Myron Fish was an accountant by training and never forgot that fact, no matter where he traveled. Often he found himself on trips accompanying Seamus simply because without the steady gaze of he-who-wrote-the-checks, Seamus was wont to spend extravagantly: pay for shortcuts that did not require taking; upgrade to the fanciest rooms in fancier-than-necessary hotels; and treat the children to treats that did nothing to advance the financial interests of their enterprise, namely, the shop.

Such were his ruminations as the mule train began a steady descent through the heavy Ozark forest into a valley in the Boston Mountains. Their destination, Red Lion, Arkansas, was no doubt just beyond the next bend or atop the next rise, but in the dense thicket Myron had to leave the navigating to the professionals they had hired to guid...

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