The sheriff's office was, mercifully, not far away, and he was in.

" Sheriff Dusty Hayward," he said, rigorously shaking Allen's hand. " Sorry that ole Rufus gave you the go-around. He's been mad as blue hell since that bug science fella showed him up."

" Bug science fella?" Allen inquired. No warnings popped up, apparently since it seemed a natural line of conversation.

" Theodore Ricksley, from the Harvard department of Ent-o-mo-logy," the sheriff said, staccato pronunciation for emphasis. " He's out stayin' with the Bavarians, rented a room on their ranch. Comes into town once a week to do their errands for 'em."

He looked the two of them up and down.

" You two ain't also bug fellas, are ye? The ole burgermutter don't have that many rooms to spare, all them kids runnin' around 'n' all."

" Afraid not," Allen said, taking his billfold from his coat. " I'm on federal business. Not to arrest anyone, or anything like that. More like a... land survey."

The sheriff, inspecting his badge, thought about this for a moment, and then something seemed to click for him.

" Well, hell, you're here on account of the township filing, ain't ye?" he asked.

" Keep it quiet," Allen said, carefully choosing not to confirm or deny. " We won't be here too terribly long. But it'd be a problem if people were too overly suspicious of us."

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