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Show way he seems to have talked with you." We were nearing the bottom of the slope and the ocean was out of sight again, hidden behind gas stations and grocery stores. "He didn't figure out how until after you were gone," Carlo said. The first gallery was a storefront affair, squeezed between a bait-shop and a hardware store. The owner came forward quickly, a strong-chested middle-aged woman dressed in black wool; she reminded me of Maybelle Carter, a slightly softer Maybelle with a less decisive Texas accent, but with the same slowly winking bird-of-prey eyes. "Adam Skinner?" She held a hand against her chest, between those capable bosoms. "The poor man is dead, you know. Those few pieces here are all that there will ever be." The bosoms heaved mightily but the eyes didn't change. "I expect that his work will increase in value dramatically now. Isn't that sad? But he'll be recognized." "All old stuff," she said after we had introduced ourselves. "Your father hadn't brought me anything new in nearly two years, and I'm not sure I could have taken it if he had. The people who liked the sort of thing he did mostly liked big pieces and Adam insisted on making miniatures." I saw them behind her: an Indian head no bigger than a matchbox, a cowboy on a tiny horse, a buffalo-calf, a hunter kneeling with his rifle, two horses together. "I |