“The Cobb and Whitten Express. It’s named after the two gents who own it. Cobb I don’t know much about but I’ve met Whitten and he can be a pushy gent. I reckon he doesn’t like competition.”
“There’s not enough business for two stage lines?” Fargo recollected hearing that a gold strike gave birth to Oro City about a year ago.
“More than enough. The Denver run brings in a heap of money and there are other runs to other towns and mining camps and settlements.”
Fargo sat back. His leg was bothering him and he’d like to spend the rest of the ride quiet but Rafer was a talker.
“Yes, sir. Oro City is growin’ by leaps. Give it a couple of years and it’ll be almost as big as Denver.”
Fargo had his doubts. He’d heard that most of the gold was placer with a lot of sand mixed in.
“We’ve already got nearly as many saloons,” Rafer related. “For lendin’ a hand back there, I’ll treat you to a drink when we get to town.”
“Make it a bottle.”
Rafer laughed. “I reckon that’s fair.” He glanced at Fargo. “I should warn you, though. You hit two of them. They’re liable to want to get even.”
“Do me a favor and keep quiet about it.”
“Fine by me but you’re forgettin’ the folks in the stage. They’ll gab. The Gazette will hear of it and by tomorrow night everyone in Oro City will know who you are and what you did.”
“Hell.”
“Sometimes it doesn’t pay to be one of those—” Rafer stopped. “What do they call ’em? Good Samaritans?”
The stage lurched up a switchback and Rafer devoted his attention to handling the ribbons. “Easy there,” he said to the horses as the wheels rolled dangerously near the edge.
Fargo glanced down. He wasn’t bothered by heights but the five-hundred-foot drop to jagged boulders was enough to make anyone’s skin crawl.
“Don’t worry. We won’t go over,” Rafer said, and chuckled. “I’ve been handlin’ a stage for more years than you’ve been alive.”
“Is that a fact,” Fargo said, still staring over the side.
“It sure enough is. I got my start as a cub on a Boston line years ago and then came west. Been out here ever since.” Rafer guided the team around a sharp turn with the skill born of the long experience he claimed. “How about you? What do you do for a livin’?”
“This and that.”
“You don’t care for me to pry? Fair enough. But if I was to guess I’d say you make your livin’ as a scout.”
“My buckskins give me away?”
Rafer grinned. “Lots of people wear deer hides. Hunters, trappers, you name it.” He shook his head. “No, I’d peg you for a scout because you have that look scouts have.”
“I have a look?”
“Take a gander in a mirror sometime,” Rafer said. “It’s those hawk’s eyes of yours. Like you’re lookin’ far off when the rest of us can only see up close.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It does if you’re a pigeon and not a hawk,” Rafer said, and cackled.
Fargo folded his arms and made himself as comfortable as he could. The wind was chill at that altitude at night even in the summer. Overhead, stars sparkled. To the south a coyote serenaded them.
Rafer breathed in deep and exclaimed, “God Almighty, I love this country.”
Fargo shared the sentiment. The mountains and the prairie were as much a part of him as his arms and his legs. He could no more do without the wild places than he could do without women.
“Did you see that?” Rafer asked.
Fargo looked up. They were climbing toward the crest of a ridge. As near as he could tell, the stretch of road to the top was clear. “See what?”
“Up yonder,” Rafer said, and pointed at the top. “I saw somethin’ move.”
“A deer, maybe,” Fargo said. Or it could be an elk or a bear or another animal.
“No. I thought I saw the shine of metal. Maybe . . .” Rafer got no further.
The night was shattered by the thunder of rifles. Lead struck the coach with loud thwacks and one of the horses whinnied.
Fargo’s Henry was in his saddle scabbard. He clawed at his Colt even though the range was too great. “Do you have a rifle?”
Instead of answering, Rafer dropped the ribbons and cried, “I’m hit!”