“I’ll be damned if I’d let a man stick pliers in my mouth and pull out my teeth,” Gus said, as they walked through the crowd. Horses, mules, sheep, pigs, and chickens crowded the square. Call had never been in the midst of so much activity before—he felt a little hemmed in. There was so much to see that it was more than a little confusing. So engrossed was the quartermaster Brognoli in purchasing livestock that it was half an hour before he could attend to their request for guns. When he did get time for them, he proved to be a friendly man.

“Muskets are what we’ve got—I’ve not been issued pistols,” he said. “The muskets will do for buffalo, or Indians, either.”

He took them into a storeroom behind a large general store— cases of muskets were stacked on top of one another. While Call and the others were hefting various rifles and looking at ammunition pouches, Gus happened to peek into the store itself—there was a girl standing there by a counter who was so lovely that Gus immediately forgot all about cap-and-ball muskets, ammunition pouches, and everything else. The girl seemed to work in the store—she was helping an old lady try on a sunbonnet. The girl was slim; she had the liveliest expression—also, she was alert. Gus had merely glanced at her, supposing that she was too busy to notice, but she caught his glance and looked at him so directly that it unnerved him. He would have retreated back to the muskets had she not immediately smiled at him in a quick, friendly way.

Emboldened by that smile, Gus abandoned his comrades and walked into the store. It was a big, high-ceilinged store filled with every kind of goods, from hammers and nails to fine headwear—he couldn’t resist trying on a new grey hat with a sweeping brim, though he knew he couldn’t afford it. He could hear the old lady chattering on—she was in no hurry to choose her sunbonnet. Twice Gus decided the young woman was so busy with the old harpy that he could risk another glance or two, but both times he risked it, the girl caught the glance, as if it were a ball he had tossed her. She didn’t allow his glances to distract her from her work, but she didn’t fail to notice them, either.

Gus proceeded to examine a case full of knives; he had always had a strong fondness for knives. Some of the ones in the case would have excited him a lot on any other day—they had gleaming blades, with handles of ivory or horn; but compared to the pretty girl selling sunbonnets, knives were of little interest.

When the old lady finally chose her sunbonnet and paid for it, Gus was trying to work up his nerve to say good morning to the girl, but before he had it worked up there was another interruption: a brusque little man in a black frock coat bustled in, and went straight to the cigars.

“Morning, Miss Forsythe,” the fellow said. “I’m here for my cigar.”

“Here it is, Dr. Morris,” the girl said. “We’ve already got it wrapped up. My father tended to it personally.”

“Yes, but he attended to it too well,” the little doctor said, quickly tearing the wrapping off the little package the girl handed him. He extracted a long cigar and pulled it slowly under his nose.

“Never buy a cigar without smelling it,” he advised the girl—then he tipped his hat and walked out, the cigar jutting out of his mouth.

“I guess that was good advice,” the young woman said, strolling over to Gus. “But I won’t take it.”

“Well, why wouldn’t you?” Gus asked, amazed that the young woman had simply walked over and addressed him.

“Because I don’t fancy cigars,” the girl said, with a smile.

Then she thrust the wadded-up paper from the doctor’s package into his hand.“Here, dispose of this, sir,” she said, with a fetching smile. ;

“Do what?” Gus asked, paralyzed with anxiety lest he do something wrong and scare the girl away—though, he had to admit, she didn’t look easily scared.

“Dispose of this paper—I can see that you’re tall, but I don’t know if you’re useful,” the girl said. “I’m Clara. Who are you?”

“Augustus McCrae,” Gus said. Though he rarely used his full name, he felt that on this occasion it would be proper.

“Augustus—did you hear that? He’s a Roman like you, Mr. Brognoli,” Clara said, addressing the quartermaster, who had stepped into the store for the moment to give her chits for the muskets.

“I don’t think so, Miss Forsythe,” Brognoli said, tipping his cap to the girl. “I think he’s just a young rascal from Tennessee.

“You better get your musket—you’ll need it where you’re going,” he added, looking at Gus. “What’s that in your hand? You ain’t been stealing from Miss Forsythe, have you?”

“Oh no—it’s just some wrapping I asked him to dispose of,” Clara said. “I like to find out quick if a man’s useful or not. So far he ain’t disposed of it. I guess that means he’s a laggard.”

“Oh, this—I aim to keep it forever,” Gus said, flushed with embarrassment. Brognoli had already turned and disappeared—he was alone with Clara Forsythe, who was watching him out of two keen eyes.

“Keep it forever, that scrap!” Clara said. “Why would you do such a foolish thing as that, Mr. McCrae? You have important soldiering to do—I expect you’ll need both hands.”

“I’ll keep it because you gave it to me,” Gus said.

Clara stopped smiling and looked at him calmly. The speech didn’t seem to surprise her, though it greatly surprised Gus. He had not meant to say anything of the sort. But such a feeling had risen in him, because of Clara Forsythe, that he couldn’t move his limbs or control his speech.

“Here, don’t you want to pick a gun?” Call asked, sticking his head in the store for a moment. He saw Gus standing by a girl and supposed he was trying to buy something he couldn’t afford and didn’t need—whereas he did need a gun.

“You pick one for me—I expect it will do,” Gus said, determined not to leave Miss Forsythe’s presence until he absolutely had to.“We’re going to buy horses—don’t you want to pick your own mount?” Call asked, a little puzzled by his friend’s behaviour.

He looked again at the young shop girl and saw that she was unusually pretty—perhaps that explained it. Still, they were about to set off on a long, dangerous expedition—choosing the right gun and the right mount could mean life or death, once they were out on the prairies. If he was that taken with the shop girl, he could come back later and chatter—though, for once, Gus wasn’t chattering. He was just standing there, as if planted to the floor, holding some scraps of paper in his hand. It was unusual behaviour. Call stepped into the store, thinking his friend might be sick. He tipped his straw hat to the pretty shop girl as he approached.

“Hello, are you a Roman too, sir?” Clara asked, with a smile.

Call was stumped—he didn’t understand the question. The young woman’s look was so direct that it startled him. What did it mean, to be a Roman, and why had she asked?

“No, this is Woodrow Call, he’s a plain Texan,” Gus said. “I don’t know how that fellow knew I was from Tennessee.”

In fact, Brognoli’s comment had irked him—what right had a quartermaster to be speculating with Miss Forsythe about where he was from?

“Why, Mr. Brognoli’s a traveled man,” Clara said. “He’s been telling me about Europe. I mean to go there someday, and see the sights.

“If it’s farther off than Santa Fe I doubt I’ll have time to go,” Call said. He found that he didn’t feel awkward talking to the shop girl —she was so friendly that talking was easy, even though he had no idea where Europe was or what sights might be there for a young lady to see.

Call was impatient, though—they had to outfit themselves for a great expedition, and they only had a day to do it. He glanced around the big store and saw that it contained goods of every description, many of which would probably be useful on their expedition—but their chits only covered guns and horses. It was pointless to waste time looking around a big store, when they had no money to spend at all. Yet Gus seemed reluctant to move.