They traveled slowly through the countryside, stopping at every town and many private homes to peddle their wares. Often Salizar traded for clean rags and old bones which he would sell to be made into paper and fertilizer. Sometimes he bartered for home-crafted goods, but always he traded at a profit. The old man was no stranger to the region. He seemed to know every person they met. Many a buxom farm wife invited him in for dinner, and even more frequently, rough, work-hardened men treated him to a round of ale at a local tavern, all of which he accepted with customary humor and bluntness. Meadow followed at his heels, enjoying his quirky company and basking in the illusion of safety. One evening, as a purple chill descended with the sun, they pulled into the tree-lined drive of a farmhouse. Several ragged children played about the yard. They let out a collective squeal and ran, shouting, to the back door. "The peddler's come!" "Salizar is here!" "Mama, come look!" "You're a popular fellow," Meadow stated.
