It was wasted. The old man jumped back into the fracas by rushing the driver. The chicken farmer took a karate stance, yelled, and once again the poor peasant found himself on the ground.

Once might have been acceptable. Twice wasn't. Old Amos had understood this. His dad always left the rowdy horses of the pack string for Jed to shoe. When a bad actor, trying every trick he knew to keep from having a new shoe tacked on a hind hoof, would resort to an out and out kick a second time, after being whacked on the rump with a rasp for the first, this is when the 1200 pound ani-mule would find himself laying in the dirt, with Jed sitting on his head.

The truck driver tried the same nasty trick. A kick to the cajones. Jed stepped aside. Then he walked right into flailing fists, grabbed the fellow by the shirt, lifted him off the ground as if a bale of hay, and tossed him up to land on the load of crated chickens.

In the confusion that followed —chickens flapping their wings, running loose, villagers chasing after, looking for a free evening meal— Jed motioned to the Choco´ that he wanted to talk. Pointing to himself, then Jenny, across to the mountain peak, and finally a come-along sign, was communication enough to the Indian that the two outsiders were looking for a guide that could lead them to Castle de Oro.

The answer was one finger held up to signify the price, a standard $1 per day.

Jed shook his head, "No."

A question in return, was signified by a raised eyebrow.

Jed held out two fingers.

A smile clinched the deal.