The men lined up accordingly.
“Mr. Rob Dealey,” Dorchester said. “Forty-five dollars per month is a dollar and a half per day. At twenty-two days that comes to thirty-three dollars.”
Dorchester counted the money out and Dealey picked it up, thanked him, then stepped aside for the next person.
“Win Woodruff, thirty dollars per month is a dollar a day. Twenty-two days is twenty-two dollars.”
The cowboy who was going to strike it rich and then come back to buy Northumbria picked up his money with a mumbled thanks.
“Eddie Taylor, thirty dollars per month is a dollar a day. Twenty-two days is twenty-two dollars.”
Eddie took his money then joined Win, who was waiting for him on the steps.
“First thing we’ve got to do,” Win said as they walked away while, behind them, the other cowboys were getting paid, “is get into town and get some of the tools and stuff that we need.”
“Are we goin’ to be partners, or look for gold for ourselves?” Eddie asked.
“I don’t know. Why do you ask?”
“’Cause if we are goin’ to be partners, we wouldn’t both of us have to buy every piece of equipment. We could share equipment and it would be a lot less expensive gettin’ started.”
“Good idea!” Win said. He stuck out his hand. “All right, we’re partners.”
In the back room of her office, Bailey McPherson pulled a chair over and climbed up on it to get a closer look at the large map that Jason White had tacked up on the wall.
The map covered the southwestern corner of Wyoming Territory from the Continental Divide in the east to the territorial line in the west, and from the territorial line in the south to the Wind River Range and Sweetwater Mountains in the north.
A wide, cross-hatched swath ran from Green River City, along Green River to the Big Sandy, up the Big Sandy to the Little Sandy River, and up the Little Sandy to South Pass.
“That’s a lot of territory,” Addison Ford said, standing beside her, looking at the same map. Even though Bailey was standing on the chair, her head was only slightly higher than Ford’s head.
“Yes, it is,” she said. “And since it controls all of the water, once we get our hands on this land, we’ll be able to squeeze the others out.”
“In order to do that, you will have to dam off the rivers and creeks,” Ford said.
“I’ve already started.”
“You’ve already started?” Ford replied, surprised. “How can you have already started? We haven’t served any papers on anyone yet.”
“Well, you and the government have your schedule, Mr. Ford, and I have mine.”
“You must be very careful about this,” Ford said. “As it stands now, we have the law on our side. So far, everything we are doing is legal. Step over the bounds, just a little bit, and everything could fall apart.”
“Do you have the papers drawn up yet?” Bailey asked.
“I do. It’s just a matter of where to serve the first one.”
Bailey looked back at the map, then put her hand on the Little Sandy, way up top.
“We may as well start here and work our way down,” she said. “Serve them there.”
Ford nervously cleared his throat. “You want me to serve them? Personally?”
“Yes. You are the one who represents the U. S. government, are you not?” she asked.
“Well, yes, I am. But that doesn’t mean that I want to—or even have to—serve them personally,” Ford said.
“Given the rewards, I’d think you would be more than willing to serve the papers,” Bailey said.
“I haven’t been out here very long,” Ford said, “but I have lived here long enough to know that if you tell a rancher you are taking his land away from him, you’d better get back out of the way. He may not take it all that well. In fact he could get, uh…”
“Dangerous?” Bailey suggested.
“Yes.”
“In other words, you are afraid to serve the papers.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement.
“Yes,” Ford replied. “I’m a government official, I’m not a lawman. I wouldn’t know how to handle it if someone decided to put up a fight.”
“Don’t worry,” Bailey said. “I’ll have Mr. Dancer serve the papers.”
“Dancer, yes,” Ford replied. “He would be just the one to serve them.”
From the
GREEN RIVER A BOOMTOWN
From the beginning, the town of Green River could have been classified as hardworking, fairly sober, and almost always conscientious. But recently it has turned into a rip-snorting, hell-raising town, bent upon divesting every citizen who arrives of his poke in the quickest manner possible.
What has caused this usually mild and law-abiding town to undergo such a change? It is the discovery of gold in the Sweetwater Mountains to our north, and the desire of all to make their fortune.
And who has come to town, to flood our streets and fill our saloons, cafes, and gambling houses? Those selfsame fortune seekers. There are a good many people here now. Broad-brimmed and spurred Texas cowboys, Nebraska farmers, keen businessmen from Chicago, St. Louis, and even New York, real estate agents, land seekers, hungry lawyers, gamblers, women with white sun bonnets and modest dress, painted women with colorful ribbons and scandalous dress, express wagons going pell-mell, prairie schooners and farm wagons, all rushing after the almighty dollar.
Already a struggle has begun for control of the soul of our fair town, between the preachers who have come to save us and the gamblers and harlots who have come to drag us into their parlors of sin.
Green River has many characteristics that prevent its being classified as a town of strictly moral ideas and principles, notwithstanding it is supplied with a church, a courthouse, and a jail. Other institutions counterbalance the good works supposed to emanate from the first mentioned. Like many other frontier towns of this modern day, fast men and fast women are around by the score, seeking whom they may devour, hunting for a soft target, and taking him in for cash. Many is the would-be gold seeker who can testify as to the abilities of these charlatans to successfully follow the callings they have embraced in quest of money.
Hawke folded the newspaper and put it to one side, then picked up his beer and looked around the saloon. Aaron Peabody was pounding away on the piano, but fortunately there was so much noise in the saloon that his cacophonous efforts could scarcely be heard.
Libby St. Cyr came into the saloon. She was wearing a low-cut dress that showed a generous spill of breasts at the neckline. The dress clung to her body until just below the flare of her hips, where it became fuller. When she saw Hawke standing at the bar, she walked over to talk to him.
“That should be you playing the piano,” she said.
Hawke shook his head. “No, I think not. Not that piano,” he said.
Peabody hit another sour note.
“Oh, my, is he that bad, or is it the piano?”
“Yes,” Hawke replied, and it took Libby a second to understand his answer.
When she did understand it, she laughed.
“Could I buy you a drink, Miss St. Cyr?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you.”
“From a good bottle,” Hawke said to Jake, holding up a finger.
Jake poured whiskey into a clean glass and gave it to Libby.
“Miss, are you looking for work?” he asked.
“No,” she said, lifting the drink. She smiled at Hawke, then tossed it down quickly. “Why do you ask?” she asked, turning back to Jake.
“Well, uh, the way you look, uh, I mean…”
“Oh?” Libby said, pouting. “You don’t like the way I look?”
“No, ma’am, I didn’t say nothin’ like that.”
“You are teasing him, Miss St. Cyr,” Hawke said.
“I suppose I am.”
