According to Floyd’s map, they could shave a couple of hundred miles off their journey if they left the main trail and bore on a more southerly heading. Floyd had traced the map himself from an old book in the Scranton public library, so he had every confidence in it. They were supposed to strike the North Fork of the Solomon River after a few days but didn’t. Floyd told everyone not to worry, that they were sure to strike the South Fork of the Solomon River in a few more days, and they would follow it west. Only the South Fork wasn’t where the map said it should be either. That didn’t stop them. They took their bearings by the sun and forged on.
The first mistake had been made by Sam Stowe years earlier. A Civil War veteran, he took the tales of gold nuggets in the Rockies waiting to be plucked off the ground seriously enough to ride a mule from Indiana to Colorado. Sam was so convinced he would strike it rich, he sold all his worldly goods for the provisions he needed. When he reached the mountains and discovered the gold wasn’t waiting to jump into his arms, he became discouraged, turned right around, and headed for Indiana.
From another argonaut, Sam heard of a remarkable sight he hankered to see on his way home. As a small boy he had liked to collect unusual rocks. When he enlisted, he had two shelves crammed with everything from pieces of ruby quartz to marble to basalt. So when told about the mystery rock, he couldn’t resist.
Not far from the Colorado border, a secondary trail looped through northwest Kansas, passing near a boulder as large as a log cabin. Remarkable for its size, it was unique in another respect. Every square inch was covered by strange paintings. Who had painted them was a mystery. The emigrants certainly didn’t know. Nor did the Arapahos, the Kansa, or the Osage. The paintings had been there for as long as anyone in their tribes could remember.
Fittingly, the boulder became known as Painted Rock.
Sam found it without any problem, perched atop the north bank of a meandering stream. He spent the rest of that day and all of the next scrambling over it on his hands and knees, studying the figures and symbols. There were men with beaks and wings, animals with spear-shaped plates on their backs, enormous birds with buffalo in their talons. There were circles within circles and swirls within swirls. There were letters that did not resemble any letters known. Sam had never seen anything like it.
The following morning, Sam made his fateful mistake. He was preparing to depart and decided to clean his rifle. Only he forgot it was loaded. The slug tore off three toes and part of his foot. It wouldn’t have been so bad except he was sitting with his boots touching Painted Rock, and the slug flattened when it hit the boulder and ricocheted out.
Sam needed two weeks to heal to where he could hobble with a crutch. By then he had thought it over and decided the accident was an omen. He had fallen in love with the prairie in general and that spot in particular. Always a loner by nature, it was right in keeping with his character to build a cabin and stay. He bought several cows and other essentials from emigrants on the main trail and was set.
The Indians didn’t bother him. They watched from a distance as he spent every spare moment scampering over Painted Rock and decided that either his brain was in a whirl, which was their way of saying he was crazy, or he had been touched by the Great Mystery. In either case, it would be bad medicine to harm him.
Sam was content to live out his life a hermit, but it wasn’t meant to be. Floyd Havershaw and the six wagons from Pennsylvania showed up. The pilgrims held a meeting and decided they had gone far enough. The ground was fertile, the stream ran year-round, and game was abundant. Overnight, Painted Rock became a settlement.
Sam wasn’t pleased. He told them it was a free country, and they could do as they wanted, but they were to stay the hell away from his boulder or else.
Word of the new settlement spread. Most wagon trains stuck to the main trail, but now and again a small train or individual wagons rolled into Painted Rock to buy supplies. In addition to Sam’s cabin, it now boasted six frame homes, Floyd Havershaw’s combination blacksmith shop and stable, Jack Taylor’s general store, and Tom Shadley’s saloon, the Lucky Star.
The women of Painted Rock wanted the saloon shut down, but the men stood firm. When the women pointed out the settlement was too small to keep a saloon in business, the men assured them they were up to the task. When the women complained the men would stay out drinking to all hours, the men responded that the saloon was mainly for socializing, but to make the women happy they would close it every night at eleven.
All went well until Abigail Reece and Susie Kline arrived. They had been run out of Independence for lewd and lascivious acts the local newspaper would not dare print and were on their way to Denver to take up employment at a bawdy house. Painted Rock suited them better. Both ladies were long at the tooth, with Susie pushing fifty, but well preserved. Abigail looked fifteen years younger than she was and swore by Aunt Gertrude’s Facial Cream and Life Extender.
The decent women in Painted Rock protested when the two doves took up residence above the saloon. Their husbands made mention of Christian charity and promised the doves would share no more than drinks and talk.
No one in Painted Rock paid much attention to five strangers who stayed overnight from time to time. They looked like ordinary cowboys. Their white-haired leader said they were cattle buyers. The youngest favored pearl-handled Colts and often entertained the settlement’s children by setting up empty bottles on the bank of Painted Creek and putting on a show of speed and skill that dazzled his young audience.
The settlers had heard of the Hoodoos. Everyone had. But no one connected the five strangers who passed through every few months with the five notorious horse thieves until Abigail confided to Tom Shadley, the saloon owner, that the young one with the pearl-handled pistols was Kid Falon.
Shadley told Floyd Havershaw, and Havershaw called a town meeting. Every adult was obliged to attend, including Sam Stowe, who continued to resent the settlement and everyone in it and wished they would all come down with the plague and die.
“We have us a predicament,” Floyd began and related what he had learned but not the name of the person who had discovered the Kid’s identity or how she had discovered it. “The Hoodoos are wanted in four territories. They’re thieves and killers, and we’ve been harboring them. What do we do about it?”
“Why should we do anything?” Jack Taylor said. “They’ve never bothered us. They come, they drink, they sleep, they ride off. That’s it. I say let them go on doing as they please, and we’ll all live longer.”
Tom Shadley stood. “I, for one, wouldn’t care to rile them. We’ve all heard the stories about how many men they’ve killed. So long as they’re peaceable, why should we care who they are or what they do?”
“Bunch of yellow curs,” Sam Stowe groused. “Is this why you called me away from my stove and my supper? If any of you had a lick of gumption, you would do what any law-abiding citizen should do and send word to the army. In case you haven’t heard, your precious Hoodoos killed a couple of soldiers a while ago, and there’s a seven thousand dollar bounty on their miserable heads.” Sam rose and limped toward the door. “I might try to collect it my own self.”
“Sam, wait!” Floyd called in vain.
“Someone had better set that grump straight, or he’ll cause us no end of grief,” Tom Shadley said.
“I’ll try,” Jack Taylor offered. “I’m the only one in town he’ll talk to anyhow.”
Over an hour was spent debating how best to deal with the Hoodoos. The only decision they reached was to put off making a decision for another week to give everyone time to mull it over.
“There’s no rush,” Floyd said. “It’s only been three weeks since they were here last. Generally, they don’t visit us but once every couple of months.”