had absolutely no idea of what kind of man this Rex Davidson was.
But Sally did. And Smoke could handle it, his way. And she was glad Louis and York were with him.
York just might be the ticket for Martha out of the East and into the still wild and wide-open West. He was a good-looking young man.
The servant answered the door and Martha entered the sitting room. Sally waved her to a chair with imported antimacassars on the arms and back. The day was warm, and both women fanned themselves to cool a bit.
“I was serious about going west, Sally.”
“I thought as much. And now,” she guessed accurately, “you want to know all about it.”
“That’s right.”
Where to start? Sally thought. And how to really explain about the vastness and the emptiness and the magnificence of it all?
Before she could start, the door opened again, and this time the room was filled with small children: Sally’s nieces and nephews and a few of their friends.
“Aunt Sally,” a redheaded, freckle-faced boy said. “Will you tell us about Uncle Smoke?”
“I certainly will.” She winked at Martha. “I’ll tell you all about the High Lonesome and the strong men who live there.”
They pulled out at first light. Three men who wore their guns as a part of their being. Three men who had faced death and beaten it so many times none of them could remember all the battles.
Louis had chosen a big buckskin-colored horse with a mean look to his eyes. The horse looked just about as mean as Smoke knew Drifter really was.
Before leaving Denver, Smoke had wired Jim Wilde and asked for both York and Louis to be formally deputized as U.S. Marshals. The request had been honored within the day.
So they were three men who now wore official badges on their chests. One, a millionaire adventurer. One, a successful rancher. One, a young man who was only weeks away from meeting the love of his life.
They rode east, veering slightly south, these three hard-eyed and heavily armed men. They would continue a southerly line until reaching a trading post on the banks of the Big Sandy; a few more years and the trading post would become the town of Limon.
At the trading post, they would cut due east and hold to that all the way across Kansas. They would stay south of Hell Creek, but on their ride across Colorado, they would ford Sand Creek, an offshoot of the Republican River. They would ride across Spring Creek, Landsman, East Spring, and cross yet another Sand Creek before entering into Kansas.
Kansas was still woolly but nothing like it had been a few years back when the great cattle herds were being driven up from Texas, and outlaws and gunfighters were just about anywhere one wished to look.
But the three men rode with caution. The decade had rolled into the eighties, but there were still bands of Indians who left the reservation from time to time; still bands of outlaws that killed and robbed. And they were riding into an area of the country where men still killed other men over the bitterness of that recent unpleasantness called by some the Civil War and by others the War Between the States.
The days were warm and pleasant or hot and unpleasant as the men rode steadily eastward across the plains. But the plains were now being dotted and marred and scarred with wire. Wire put up by farmers to keep ranchers’ cattle out. Wire put up by ranchers to keep nesters out of water holes, creeks, and rivers. Ranchers who wished to breed better cattle put up wire to keep inferior breeds from mixing in and to keep prize bulls at home.
But none of the men really liked wire, even though all could see the reasons—most of the time—behind the erecting of barbed wire fences.
They did not seek out others as they rode toward the east and faraway New Hampshire. Every third or fourth day, late in the afternoon, if a town was handy, they would check into a hotel and seek out a shave and a bath. If not, they would bathe in a handy stream and go unshaven until a town dotted the vast prairie.
“Ever been to this New Hamp-shire, Louis?” York asked the gambler.
“Never have, my friend. But it is an old and very settled state. One of the original thirteen to ratify the Constitution. The first settlement—I can’t recall the name—was back in 1623. But I can assure you both, if we ride in like this, armed to the teeth and looking like buccaneers on horseback, we are,” he smiled, “going to raise some eyebrows.”
“How’s that?” York asked. “We don’t look no different than anybody else?”
Louis laughed pleasantly and knowingly. “Ah, but my young friend, we are much different from the folks you are about to meet in a few weeks. Their streets are well-lighted with gas lamps. A few might have telephones— marvelous devices. The towns you will see will be old and settled towns. No one carries a gun of any type; many villages and towns have long banned their public display except for officers of the law. And thank you, Smoke, for commissioning us; this way we can carry firearms openly.
“No, York, the world you are only days away from viewing is one that you have never seen before. Smoke, my suggestion would be that we ride the trains well into Massachusetts and then head north on horseback from our jumping-off place. I would suggest Springfield. And get ready for some very strange looks, gentlemen.”
“I’m beginnin’ not to like these folks and I ain’t even met none of ’em yet,” York groused. “Don’t tote no gun! What do they do if somebody tries to mess with ’em?”
“They are civilized people,” Louis said, with more than a touch of sarcasm in his statement. “They let the law take care of it.”
“Do tell,” York said. “In other words, they ain’t got the sand to fight their own fights?”
“That is one way of putting it, York,” the gambler said with a smile. “My, but this is going to be a stimulating and informative journey.”
Louis cantered on ahead.
