Free King of Spades by Frederick Manfred Page B

like my dad. I better skip the country.”
    Roddy caught the steamboat St. Louis just as the Missouri River was floating it away from the wharf. No one saw him climb aboard.

PART TWO

    Ten years later. June, 1875.
    Earl Ransom
    1
    Two bearded horsemen detoured around an outcropping of fire-gnawed rocks. Each man led a string of four gray mules. The mules stepped along under light packs.
    Toothy mountains on the left slowly retracted into the gums of a soft red land. Wind-combed prairies on the right gradually faded off into the mist of oncoming night.
    The two men had taken their time coming north out of Denver. The eight mules, grazing mostly on buffalo grass, were silky and high-spirited. The two horses, both tan mustangs, were spunky.
    The man in the lead was Sam Slaymaker, sometime freighter and prospector. He was the older, and a powerful chunk of a man. He was inclined to be fleshy when in town in the winter,and rawboned when on the trail in the summer. His long curly hair was gray, as was his bushy mustache, while his chin whiskers were as black and as scraggly as the beard of a buffalo bull. He wore buckskins from head to foot and was armed with a blue .45. His brown bear eyes continually roved from side to side, ever on the alert, sometimes hard and brilliant when some sign caught his interest, sometimes twinkling and gentle when some merry memory crossed his mind.
    The other man was Earl Ransom, sometime swamper and prospector. He was young, at first glance appearing to be somewhere in his middle twenties, and a handsome piece of a man. He was always slim, summer or winter. His cropped hair was black, as was his gambler’s mustache and wavy beard. He too wore buckskins and was armed with a six- shooter. His green eyes drifted from one object to another, sometimes dreamily silverish when looking up at the white mountain peaks to the west, sometimes smoky when looking within.
    The trail straightened. Shortly, still heading north, they topped a rise. Ahead and below, on a wide light-green plain, lay the new city of Cheyenne.
    Cheyenne lay mostly on the other side of Crow Creek. There were no trees. New brick buildings along Main Street lay stark in the sun. On the north side a dozen or so ornate houses with stables in back gave the town a little tone. A railroad lay along the south side, and down the draw on either side of the tracks stood huts, tents, dugouts, shacks, all sorts of ramshackle structures. Plumes of blue smoke from the various chimneys rose straight up to a level of a hundred feet, then bent off toward the east, forming a little cloud deck. An engine puffing in the yards added its deep black plume to the little cloud.
    Both men reined in their horses, the strings of mules sauntering up around them. Both men settled back in their saddles and had themselves a long and loving look at Cheyenne.Even Sam Slaymaker’s tan mustang shot its ears forward, listening intently.
    Sam observed his horse’s interest. “From the way old Colonel’s perked up here, you’d think he was as hot for a whiskey as you and me.”
    Ransom grunted.
    Sam turned in his saddle. “Ransom, that’s enough black sull out of you now. You’ve had a dally on your tongue all the way out of Denver. What’s up with you, boy?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œMore bad dreams?”
    â€œSome.”
    â€œThey’ll pass, son. I used to have ’em myself on the trail.” Sam stroked his mustache. “A long slow drink of good red American whiskey, plus a night with a girl on the line, will fix that.”
    Ransom nibbled on his lower lip. The tips of his mustache wiggled.
    â€œTake them mice out of your mouth, boy. And no use to say they ain’t there. I see the tips of their tails hanging out.”
    Ransom allowed himself a little smile. He touched his hand to his right eye.
    â€œThere! You did it again.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œLike you was fixing on a