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  “What about the trail drive irons?” Paddy asked.

  Dane paused in thought. Then his eyes brightened.

  “We’ve got those running irons we got from those rustlers last year,” he said. “We can add to the Circle K with some kind of mark.”

  “That would surely work,” Paddy said.

  “Save us a lot of time at that. Maybe the kid did us a favor after all.”

  Paddy laughed.

  Joe Eagle scowled, as did Thor.

  “We’ll gather some hundred or two hundred extra head,” Dane said to Paddy. “In case we lose a few on the drive.”

  “My aim is not to lose a single head,” Paddy said.

  “That’s the kind of talk I like to hear,” Dane said, and reached into his pocket for his tobacco pouch. “Joe, go tell Ora Lee to make us a fresh pot of coffee. And tell her to make it strong. We got a lot of figurin’ to do before Himmel gets back with them papers.”

  Paddy looked up at Joe. “Tell Ora Lee to make that coffee so strong I can float a horseshoe nail in it.”

  Joe grunted and left the room.

  Dane stuck a wad of chaw in his mouth and reached down to drag a brass spittoon closer to his chair.

  There was an excitement in the room. A trail drive could be hell, but it was also an adventure, an adventure into the unknown. There would be new lands to see, weather, all kinds of obstacles. But those were what tested a man and made him stronger. And at the end of the drive was the golden chalice, the treasure, money to pay the hands, and money to pay off the accursed mortgage. There was, Dane thought, newfound freedom at the end of every trail drive. And he was determined to make this one work.

  Chapter 6

  Earl Throckmorton was a small weasel of a man, with liverish thin lips, a thin mustache, a thick shock of coal black hair, and shifty porcine eyes that were pale blue. He wore a pin-striped gray suit of flannel and sported a plain black vest with a gold watch chain dangling from a button hole and dripping into a small pocket. He sat at his cherry-wood desk, a few papers in front of him, and stacked trays that represented in- and out-boxes.

  His secretary, Linda Watson, tapped on his door with the opaque glass window bearing his name and position at Prairie Land Bank.

  “Come in,” he said.

  “That young man is here, Mr. Throckmorton.”

  “Randy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Send him in,” Throckmorton said.

  “He seems awfully agitated, sir.”

  “Well, he’s young and gets excited quite easily.”

  Throckmorton’s diction was precise and his words crisp as newly minted greenbacks. He pretended to be busy when Linda ushered Randy into his ornate office, with its world globe, territorial maps framed on the wall, and a large window that looked out on a small green patch of lawn at the rear of the bank with a bench covered with pigeon droppings. The bench was painted green and dotted with white and black globs dropped by perching pigeons.

  “Hello, Mr. Throckmorton,” Randy said, hat in hand. “I got some news for you.”

  “Sit down, sit down, Randy. I want to hear all about it.”

  Randy sat down in a maple chair padded with leather at the seat and back. He looked up at Throckmorton in his raised chair, with his hair slicked back and parted in the middle.

  Out of politeness and respect, Randy removed his dirty, misshapen hat and crossed his legs in an attempt to hide his scuffed boots. “Well, Mr. Throckmorton, Dane Kramer is going to drive three thousasnd head of cattle clear up to Omaha.”

  “You don’t say. When?”

  “I don’t know. A man from up there came to see him and offered him a lot of money. And that ain’t all.”

  “Go on, son, go on,” Throckmorton said.

  “They’s more cattle in Kansas City and the man from Omaha will pay Dane to drive those up to Omaha too.”

  “My, my, that’s interesting news, Randy. Who is this man from Omaha?”

  “He said his name was Himmel. Otto, I think. He’s rich, I think.”

  “Anything else?” Throckmorton asked.

  “Well, I can’t go back and work there no more. I got caught listenin’ at the winder.”

  “I see. What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. I was hopin’ you’d pay me extry for this information, Mr. Throckmorton.”

  Throckmorton leaned back in his chair. He put his hands together and made a steeple with his fingers. “How much do you think this information is worth, young man?”

  “Oh, an extry ten or twenty dollars, maybe.”

  Throckmorton smiled condescendingly. He leaned forward and propped his elbows on his desk.

