. . USE YER PERFORATED HIDE FOR A FLOUR SIFTER . . .” LINED UP NEAR elbow to elbow, we drew to a halt outside Boston’s front entrance near a decrepit rail fence that surrounded the livery’s horse-poor corral. East of the empty enclosure stood the ramshackle grocery and mercantile business of Eldritch Smoot. Men’s and women’s ready-made clothing, draped over wooden hangers, nearly covered the boardwalk outside Smoot’s street-facing windows. Beneath the fading shirts and dresses were a number of rickety tables beset with mounds of tarnished pots, pans, galvanized washtubs, and discolored bolts of cloth. The floorboards of the store’s raised veranda were littered, here and there, with piles of ancient, dust covered, army-surplus McClellan saddles. Above the shabby concern’s open door, a weather-scarred sign invited shoppers inside by boasting the availability of guns, boots and shoes, dry goods and clothing, hats and caps. Boz, me, and Glo cast darting glances toward Smoot’s.
