“Well, I’ll be,” Harland breathed. “Elias Crowe.”
Elias nodded once. Talking felt like lifting something rusty.
Harland came around the counter, older now, shoulders slumped from carrying a town that no longer wanted to stand up straight. His eyes were still kind, though. Kindness was rarer than gold.
“Folks said you’d turned into a legend,” Harland said softly. “Or a cautionary tale.”
“Folks talk to fill the empty,” Elias replied.
Harland’s mouth twitched. “That they do. What brings you down from your perch?”
“Need supplies.” Elias placed a small bundle of pelts on the counter. Beaver and fox, cleanly cured, tight and thick. “Salt. Coffee. Ammunition if you’ve got it.”
Harland ran practiced fingers through the fur, then sighed like a man doing math he didn’t want to do.
“Fine work,” he admitted. “As always.”
Elias waited.
