The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush

Al dug into his pocket and took out two quarters. “Have three more on me,” he said. “And thanks.”


Outside on the street, Al stood for a few moments, hands in his pockets, considering his next move. Then he sauntered over to the Mercantile and went in. It was a large store, high ceilinged, the walls lined with shelves filled with stacks of folded clothing, outerwear and underwear; boxes of men’s and women’s leather shoes and rows of boots; bolts of dress goods; babies’ and children’s clothing; sheets and towels and even mattresses, stacked against one wall; dishes and flatware and cookware; mops and brooms—and just about anything else necessary to outfit a household and most of the people in it. There was even a rack of Ferry Seeds, Al saw, and an array of garden tools.

A woman approached him. “May I help you, sir?”

“Is Archie Mann around?” Al asked.

“He’s back in the tack room,” the woman said. “But I’m sorry to say we’re out. After last night—” She shook her head sadly.

Al frowned, puzzled. “Out of what?”

The woman colored. Flustered, she muttered, “Sorry. I’ll go get him.”

In a moment, Archie Mann appeared. A burly man with a barrel chest and powerful shoulders, he wore a white shirt with green sleeve garters, a green bow tie, and a canvas work apron.

“Ah, Mr. Duffy,” he said cordially. The two of them had met at the town council meeting at which the Darling Dollars campaign had been discussed.

“Afternoon, Mr. Mann,” Al said, as they exchanged handshakes.

“You lookin’ for something specific?” Archie Mann gave an expansive wave. “We got just about anything you might need—except for LeDoux’s Lightning.” His face darkened. “There was a little accident out at Dead Cow Creek last night.”

Suddenly, Al understood. He had heard the news from Mrs. Peters, his secretary, when he got to the bank that morning, and he just now remembered that the dead boy had been a member of the extended Mann clan.

“I was sorry to hear about the shooting,” he said and added, emphatically, “Shouldn’t have happened.”

“No siree, Bob.” Archie Mann’s voice roughened. “No call to kill a boy over a little moonshine. That fella Kinnard better watch his back next time he comes around here. Folks are pretty riled.”

“Kinnard?” Al asked. “Who’s he?”

“The revenue agent. He’s been hot to get his hands on Mickey and the boys for a long time, but he never could find the place. It’s pretty well hid, back up there in the woods.” Archie Mann scowled. “Can’t quite figure out how he found ’em this time, ’less somebody tipped him off. And if that’s how it happened—I pity the man who did it.” He gave Al an inquiring look. “But you didn’t come about that, I reckon.”

“Actually, I’m hoping maybe you can help me straighten out a little problem,” Al said. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Looks like your boy Purley might’ve picked up a satchel of Darling Dollars over at the print shop. Any chance you could help me get it back?”

“Purley?” Archie Mann sounded incredulous. “You ain’t sayin’ my boy stole it, are you? He’s a good boy, and anyway, he got religion last week. Got a bad case of it, too. He’s been down on his knees, prayin’. He wouldn’t do a thing like that.”

“I’m not saying he did. I figure he found that satchel sitting around somewhere and thought it was free for the taking.” Al paused. “To tell the truth, Mr. Mann, I don’t give a damn how he got it. All I want is to get it back so we can get the scrip in this week’s payrolls. If Charlie Dickens has to reprint, there’s likely to be a delay, which means that some folks won’t have spending money in their pockets this coming week. Which means that nobody will be buying anything from any of the merchants.” He paused to let that sink in, then repeated, “Can you help me get it back?”