“I’m goin’ to sit down and see jus’ how soft this is,” Poke said.
Poke had just settled in the chair when the owner of the house came into the room.
“Don’t sit anywhere, don’t touch anything.”
Poke jumped up quickly.
“Do you know what to do? Do you know where to go and what time to be there?”
Poke nodded. “Yeah, we know. Why are you helpin’ us?”
“I have my reasons.”
“And you don’t want none of the money?”
“No. I don’t want any of your money.”
“Listen,” Poke said. “Seein’ as you don’t want none of the money or nothin’, then you must have another reason for helpin’ us. That bein’ the case, you reckon you could see your way clear to lend us just a little money till the job is done? I mean, maybe just enough for us to get us a good supper, and a couple of drinks before we go.”
“I’ll give you five dollars apiece now. But if you get drunk and fail to do your job…well, let’s just say that I will be very disappointed.”
“You don’t be worryin’ none about us. We’ll do our job, all right.”
“I’ll be counting on that. Now, please leave my house. You are smelling up the place.”
“Come on, Gilley,” Poke said. “Let’s go get us some supper.”
Chapter 3
AFTER LEAVING COLORADO, HAWKE RODE UP INTO the Wyoming Territory. He was following the Green River north, not sure where it would take him and not particularly caring. The river snaked out across the gently undulating sagebrush-covered prairie before him, shining gold in the setting sun, sometimes white where it broke over rocks, other times shimmering a deep blue-green in the swirling eddies and trapped pools.
The mountains on the far northern horizon were purple and mysterious, but a closer range of wild and ragged mountains to the east of him were dotted with aspen, pine, cottonwood, and willow. There were bare spots of rock and dirt in between the trees on the mountains, then sometimes gray and sometimes red, but always distant and foreboding.
Late in the afternoon a rabbit hopped up in front of Hawke and bounded down the trail ahead of him. Hawke stopped his horse, pulled his rifle from the saddle scabbard, looped his leg around the pommel, raised the rifle to his shoulder and, resting his elbow on a knee, squeezed the trigger. He saw a puff of fur and a spray of blood fly up. The rabbit made head-first somersault, then lay perfectly still.
Stopping for the day, Hawke made camp under a growth of cottonwoods. He skinned and cleaned the rabbit, skewered it on a green willow branch and suspended it between two forked limbs over the fire. When it was golden brown, he seasoned it with his dwindling supply of salt and began eating, pulling the meat away with his teeth even when it was almost too hot to hold.
After his supper, Hawke stirred the fire, then lay down alongside it, using his saddle as a pillow. He stared into the coals, watching the red sparks ride a heated column of air high up into the night sky. There, the still-glowing red and orange sparks joined the jewel-like scattering of stars.
He had a full belly, a good fire, a good horse, and a nearby supply of water. He was content.
Dorchester accompanied his daughter to the depot in Green River, riding in a coach and four. The coach was filled with luggage, ranging from the small valise and train case she would carry on with her, to several large suitcases and trunks that were checked through and would make the trip in the baggage car.
“Now, you are sure you have enough luggage?” her father teased. “I wouldn’t want you to get to Chicago and suddenly find that you didn’t have a dress, a hat, a pair of shoes, or the armoire from your bedroom.”
“Father, you know all of this isn’t for me,” she told him. “I’m taking some gifts to Carol. She will be the first of our relatives I’ve seen since we left England.”
Dorchester chuckled. “She’s your relative, my dear, not mine. She is your mother’s niece.”
“Nevertheless, she is the only relative I have, and I intend to enjoy my visit with her.”
Dorchester leaned over and kissed his daughter on the forehead. “Of course you do, and you should. I was just teasing you a little. I want you to have a wonderful time. Give your cousin my regards.”
“It’s not too late for you to come with me.”
Dorchester shook his head. “I had better stay with the ranch. But I do want you to send me a telegram as soon as you arrive in Chicago. I want to make certain you got there safely.”
Pamela laughed. “Really, Father, do you think the train is going to be attacked by Indians? Don’t worry about me. I should be worrying about you. If I’m not there to see that you eat properly, you are quite likely to forget.”
“Chicago is very large, you know, not like the small towns we have here. You must watch yourself while you are there.”
“Father, I will be all right.”
“Board!” the conductor called.
“Oh, I must get aboard now,” Pamela said. She kissed her father, then hurried to the train and stepped up onto the car vestibule. Dorchester went down to the track as well, and as the cars began to move, he walked alongside, keeping pace with the train while it pulled away from the depot.
“Remember, as soon as you arrive—”
“Send you a telegram, yes, I promise,” Pamela said, calling back to him, since the train was picking up speed and opening up the space between them. “And I’ll write to you in a few days to tell you what a wonderful time I’m having.”
“’Bye!” Dorchester called, waving.
“’Bye!”
Dorchester remained on the platform, watching until the train, moving rapidly, receded in the distance. Not until it was a remote whistle and a puff of smoke in the clear, blue sky did he return to the coach. His driver was sitting on the seat, waiting patiently for him.
“Are you ready to go home now, Mr. Dorchester?”
“Yes, thank you,” Dorchester replied.
As the coach pulled away from the station, he fought hard to suppress the strange sense of foreboding that was rising in his stomach.
It was late afternoon when Mason Hawke approached the little town. From his perspective and distance, the settlement looked little more inviting than any other group of the brown hummocks and hills common to that country. He stopped on a ridge and looked down at the town while removing his canteen from the saddle pommel. He took a swallow, recorked the canteen, then put back. Slapping his legs against the side of his horse, he headed the animal down the long slope of the ridge, wondering what town this was.
A small sign just on the edge of town answered the question for him:
SAGE CREEK
POPULATION 123
COME GROW WITH US.
The weathered board and faded letters indicated that the sign had been there for some time, no doubt erected when there was still some hope for the town’s future. Hawke doubted there were 123 residents in the town today, and, despite the optimistic tone of the sign, that the town was still growing.
In addition to the false-fronted shanties that lined both sides of the street, there were a few sod buildings, and even some tents, straggling along for nearly a quarter of a mile. Then, just as abruptly as the town started, it quit, and the prairie began again.
Hawke knew about such towns; he had been in hundreds of them over the last several years. He knew that in the spring the street would be a muddy mire, worked by the horses’ hooves and mixed with their droppings to become a stinking, sucking, pool of ooze. In the winter it would be frozen solid, while in the summer it would bake as hard as rock.
It was summer now, and the sun was yellow and hot.