This town, he thought, was shaping up real nice for a hired gun. And that’s what Monte was. He had hired his guns out in Montana, in the cattle wars out in California, and had fought the sheep farmers and nesters up in Wyoming. And, as he’d fought, his reputation had grown. Monte felt that Tilden Franklin would soon be contacting him. He could wait.
On the now-well-traveled road beneath where Smoke slept peacefully, wagons continued to roll and rumble along, carrying their human cargo toward No-Name Town. The line of wagons and buggies and riders and walkers was now several miles long. Gamblers and would-be shop-owners and whores and gunfighters and snake-oil salesmen and pimps and troublemakers and murderers and good solid family people…all of them heading for No-Name with but one thought in their minds. Gold.
At the end of the line of gold-seekers, not a part of them but yet with the same destination if not sharing the same motives, rattled a half a dozen wagons. Ed Jackson was new to the raw West—a shopkeeper from Illinois with his wife Peg. They were both young and very idealistic, and had no working knowledge of the real West. They were looking for a place to settle. This no-name town sounded good to them. Ed’s brother Paul drove the heavily laden supply wagon, containing part of what they just knew would make them respected and secure citizens. Paul was as naive as his brother and sister-in-law concerning the West.
In the third wagon came Ralph Morrow and his wife Bountiful. They were missionaries, sent into the godless West by their Church, to save souls and soothe the sinful spirits of those who had not yet accepted Christ into their lives. They had been looking for a place to settle when they had hooked up with Ed and Peg and Paul. This was the first time Ralph and Bountiful had been west of Eastern Ohio. It was exciting. A challenge.
They thought.
In the fourth wagon rode another young couple, married only a few years, Hunt and Willow Brook. Hunt was a lawyer, looking for a place to practice all he’d just been taught back East. This new gold rush town seemed just the place to start.
In the fifth wagon rode Colton and Mona Spalding. A doctor and nurse, respectively. They had both graduated their schools only last year, mulled matters over, and decided to head West. They were young and handsome and pretty. And, like the others in their little caravan, they had absolutely no idea what they were riding into.
In the last wagon, a huge, solidly built vehicle with six mules pulling it, came Haywood and Dana Arden. Like the others, they were young and full of grand ideas. Haywood had inherited a failing newspaper from his father back in Pennsylvania and decided to pull out and head West to seek their fortunes.
“Oh Haywood!” Dana said, her eyes shining with excitement. “It’s all so wonderful.”
“Yes,” Haywood agreed, just as the right rear wheel of their wagon fell off.
5
Smoke was up long before dawn spread her shimmering rays of light over the land. He slipped out of his blankets and put his hat on, then pulled on his boots and strapped on his guns. He checked to see how Horse was doing, then washed his face with water from his canteen. He built a small, hand-sized fire and boiled coffee. He munched on a thick piece of bread and sipped his coffee, sitting with his back to a tree, his eyes taking in the first silver streaks of a new day in the high-up country of Colorado.
He had spotted a fire far down below him, near the winding road. A very large fire. Much too large unless those who built it were roasting an entire deer—head, horns, and all. He finished the small, blackened pot of coffee, carefully doused his fire, and saddled Horse, stowing his gear in the saddle bags.
He swung into the saddle. “Steady now, Horse,” he said in a low voice. “Let’s see how quiet we can be backtracking.”
Horse and rider made their way slowly and quietly down from the high terrain toward the road miles away using the twisting, winding trails. Smoke uncased U.S. Army binoculars he’d picked up years back, while traveling with his mentor, the old Mountain Man Preacher, and studied the situation.
Five, no—six wagons. One of them down with a busted back wheel. Six men, five women. All young, in their early twenties, Smoke guessed. The women were all very pretty, the men all handsome and apparently—at least to Smoke, at least at this distance—helpless.
He used his knees to signal Horse, and the animal moved out, taking its head, picking the route. Stopping after a few hundred twisting yards, Smoke once more surveyed the situation. His binoculars picked up movement coming from the direction of No-Name. Four riders. He studied the men, watching them approach the wagons. Drifters, from the look of them. Probably spent the night in No-Name gambling and whoring and were heading out to stake a gold claim. They looked like trouble.
Staying in the deep and lush timber, Smoke edged closer still. Several hundred yards from the wagon, Smoke halted and held back, wanting to see how these pilgrims would handle the approach of the riders.
He could not hear all that was said, but he could get most of it from his hidden location.
He had pegged the riders accurately. They were trouble. They reined up and sat their horses, grinning at the men and women. Especially the women.
“You folks look like you got a mite of trouble,” one rider said.
“A bit,” a friendly-looking man responded. “We’re just getting ready to fulcrum the wagon.”
“You’re gonna do what to it?” another rider blurted.
“Raise it up,” a pilgrim said.
“Oh. You folks headin’ to Fontana?”
The wagon people looked at each other.
Fontana! Smoke thought. Where in the hell is Fontana?
“I’m sorry,” one of the women said. “We’re not familiar with that place.”
“That’s what they just named the town up yonder,” a rider said, jerking his thumb in the direction of No-Name. “Stuck up a big sign last night.”
So No-Name has a name, Smoke thought. Wonder whose idea that was.
But he thought he knew. Tilden Franklin.
Smoke looked at the women of the wagons. They were, to a woman, all very pretty and built-up nice. Very shapely. The men with them didn’t look like much to Smoke; but then, he thought. they were Easterners. Probably good men back there. But out here, they were out of their element.
And Smoke didn’t like the look in the eyes of the riders. One kept glancing up and down the road. As yet, no traffic had appeared. But Smoke knew the stream of gold-hunters would soon appear. If the drifters were going to start something—the women being what they wanted, he was sure—they would make their move pretty quick.
At some unspoken signal, the riders dismounted.
“Oh, say!” the weakest-jawed pilgrim said. “It’s good of you men to help.”
“Huh?” a rider said, then he grinned. “Oh, yeah. We’re regular do-gooders. You folks nesters?”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Farmers.” He ended that and summed up his feelings concerning farmers by spitting a stream of brown tabacco juice onto the ground, just missing the pilgrim’s feet.
The pilgrim laughed and said, “Oh, no. My name is Ed Jackson, this is my wife Peg. We plan to open a store in the gold town.”
“Ain’t that nice,” the rider mumbled.
Smoke kneed Horse a bit closer.
“My name is Ralph Morrow,” another pilgrim said. “I’m a minister. This is my wife Bountiful. We plan to start a church in the gold town.”
The rider looked at Bountiful and licked his lips.
Ralph said, “And this is Paul Jackson, Ed’s brother. Over there is Hunt and Willow Brook. Hunt is a lawyer. That’s Colton and Mona Spalding. Colton is a physician. And last, but certainly not least, is Haywood and Dana Arden. Haywood is planning to start a newspaper in the town. Now you know us.”