"Sit down, merchant. Have another drink."

"Wha...?" my father uttered.

"The priest told me you might have something for me," the cowboy said.

Father looked around, cleared his throat, lowered the gun, and the audience exhaled; someone let out a tiny chuckle. The girl played violin, and the barkeep poured drinks, and my father went over to get his, leaving me at the table.

"What is it that you sell, then?" the cowboy said and got up. I remained seated.

"Bullets," I replied. "Some pistols, too."

"How many bullets you got?" he asked, as he bent down to pick up coins off the floor, blowing dust off each one and rubbing them with his fingers.

"I'd have to ask my brother, but... a few hundred at least."

Back at the table, he added the coins to the small pile my father hadn't reached, and he pushed it towards our side of the table. When Father returned, the man said, "I'll buy everything you have, merchant."

"The name's Hastings," Father said, "and you'll need more than that to buy my product."