The pace of the afternoon continued to pick up as Hensher began insidiously instigating Frank Yocum with taunts along the line of, "Bull-things, Horse-stuff and a bucket full of apertures".  "There was a time," he declared solemnly, "that somebody in this community would have put a stop to indecent flatlanders like that."  He gestured toward a tourist wearing Bermuda shorts.  "Now you have to provoke and bribe citizens to work for the public good."  He was several years deep into writing his own legal briefs in defense of his right to live on land his family had occupied for more than a hundred documented years.  "I'll give you a six pack to bite that son-of-a-flatlander, Frank," he continued, putting his bribe into place. 

Frank rose unsteadily from the bench.  He is thin with a long red beard and hair, looking something like a man-sized elf.  A sizeable safety pin holds one side of his glasses together, the other shaft makes do with a few turns of duct tape.  He is known variously as Rank Frank and the Red Virus.  Frank surveyed the situation with sufficient gravity that Jim retook his seat, confident of having accomplished his purpose.  True to form, Frank raced across the road on all fours, howling and barking insanely to bite the tourist on the leg.  The man came back to the table with two six-packs and Frank's arm across his shoulders.  He was cheered for his spirit and encouraged to get rabies shots.

An hour later a four-wheel drive pickup pulled up at the store.  Two Indian men in their late thirties got out and walked toward the store.  "Buy a beer for the house," a voice called insistently from the table. 
"You better cool it," someone cautioned.  "Cause if you don't know, and, if you can't tell, those guys are a couple of genuine downriver rowdies.  They're the Lyons brothers and they're the fellows who hung that Fish and Game deputy by his feet from the bridge down in Orleans.  Say the wrong thing to them and they'll come over here and kick all our butts.

Even without the wrong thing being said, the Lyons brothers were soon enough bullying various parties and the atmosphere was growing darker by the encounter.  Shortly into this phase of the day, an ancient tow truck drove up and parked.  Hoss Bennett had arrived at the Beer Tree, taking in the scene with a proprietary gaze.  Hoss stood perhaps 8 inches shorter than the smaller of the Lyons boys, but sizing up the situation instantly, he strode up to the brothers with an ingratiating smile on his broad, brown face.  Despite his appearance of jocularity, everyone was watching.   Hoss was well known for whacking up side the head, men that he didn't take a liking to, not always for reasons known to anyone other than Hoss.  This time upon reaching the brothers he suddenly reached out with both hands, cracking their heads together with the sound of two hairy watermelons colliding at high speed and in a moment the pair was rolling on the ground hollering, “Don’t hurt us anymore Hoss…”

”They should have known better than to come up here bothering my people,” he observed with a sort of absent minded heat as the brothers headed back downriver.

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