The man studied him for a long time, then grinned. “Might be worth a sack of beans and jerky. Maybe a few dollars.”
Blaze’s stomach cramped at the smell of stew cooking nearby. He swallowed hard.
“And a little coffee,” he said. “Enough to fill a pouch.”
The man chuckled, but he nodded. “Don’t push your luck.”
They shook hands. The man ducked back to the wagon, came out with a sack, and tossed it to Blaze. Blaze caught it against his chest, the weight of food feeling like a miracle.
The man held the watch up one last time before pocketing it.
“Not many kids your age would think to pick up scrap silver,” he said. “You’re either smart or desperate.”
“Both,” Blaze said. He mounted up and rode off before anyone else got ideas.
Now, standing in the little town store, Blaze laid the bills on the counter. His hands were steady, though his heart wasn’t. That watch had bought him food once already. Now its ghost would pay for new boots and a shirt.
He almost wished he’d kept it, broken as it was. A man could use something to hold on to.
The man’s mustache twitched. “All right, you’re good for it. Back wall’s got shirts. Pants on the shelf under.”
Blaze nodded and walked slowly toward the racks. He ran his fingers along rough cotton, then found a shirt that was plain but sturdy, dyed a deep blue. It reminded him of the ones his father used to wear when mending fence. He grabbed some pants, a size he thought might fit, and brought them back.
“Boots?” he asked.
The man ducked behind the counter and came up with a pair worn but not rotten. “Got these secondhand. Try ’em.”
Blaze sat on a stool, tugged off his half-burnt pair, and slid his feet into the new ones. They pinched at first, but were better than what he had. He stood and stamped once. Good enough.
“I’ll take them,” he said.
The man jotted figures on a scrap of paper. “Shirt, pants, boots.”
Blaze counted out the bills with care, the paper soft from too much folding. He pushed them across the counter.
“Need anything else?” the man asked, his voice softer now.
“Food,” Blaze said.
The man nodded toward the shelves. “Jerky, beans, dried fruit. Salt’s in barrels. Coffee if you’re the type.”
Blaze picked what he thought he could carry: two small sacks of beans, a bundle of jerky, a pouch of coffee, and a roll of hard biscuit. He set them on the counter.
“Four more dollars,” the man said.
Blaze slid the money over. His hands shook faintly, but not from fear...just from the weight of spending so much so quickly. His whole life, he’d never held more than a few coins at a time. Now it was nearly gone.
The man packed everything into a burlap sack and pushed it across. Blaze lifted it and slung it over his shoulder.
“You ridin’ far?” the man asked carefully.
“Far enough,” Blaze said. He turned and walked out before the man could ask anything else.
Nancy lifted her head when Blaze stepped back onto the street. He dropped the sack over the saddle horn, then stood there a moment, adjusting the brim of his hat that he had picked up at the traveler’s camp.
The street had more eyes on him now. A boy sat cross-legged by the trough, staring openly. The two men outside the saloon had turned to watch.
Blaze ignored them and untied his mare. He could’ve mounted and ridden out, but something inside told him to pause. He wasn’t just hungry and ragged; he was hollow. He needed a moment to breathe, to feel steady again.
