"Thanks, Wilf. That's nice of you." Because an American was putting out the new Register, McGregor didn't like to buy it. He'd read it, though, if he got the chance. As it had in the old days, the Register reserved the top right part of the front page for important news from out of town. The headline leaped out at McGregor. He pointed to it. "So Custer's finally going back to the USA, is he? Good riddance." He didn't mind saying that to the postmaster; most Canadians would likely have said worse.

Rokeby nodded so emphatically, a lock of hair flopped down on his forehead despite the spicy-scented oil he used to plaster it down. The smell of that hair oil was to McGregor, as to other folks for miles around Rosenfeld, part of the odor of the post office.

"He's celebrating more triumphs than imperial Caesar while he's doing it, too," Rokeby said. "Just have a look at the story there."

McGregor did. The more he read, the longer his face got. "He'll be parading through every town where his train stops?" he said, shaking his head in wonder. "He doesn't think he's imperial Caesar, Wilf. He thinks he's God Almighty."

"He's a vain old man," the postmaster said. "Pretty soon he'll meet God Almighty face-to-face, and I guarantee you'll be able to tell the difference between the two of them."

"That's the truth," McGregor said. Had he had any luck at all, the devil would already be roasting Custer over a slow fire. He wondered if Custer would parade through Rosenfeld on his way back to the United States, and made a silent vow: if the American general came into town, he wouldn't go out again.

Wilfred Rokeby sighed. "Wish to Jesus I could go back to selling stamps with the portrait of the King, God bless him, but it doesn't look like it's going to happen. You have to get along the best way the big fish let you if you're only a little fish yourself."

"I suppose you're right," McGregor said. The big fish-the big Yank fish-hadn't let him get along. But he could still bite. He'd show them he could still bite. His features revealed none of that. Nodding to the postmaster, he went on, "Thanks for the stamps, and thanks for the paper, too."

"Any time, Arthur," Rokeby said. "And congratulations again for your daughter. She's a nice gal; I've always thought so. She deserves to be happy."

She d have been a lot happier if the Yanks hadn 't come up over the border. But McGregor kept that to himself. He'd kept a lot of things to himself since Alexander was shot. With a last nod to the postmaster, he headed across the street to Henry Gibbon's general store.

Snow crunched under his boots. The calendar said it would be spring any day, but the calendar didn't know much about Manitoba. As he walked, he thought hard. If Custer came to Rosen-feld… If Custer paraded through Rosenfeld… If he did, McGregor was going to try to kill him, and that was all there was to it.

He could see only one way to do it: toss a bomb into Custer's motorcar. That was how the Serbs had touched off the Great War. McGregor couldn't see doing it and getting away with it. The prospect of not getting away with it had held him back in the past. He looked deep into himself. No, he really didn't care any more. If he paid with his life, he paid with his life. He'd never have the chance to strike another blow like this against the Yanks. The next commandant they appointed would probably be some faceless functionary whose own mother had never heard of him. If someone like that got blown to smithereens, so what? But Custer had been famous for more than forty years. Killing him would mean something. The USA didn't have an Archduke Franz Ferdinand, but Custer came close.

Murder on his mind, McGregor walked right past the general store. He turned around, shaking his head, and went back. Henry Gibbon nodded from behind the counter. "Morning, Arthur," he said. "What can I do for you today?"

"I've got a list here somewhere," McGregor said, and went through his pockets till he found it. Handing it to the storekeeper, he went on, "It's Maude's stuff, mostly: canned goods and sundries and such. We need kerosene, too, and there's a couple of bottles of cattle drench on there for me, but it's mostly for the missus."

Gibbon ran his finger down the list. "Reckon I can take care of just about all of this." He looked up. "Hear tell your daughter's going to tie the knot. That's a big day, by heaven. Congratulations."

"Thank you, Henry," McGregor said. He pointed to Gibbon. "I bet the Culligans came into town in the last couple of days. Mercy, even Wilf Rokeby's heard the news."

"You know it's all over creation if Wilf's heard it, and that's a fact," Henry Gibbon said with a chuckle. He turned to the shelves behind him. "This'll take a little bit. Why don't you grab a candy cane-or a pickle, if one'd suit you better-and toast yourself by the stove while I rustle up what you need?"

"I don't mind if I do." McGregor reached into the pickle barrel and pulled a likely one out of the brine. It crunched when he bit into it, the way a proper pickle should.

"I'm going to give you a crate," Gibbon said. "Bring it back and I '11 knock a dime off your next bill."

"All right. I would have brought one with me this time, only I didn't think."

"I noticed that. It's why I started knocking a dime off the bill," the storekeeper answered. "Plenty of people who won't think about anything else will remember money."

McGregor would have been one of those people before the Great War. He would have been one of those people up until 1916. Now the only thing he remembered was revenge. "What do I owe you?" he asked when Gibbon set the last can in the crate.

"Well, when you bring in the kerosene can and I fill it, everything put all together comes to $8.51," Gibbon said. "You did bring the kerosene can, I reckon?" By his tone, he reckoned no such thing.

"Yeah, I did." McGregor shook his head in dull embarrassment. "Lucky I remembered to hitch the horse to the wagon. I'll go get the can."

"You'd have been a mite longer getting here, Arthur, if you'd forgotten about the horse," McGregor called after him as he left.

He didn't answer. He would have walked back to the wagon for the kerosene can before going to the general store had Rokeby not given him a copy of the Register. Seeing that Custer was leaving Canada, seeing that Custer was going to celebrate while here, realizing that Custer might come through Rosenfeld, had taken everything else from his mind. He wanted to go back to the farm. He wanted to go back into the barn and get to work on a bomb he could throw.

He would have forgotten the crate of groceries had Henry Gibbon not reminded him of it. The storekeeper laughed as he carried it out toward the wagon. McGregor was glad he didn't own an automobile. He wasn't altogether sure he recalled how to get back to the farmhouse. The horse, thank heaven, would know the way.

When he carried the crate indoors, the Rosenfeld Register was stuck on top of the cans and jars. Naturally, Maude grabbed it; new things to read didn't come to the farm often enough. As naturally, McGregor's wife noticed the story about Custer right away. "Is he going to parade through Rosenfeld?" she asked.

"I don't know," McGregor answered.

"If he does parade through Rosenfeld, what will you do?" Sharp fear rode Maude's voice.

"I don't know that, either," McGregor answered.

Maude set a hand on his arm. His eyes widened a little; the two of them seldom touched, except by accident, outside the marriage bed. "I don't want to be a widow, Arthur," she said quietly. "I've already lost Alexander. I don't know what I'd do if I lost you, too."

"I've always been careful, haven't I?" he said, coming as close as he ever did to talking about what he did besides farming.

"You go on being careful, do you hear me?" Maude said. "You've done what you had to do. If you do anything more, it's over and above. You don't need to do it, not for me, not for Alexander." She wasn't usually so direct, either.