“Did you say seven dollars?” Smoke asked.
“That’s what it looks like.”
“That’s not very good. Last year, I got ten dollars a head,” Smoke replied. “And the year before that, I got fifteen. What’s happening to the market? Are people not eating beef anymore?”
“Oh, they’re still eating beef all right,” Steve said. “But they’ve gotten a lot more particular. Now, if we were talking Herefords instead of longhorns, I could offer you twenty-five dollars a head.”
“I have a few Herefords,” Smoke said, turning away from the window and coming back to sit across the desk from Steve. “But not enough to sell yet. I’m just beginning to build up a herd.”
“Smoke, I wish I could offer you more. As you know, I get ten percent of the contract, which means the higher the price I can get for you, the more money I make for myself. But no matter where you go—Omaha, Kansas City, Chicago—we are running into the same thing. The most any of the meatpacking houses will pay is seven dollars per head for longhorn cattle, and if they had a hard winter, they may pay as low as four or five dollars. I’ve seen your herd, your beeves are in good shape, so you’ll get top dollar. Unfortunately, top dollar is only seven dollars per head.”
“You don’t have to explain the situation. I’ve worked with you for a long time, Steve, and I know you are an honest man, doing the best you can. But these cattle cost me two dollars a head to raise, and at fifty dollars per cattle car, that means they are costing me a dollar a head to ship. That leaves four dollars a head,” Smoke said. ‘No, counting your fee, it leaves me three dollars and thirty cents a head.” He sighed. “I’ll ship twelve hundred head, and I’ll make just over four thousand dollars. Well, I won’t even make that, because that does not count the salaries I pay my men. I tell you the truth. I’ll do well to break even.”
“If it is any consolation to you, Smoke, this is happening everywhere and to everyone. The folks back East have gotten a taste of Hereford. Nobody wants longhorn beef anymore. But, as always, the final decision is up to you. Do you want to sell at that price?”
“No, I don’t want to,” Smoke replied resolutely. He sighed. “But it doesn’t look like I have any choice.”
“All right, I’ll get you a contract. What about the train cars? Do you want me to book them for you as well?”
“Yes,” Smoke said. “Oh, and tell Mr. Bidwell I’ll be needing the holding pens for a couple of days.”
“That’ll be thirty cents a head,” Steve said.
“Right. That means it will cost me another three hundred sixty dollars just to do business,” Smoke said. “I don’t know but what this might not work out better if I just paid somebody to take the beeves off my hands,” he added with a sarcastic laugh. “At least I wouldn’t have to be worryin’ about feeding them and taking care of them.”
“It’s good you can laugh about it,” Steve said.
“When you get right down to it, Steve, I have to laugh about it,” Smoke said. “What else can I do?”
“I guess you have a point there. All right, once I get this all set up, how soon can you get the herd in?”
“How soon can you get everything set up?” Smoke wanted to know.
“I can send wires back to Omaha, Kansas City, Chicago. I reckon I can have everything set up by tomorrow.”
“Then I’ll bring my herd in tomorrow.”
“I’ll have everything ready for you.”
The two men shook hands.
“As always, Smoke, it’s good doing business with you,” Steve said.
Emil Sinclair was one of the four horsemen Smoke had seen riding into Big Rock. He and the other three riders stopped just across the street from the biggest store in town. A huge, brightly painted sign that spread across the front of the store read:
Big Rock
MERCANTILE
Goods for all Mankind
The store was very large and exceptionally well stocked, and one wag had commented that when it said, “Goods for all mankind,” it literally referred to all mankind.
“Why, I’ll bet there’s enough socks for every man, woman, and child in Colorado,” he’d said.
The store was not only well stocked. It had a wide variety of merchandise from groceries, to clothes, to furniture, to tools. In one section of the store, it had baby cribs, and in another, coffins, eliciting the oft-repeated comment that the “Big Rock Mercantile can supply you with everything you need from the cradle to the grave.”
“Emil, you stay here with the horses,” Logan Taylor said. “Jason, Stu, you two come with me.”
Emil, Jason, and Stu Sinclair were brothers. They had been recruited by Logan Taylor a week earlier to “do a job that will make us two or three hunnert dollars each, and there ain’t goin’ to be no risk to it at all.”
“There ain’t no such thing as a job with no risk,” Emil had replied.
“There ain’t no risk to this one. We’re goin’ to rob us a store.”
“A store? You think we can rob a store and get a couple hundred dollars apiece?” Emil had asked. “I ain’t never heard of a store with that much money.”
“This one does. It’s one of the biggest stores in Colorado, and does so much business that it has purt’ near as much money as a bank. Only, there ain’t no guards, the store clerk ain’t armed, and more than likely the only customers inside will be women.”
“Sounds pretty good to me, Emil,” Jason had said.
“Yeah, me, too,” Stu had added.
Although the whole operation sounded a little fishy to him, Emil had allowed himself to be talked into it, and now he sat on his horse, holding the reins of the other three horses as Taylor, Jason, and Stu walked across the street, then went inside.
There were seven people inside: the clerk, who wasn’t armed, and six customers, all of whom, as Taylor had said, were women.
“Oh, Julia, look at this material,” one woman gushed to another as they stood by a table that was filled with brightly colored bolts of cloth. The woman pulled some of it away and held it against herself. “Have you ever seen a more beautiful color? Wouldn’t this make a lovely dress?”
“Oh, yes, it would be perfect with your—”
“Good afternoon, ladies!” Taylor shouted loudly. “I’m going to ask all of you to step back into the storeroom for a little while.”
“What?” one of the women asked.
“Here! What is the meaning of this?” the only male, the store clerk, said.
“We’re robbin’ your store,” Taylor said.
One of the women drew a deep breath and put her hand to her mouth. Taylor swung his pistol toward her, pulling the hammer back as he did so.
“Lady, if you scream, I’ll shoot you,” he said. “I’ll shoot anyone who screams. Now, get back into that storeroom like I said.”
This time, the women reacted and started toward the storeroom at the rear of the store.
“Jason, make sure they all get in there, then lock the door. Stu, you stand up front to take care of anyone else who comes in. Store clerk, let’s me and you do some business.”
Sally had asked Smoke to pick up an iron skillet for her while he was in town, so he tied his horse off out front of the Mercantile and started inside to carry out the errand.
He knew something was wrong as soon as he stepped through the door. At first, he didn’t know what it was; then he realized that the store was empty. Normally, at this time of day, there would be several shoppers in the store, milling around, looking at the merchandise, or making purchases. Now there was nobody.
He stopped for a moment, every muscle in his body on the alert. Smoke was a man who had lived his life on the edge of danger—whether it be from wild animals when he was younger, renegade Indians, or desperate killers and outlaws. That lifetime of danger had given him a sixth sense, and because of his heightened awareness, he sensed, rather than heard, someone approaching him, very quietly, from behind.