  He picked up a piece of paper and wrote a message on it with a sharpened pencil.

  He held it out for Randy. “Take this to Miss Watson out there and she’ll give you twenty dollars.”

  Randy stood up and took the paper from Throckmorton’s hand. He put his hat back on and backed away from the desk. “Thank you, Mr. Throckmorton. You ever need me, I’ll be takin’ a job at the general store. I saw a sign there this mornin’ sayin’ they needed help.”

  “Good luck to you, Randy,” he said. “And when you see Miss Watson, please tell her to come into my office when she’s finished with your transaction.”

  “I sure will, sir. Thanks again.”

  Randy left the office and stopped at Linda Watson’s desk. Throckmorton could see their shadows through the opaque pane. He stood up and walked to the window and looked out at the pigeon-spattered bench.

  When Linda entered his office with her steno pad and pencil, Throckmorton turned away from the window.

  “Yes, Mr. Throckmorton,” she said. “Do you want to dictate a letter?”

  “No, Miss Watson. I want you to tell the messenger to come in here.”

  “Bobby Fremont is on an errand at the moment,” she said.

  “As soon as he gets back, I wish to see him.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “He should be back at any moment. I had to notarize some papers that were sent over by attorney Mel Bishop a while ago.”

  She had started to leave when Throckmorton called her back.

  “Mel sent some papers over from his office?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m a notary, you know.”

  “Yes, yes, I know. What were the papers?”

  “Legal documents regarding a cattle sale involving Dane Kramer and a Mr. Otto Himmel. Mel sent a note over that the signatures were legitimate, so I notarized the documents.”

  “Do you remember the contents of those documents?” Throckmorton asked in a level tone that gave no indication of his extreme interest in the documents she notarized.

  “There was to be a cash advance on a herd of cattle, with the balance due in Omaha, plus a provision for Mr. Kramer to pick up an additional herd in Kansas City for delivery to the Himmel stock pens in Omaha, Nebraska.”

  “Very well, Miss Watson. Do you recall the amount of the advance and the cash due on delivery?”

  “I believe there was one thousand payable in advance, with an additional five hundred to be paid by a bank draft in Kansas City.”

  “What about the price of the cattle?”

  “I don’t recall the amount per head, Mr. Throckmorton, but I believe it was something like fifteen dollars a head for Mr. Kramer’s cattle and a smaller sum, two or three dollars, for the herd he is to pick up in Kansas City. I’m sorry I can’t remember every detail. Mel wanted the documents back right away and Bobby was standing by my desk waiting to run them back to Mel’s office.”

  “Very well, Miss Watson. Thank you. Please send the messenger in as soon as he returns.”

  “I will,” she said, and left the office, closing the door behind her.

  Throckmorton sat down behind his desk and took a blank sheet of paper from his drawer and began to write down figures. He wrote down three thousand and multiplied it by fifteen. Then he tore the paper into small pieces and threw them in the wastebasket u
nder his desk. He frowned as he stared at the opaque glass in the door as if waiting for shadows to appear beyond it.

  “The bastard can pay off his mortgage and then some,” he said to himself. “He’s slipping through my fingers like a trout on the end of my line.”

  Several minutes later, Linda opened the door to Throckmorton’s office and peeked in. “Bobby’s back, Mr. Throckmorton. Should I send him in?”

  “By all means, Miss Watson.”

  She nodded and a moment later a young man dressed in a dark shirt and a messenger’s billed cap entered Throckmorton’s office.

  “You wanted to see me, sir?” Bobby asked.

  “Yes. Don’t sit down. This won’t take long, and it must remain a confidence between us, you understand?”

  “Yes, sir, I understand.”

  “I want you to run over to the Prairie Dog Boardinghouse and find a Mr. Concho Larabee. Do you know the place?”

  “Yes, sir, it’s right next to the Prairie Dog Saloon.”

  “Do you know Mr. Larabee?”

  “I don’t know him, but I know what he looks like. I’ve seen him at the saloon on Saturday nights when I go there to play cards.”

  “Fine. It’s urgent. Bring him back with you if necessary. Tell him…tell him just to hurry, will you?”

