There's an old-fashioned scale on the counter, to answer Gene's question. The shopkeeper, however, takes the hairy eyeball at face value and nods briskly, assuming he's to figure out the specifics on his own.

"I take it y'ain't plannin' on stayin' with us here at Mineral City long, then?"

He lines the scale in brown paper and sets to doling out the tobacco. It comes out of a sack, rich and dark and pungent.

"We're just passin' through," Kate supplies.

"What's yer business?"