Joey Joseph, of the Three Horse Reservation, sat on the cowboys' bench in Michael O'Shea's kitchen. "How many dead people you said in the war?" Joey Joseph said. He had not come to talk about the war. He had come to sell his buckskin pony, but this had to be done with a decent delay.
"Hundreds of thousands killed in the war," Michael said, and tried to keep his eyes off the buckskin, tied to the porch rail.
Joey pondered that for a long time and asked again: "How many you said killed in the war?"
"Hundreds of thousands," Michael said patiently.
Joey thought about it again and then he said: "By God, that's too many dead people!"
"Look, you want to sell that horse?" Michael said.
"Maybe," Joey said. "I dunno. Worth hunnert dollars. Easy."
"I'll give you twenty-five," Michael said.
They settled at fifty. Joey went out and took off the saddle and bridle and stored them in Michael's barn. He stood for a moment running his hand along the buckskin's back. He had raised it from a colt, kept it in his house through the first winter, broken it. Up at Quesnel and at Ashcroft it had won all the cowboy races. Everybody knew Billy, Joey Josephs horse. But Joey wanted to buy an automobile. He could get one for fifty dollars at Lillooet, a 1929 Ford. It would run. Joey pictured himself driving into town with his wife and his mother in the back seat. Certainly a man must have an automobile.
He walked down the road towards the reservation, but