  “Right away, sir,” Bobby said, and then left the office.

  The door slammed shut.

  Throckmorton opened one of the bottom drawers of his desk and took out a small metal strongbox. He reached in his pocket and brought forth a ring of keys. He separated a small one from the bunch and inserted it into the lock of the strongbox, turned it, and opened the lid.

  There was a stack of large greenbacks inside the box. Throckmorton leafed through them and took out a crisp new hundred-dollar bill. Then he closed the box, relocked it, and put it back in the drawer.

  He laid the hundred-dollar bill on his desk and patted it.

  “Now, Dane Kramer,” he murmured to himself, “we’ll see how far you get with your herd of cattle.”

  He reached over to a humidor on his desk and extracted a cigar. It had been rolled in Havana and shipped overland by freight at his request, He took out a small pocketknife and sawed off the end. Then he stuck it in his mouth, opened a box of lucifers, and struck a match on the sandpapered side of the box. He lit the cigar and blew a perfect smoke ring after he drew on it. He watched the ring quaver and swirl with blue smoke and smiled as he took another drag on the stogie.

  He looked down at the bill on his desk.

  “Money,” he said to himself, “that’s what makes the world go round, and this should get the ball rolling.”

  He filled his office with smoke and the scent of dried tobacco and Spanish fingers that lingered on the leaves like dried sweat.

  Chapter 7

  Concho Larabee was a gunfighter. He was also a drifter who sometimes worked on a ranch, or robbed wayfarers or drunks. He was good with his fists and adept with knife and gun. He sought out small prairie towns where he could both blend in and stand out as somebody to be reckoned with. He used intimidation like a weapon. He was fast on the draw and he could cut a man to ribbons with that big bowie knife he carried on his right hip.

  He drank in the Prairie Dog Saloon because he was out of work and looking for any unsuspecting pilgrim he could beat at cards or rob come nightfall. He drank warm beer and looked at the sad faces of men who sat at the bar or at tables. He hadn’t done another job for Throckmorton in nearly a month when he had run a sodbuster off a piece of land Throckmorton had wanted. That was about all he had done of late, scare off poor folks who couldn’t keep up with their mortgages or were on land that Earl wanted to own.

  A man pushed open the batwing doors of the saloon and walked bowlegged up to Larabee. He too was wearing a pistol slung low on his gun belt so that he could just slide his hand over and draw the weapon without having to kink up his arm. He was mindful that most lawmen wore their pistols high on their gun belts so that they had to lift their arm to draw. That made them a mite slower and gave him and men like him a distinct advantage in a gunfight.

  “Mornin’, Concho,” the man said. “You wettin’ your whistle kinda early, ain’t you?”

  “Couldn’t sleep. Your snoring kept me awake in the next room, Lem.”

  “Well, tit for damned tat, Conch. Your bedsprings on Saturday night keep me awake. You ought to put some oil on ’em when you bed a glitter gal.”

  “Pull up a stool, Lem, and I’ll buy you a glass of suds. That might make you keep your trap shut.”

  “I’ll have a shot of rye, Concho.” Lemuel Norton pulled out a stool and sat down. “I come to tell you they’s a feller from the Prairie come to the hotel askin’ for you. Some kind of messenger boy.”

  Concho looked around and at the still-quavering batwing doors. “Well, where is he?”

  “I sent him on back,” Lem said.

  “Hell, that was right kind of you, Lem. He might have put money in my pocket.”

  “I got the message from the lad before I sent him packin’.”

  The bartender, one Walt Cleary, sauntered over, a bar towel in his hands. He looked half-asleep. “Lem, you want somethin’ to drink, or are you just warmin’ up one of my stools for a payin’ customer?”

  “Bring him a rye, Walt,” Concho said. “And put a chili pepper in it.”

  “We’re all out of chili peppers,” Walt said. “How’s about me droppin’ some rat shit in it for extry flavor?”

  “Hey, I don’t need no food, Walt. Just some good old rye whiskey to get my eyes open all the way.”

  “Two bits, Concho,” Walt said.

