"Well, here's the deal, sweety. The cover is holding up fine as far as most of the folkies here go. But this Madison guy you threw into the mix to add credibility is a little better than you thought based on his cheap office address and his credit account and ben-Ikilk's Liquor and Deli. He's actually a bit of an intell gem, in his shabby way. The other thing is that someone's gone and stirred the coals by taking out one of the tree-huggers. ... Yeah, a .22 between the ibbles, nasty round hole with blackened edges right in the center. No, I wasn't involved -- I was up the hill having a break... So I need you to get back to Capo One with this, Terry... let him know I'm playing it cool but I am a little concerned. Also it looks like one of the fiddle players is a first cousin to the Area 51 tribe, tell him. He'll understand. No, I can't explain. I gotta go -- I joined a jug band and they're tuning up...I love you too. You know that, right? I wouldn't be here if I didn't...Loved not duty more, you know, and all that...Hugs...Keep the bed warm for me, alone....Yeah me, too... Bye now...".

He folded the microcell and slipped it into his jeans pocket, and grabbed the Dreadnought. "Lie down. Good boy. Are you a good Black Dog? Are ya? What're you good for? Yeah, yeah...." Bannock panted happily and curled into a loop on the floor. Argent drew the broad leather strap over his shoulders and started tuning. He ran a few riffs from "Boil Them Cabbage Down", and stepped over to the corner where the rest of the jugband was warming up.

Runs and riffs and twangs gradually crescendoed in the late, cool evening air as it wafted through the crowded great room, filled with mingling folkies of all sizes and states of dress, carrying the scent of fresh mountain rain.