Smoke took the bank draft from the cattle buyer and tucked it safely away in a money belt around his waist. He had a letter from Walt giving him the authority to endorse the draft and deposit it in the bank over in Malad City, a wild, rip-roaring town with a history of murder, lynchings, and stage holdups. But the Overland Stage Company — whose run stopped at Malad City—had a good record of foiling holdups, so Walt’s money would be reasonably safe after being deposited.
Smoke told Dolittle and Harrison to keep the boys close until he got back.
He crossed the Bear and headed for the wide-open town of Malad City. The town was named by French trappers, who, after becoming sick from gorging on beaver meat, named the town Malade, thinking the area unhealthy.
Smoke had a hunch that with the news of Jud Vale’s hiring of gun hands now so widespread, Malad City would be crawling with guns for hire stopping for liquid refreshments—and a fling with the hurdy-gurdy girls—as they made their way to the Bar V. And he also wondered if the ante on his head had been upped past the five thousand dollar mark.
It wouldn’t surprise him a bit.
As he rode. Smoke tried to put some more reason behind what Jud Vale was doing. Or was what Walt had told him the sum total of it all? Smoke concluded that Walt was probably right in his assessment of the situation. If Vale could get his hands on the Box T, he would then have the largest spread in the state, and would certainly be a powerful man, a man to reckon with.
On this trip, Smoke stayed with the main road leading to Malad City, and a sorry road it was.
He met several groups of men, riding in twos and threes, all looking like hardcases, and all heading east. They either did not recognize him, or did not want to brace him with such short backup.
Since he had been late getting away from the railhead, Smoke made camp just to the south of Oxford Peak, the snow-capped mountain thrusting up more than a mile and a half into the air. He was boiling his coffee and frying his bacon when he heard the faint sounds of hooves approaching his camp from out of the fast falling dusk, the rider coming from the north.
“Hello, the fire! I’m friendly.”
“Then come on in and light and sit. Coffee’s almost fit to drink.'
Smoke saw the young man’s hair sticking out from under his hat before he saw anything else. Flame red. He’d bet the young rider was called Rusty. The man’s outfit was old, but well-cared for, and Smoke liked the way the young rider saw to his horse’s needs before he took care of his own. He carefully rubbed the animal down with handfuls of grass and saw that it was watered and picketed on good graze. Smoke also noticed that the redhead’s gun was tied down—which might not mean anything, or everything.
As he approached the fire, tin cup and plate in his left hand, his grin was genuine and his handshake firm and quick.
“Sure am glad to see a friendly face. Most of the hombres I been seein’ the past couple of days all looked like they could eat a porcupine and not feel the quills!”
Smoke filled his coffee cup without comment.
“My folks dubbed me Clarence, but nobody calls me that. Just Rusty.”
“I guessed right at first glance.” Smoke speared some bacon out of the pan and handed a hunk of bread to Rusty.
“Much obliged.” He let his eyes drift over Smoke’s rig, noting the two guns, one butt-forward.
“You ridin’ east like all them others?” Smoke asked.
“West for a day, then I’ll do a turnaround back to the Bear. Any work over yonder?”
“I’m lookin’ for hands.”
“You shore found one. My poke’s as flat as a sit-on pancake.”
“Might be dangerous signin’ on with me.”
Rusty’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of work you got in mind, mister-whatever-your-name-is?”
“Punching cows. Fixing fence. Cleaning out water-holes. Cowboy work. You up to it?”
“Shore! That’s what I been doin’ since I was big enough to sit a saddle. What’s the danger you talkin’ about?”
Smoke sipped his coffee before replying. “Big rancher who is about half nuts is trying to run the old man and woman who own the spread off their land. They hit us the other night. We emptied seven saddles.”
“How many is us?”
“You talking about hands?”
“Yep.”
“Three old men who are about seventy and a handful of kids, average age twelve.”
Rusty looked dead at him. “Are you serious?”
“As a crutch.”
“What’re you payin’?”
“A hundred a month and found.”
“A hundred a month! Shoot, man! You just hiredyourself a hand.”
“Those are fighting wages, Rusty.”
