, I'll keep serving food to hungry men.
He was quiet. He looked at her the way a man looks at a wall he expected to be a door. I'll be in contact with the county land office, he said. I'd recommend you review your agreement with care. I already know it by heart, she said.
He left. One of his men said something to him on the walk back. She couldn't hear the words, and Voss's answer was one syllable, short and flat. She watched the wagon disappear down the road until the dust settled back. She had known this was coming.