“What was it that feller said, Joe? My ears ain’t workin’ too good today.”
The old man’s scraggly voice screeched above the hum of a midday crowd at the Salty Saloon.
Joe, burly and greasy, leaned forward on the bar and shrugged. “Somethin’ about a deed.”
“A deed. Interestin’.” The graybeard pulled himself off his stool with a groan and lumbered toward the end of the bar, where a thick young man sat nursing a whisky.
“Now,” the old man said. “What’s this ‘bout a deed?”
“Oh, I just came by to introduce myself. I’ll be takin’ over Albert Campbell’s place.”
The old man’s eyes grew wide.
“You don’t say!” He scratched his chin. “Say … how’d ya come into that property, if ya don’t mind me askin’?”
“Well,” the outsider shifted in his seat, “I’m Phillip Ayers, Mr. Campbell’s, um, nephew.”
“Nephew! Why, I ne’er knew ol’ Albert had a nephew. D’you know that, Joe?”
“Nope.”
“Strange he never mentioned it. So, I guess he left you the place in his will. I mean … when he up and died here awhile back. What’s it been three, four months?”
“Uh, four,” Ayers said.
“So ya gotcha a deed and everything. I’ll bet Albert even signed it for ya, huh?”
“Yep, that’s right.” Ayers stood. “Well, I gotta be goin’.”
“There’s only two problems I see with that story, sonny,” graybeard said.
Ayers stopped cold.
“First, Albert never learned to write. And second … well … you never can trust local gossip.”
The old man hobbled across the floor to stand in front of Ayers.
“I mean, can’t an old coot go on a huntin’ trip without everyone just assumin’ he’s dead?”
He thrust his hand forward in greeting.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Ayers. Name’s Campbell. Albert Campbell.”