  “I want four fingers, not a teaspoonful,” Lem said.

  “Four bits, then,” Walt said. He brought a large shot glass and a bottle of house rye and poured it into the glass, filling it to a quarter inch just below the rim. He was a good barkeep.

  Concho plunked a fifty-cent piece onto the bar and Walt wiped it up with his free hand and carried it to the register in the middle of the back bar with its painted lady sprawled on a bearskin rug half-naked, with alluring eyes and a scrap of a scarf over her loins.

  “Well, Lem, you goin’ to tell me what Messenger Boy wanted, or are you just agoin’ to sit there and swill your whiskey like a damned tarbaby?”

  Lem lifted his glass in a silent toast to his friend, then drank half of it in one gulp. “Messenger Boy said you was to skedaddle over to the bank right away. Said Throckmorton wanted to see you pronto.”

  “That’s money in my pocket, Lem. Maybe yours too.”

  “That’s what I figured, which was why I come over to cadge a mornin’ drink from you. I’m damned near broke after our last job for Throck.”

  Concho drained his beer and slid his stool away from the bar. He nodded to Walt and started to leave.

  “Don’t go too far, Lem. If Earl’s in a hurry, he must have something real big for me to do.”

  “I’ll be either here or back at the hotel,” Lem said. “Got another four bits? I might have another shot of rye.”

  “Tell Walt to put it on your tab,” Concho said.

  “I don’t have no tab,” Lem said.

  “Tell him you’ll wash dishes.”

  Lem made a sound of disgust and Concho walked out of the saloon. In moments, he was at the bank. He walked straight over to Miss Watson’s desk. He leaned over and admired her trim body, the tight bodice covering her firm breasts. Linda was nearing thirty and still unmarried, but had rebuffed Concho more than once when he asked her to supper or a pie social.

  “Earl sent for me,” he said.

  “I know, Concho. He said to send you right in when you arrived.”

  She leaned back away from the scent of his breath and he stood up to his full six feet two inches and hitched his belt.

  “Well, I’ll just go right on in, then,” he said.

  “Please knock first, Mr. Larabee,” she said.

  “What happened to Concho?” he asked
.

  “It was just a slip of the tongue, Mr. Larabee. I forgot my manners.”

  “If you had a little less manners and more gumption, you’d let me take you dancin’ once in a while.”

  “Thank you for the invitation,” she said. “Mr. Throckmorton is waiting.”

  Concho walked to the door with Throckmorton’s name on it and rapped loudly.

  “Come in,” Throckmorton called.

  Concho opened the door and stepped inside Throckmorton’s office. He stood there for a moment until his eyes adjusted to the change of light.

  “You sent for me, Earl?” he said.

  “Take a chair, Concho. I have something for you.”

  Concho walked to the desk and sat down in one of the chairs.

  Throckmorton picked up the hundred-dollar bill and held it between both hands.

  “What’s that?” Concho asked.

  “Earnest money, Concho. Earnest on my part, that is. I have a job for you. A very big job this time and there’s nine more of these if you take it on.”

  Concho rose from his chair and reached for the hundred-dollar bill.

  Throckmorton snatched it away, out of Concho’s reach. “Not so fast, Concho. First, listen to what I have to say and then if you agree to do the job, I’ll give it to you. And a lot more when you start the task I have for you.”

  “A lot more?”

  “Yes. This is a big job and you’ll need plenty of help.”

  “What’s the job?” Concho asked as he sat back down.

  Throckmorton looked past him to the plaque that hung high over his door. He looked at that plaque often during each day.

  The plaque in a wooden frame read LAND IS THE BASIS OF ALL WEALTH.

  Chapter 8

  Throckmorton shifted his glance from the saying over his door and to Concho.

  “Concho,” he said. “I want you to stop a cattle drive.”

  It took a moment or two for Concho to react to the statement. “Stop what?”

  “Dane Kramer plans to drive three thousand head of cattle up to Omaha. Probably take him a week or so to get his crew ready, make the gather, and head out. I don’t want it to happen anywhere around here, so you’ll have to follow the herd and find a place to put out his lamp, run off his drovers, or stampede the cows back to their home range.”