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man said.
    â€œAh, a good question,” Jacob said. “The opposite of amicable is unfriendly, and we don’t want that, do we?”
    The bartender laid a plate in front of Jacob. “Cheese, hard-boiled eggs, and a stack of tortillas,” he said. “That’s the best I can do for you, mister.”
    Jacob smiled. “Hell, I’ve been living on salt pork for a week. This is a feast and sets with me just fine.”
    He picked up the plate and stepped toward the dugout saloon’s only table, where a whore from the adjoining hog farm was playing solitaire with a pack of worn, greasy cards. The bearded man’s voice stopped him.
    â€œHey, you, we haven’t settled this,” he said.
    Jacob turned, moved the plate from his left hand to his right, and said, “Yes, we have.”
    The bearded man was huge, and the bear coat he wore despite the summer heat made him look bigger. His red beard, streaked with gray, spread over his chest, and he wore a couple of revolvers and an enormous pig-sticker in his belt.
    â€œHow come we settled it?” he said.
    Jacob sighed. “Well, the fact that you didn’t know what the word amicably means pegs you as an ignoramus. So when you say Grant was a better general than Lee, I realized that you are a simpleton who doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about.”
    The bearded man turned to the bartender. “Hey, Lou, was that an insult?”
    The bartender shook his head. “I guess not, Tom. Man is only talking the truth.”
    The man called Tom slammed his hand onto the bar so hard the whore made a little yelp and jumped in fright. “I know what I know, feller,” he said. “And what I know is that Grant”—he removed his hat—“God bless him, was the best general who ever lived, and that includes the Frenchy, what do you call him . . . Nap . . . Napo . . .”
    â€œNapoleon,” Jacob supplied.
    â€œYeah, him.” Tom replaced his battered hat and glared at Jacob. “Now it’s settled.”
    â€œWhatever you say,” Jacob said. “Let me buy the man a drink, bartender, seeing as how he won the argument.”
    Tom grinned. “That’s white of you, mister. Bless you, I’ll have a glass of rum.”
    â€œBe my guest,” Jacob said.
    The whore watched Jacob eat for a while, then said, “Big spender.”
    â€œSpending is better than shooting,” Jacob said.
    â€œAnd you’ve done your share of shooting, I’d say.”
    â€œMore than my share,” Jacob said. “It wears on a man.”
    â€œMy name is Amy,” the whore said. She looked worn out, and the hog farm was probably her final destination. The only thing lower was to become a soldiers’ woman, but she’d know that was the end of the line and fear it.
    â€œPretty name, Amy,” Jacob said.
    â€œSo, what’s yours?”
    â€œJacob.”
    â€œHello, Jacob.”
    â€œHello yourself, Amy.”
    The girl reached out and picked a crumb of tortilla from Jacob’s untrimmed mustache, then said, “Where you headed?”
    â€œNorth.”
    â€œWhere, north?”
    â€œA ways.”
    Amy smiled. “You’re not a talking man, are you?”
    â€œSure I am,” Jacob said. “When I’ve got something to say.”
    He looked at the girl, dark eyes, dark hair, and teeth that were still white and even. She might have been pretty once, but maybe not, it was hard to tell. “What brings you here?” he said.
    â€œNothing, nothing at all. Somehow I just ended up in this place, at the edge of the world. One day I’ll take a walk, fall over the edge, and it will all be over.”
    Jacob smiled. “There’s a lot of world beyond the Manzano Mountains. You wouldn’t fall too far.”
    â€œA lot of world for you maybe, not for me.”
    As though she thought she’d stepped over a line, Amy nodded