Almost two weeks had passed since they left the Canadian River when they made camp outside Denver City. The journey would have taken less time, but they had the good fortune to come upon a herd of deer near the Arkansas River, and were able to catch them at a shallow crossing. Both men managed to get off two clear shots, resulting in four carcasses to skin and butcher. By this time, they had concluded that there were no Comanche following them, so they took a few days to smoke-dry the meat and rig packs for it on the backs of the Indian ponies. The fresh venison was a welcome change from the steady diet of bacon that Riley had been complaining about for some time, and there was now a good supply of the dried meat to take the salt pork off the menu for a while.
“All a feller needs now is a good drink of whiskey,” he opined. “And since we’ll be goin’ to town to get some supplies, I’m set on havin’ one.”
“I expect I’ll join you,” Joel said. “It has been a while.”
Both men had little more than the money from their last payday in the army, and that was Confederate scrip, worthless beyond being used to start a fire. With rifles and extra horses, however, they were confident that they had plenty to trade for what they needed.
With the towering peaks of the Rocky Mountains to the west of them, they had continued their trek north across the high plains until reaching the creek below the thriving mining town. An abandoned mining claim with part of an old sluice box still standing seemed like a good spot to make camp. From the look of it, the prior residents had spent some time there before giving up and moving on.
“Most likely found a little bit of dust to make ’em stay so long,” Riley speculated, “enough to buy grub, maybe. I’ll bet for every miner that strikes it rich, there’s a thousand workin’ for grub money.” That triggered another thought he was curious about. “You reckon that brother of yours is gettin’ anything outta that claim of his out in Idaho?”
“I’ve got no idea,” Joel replied. “Tell you the truth, I haven’t thought much about it.”
He was truthful in his answer. If there was gold to be found, it was all the better, but the driving force behind his decision to go west was a strong hankering to see that part of the country. He would decide what he was going to do once he got there, whether it was raising horses and cattle or maybe even sheep. He didn’t care, he just felt the mountains calling him, and he was determined to see them before he got sidetracked somewhere else.
• • •
Although there had been a considerable portion of the Denver City population that had been Confederate sympathizers, and militia units had been organized to fight on the side of the South, the war had gone in favor of the Union. The Confederate troops were now disbanded, but there was still no sign of uniting the territory under one flag. It was into this fragile state of divided loyalties that the two ex–Confederate soldiers rode into town early one Monday morning, leading horses loaded down with army carbines and dried deer meat. As they were passing the bank near the south end of the town, they saw the bank manager just unlocking the door.
Curious to know if the Confederate money the two of them carried might still be of any value in this part of the territory, Joel pulled Will to a stop in front of the door.
“Good mornin’ to ya,” he called out.
The banker, upon turning to see who had greeted him, was startled to discover the two trail-weathered riders in the faded Confederate uniforms. His first thought was of the possibility that his bank was about to be robbed. Oblivious of the banker’s fears, Joel asked his question.
“Me and my partner, here, are still carryin’ our pay from the Confederate army. I was wonderin’ if we could find out what it’s worth if we exchange it for Union money.”
Relaxing at once, since it was now obvious the strangers were not planning to rob the bank, the manager answered.
“I’m afraid I have to tell you that your money is worthless. You see, Confederate money was printed and issued by the states—not like Union currency. So what it amounts to is there might be a small exchange rate in some states—no more than pennies on the dollar at that. Most states and territories don’t give you anything for it. Colorado Territory is one of them.”
It was not really surprising news to Joel. He figured as much, but he thought it had been worth asking, just in case.
“We’re needin’ to pick up some supplies,” he said. “We’ve got stuff to trade. Maybe you could point us toward someplace that’ll do some tradin’.”
“The man you want to see is Guthrie,” the banker replied. “He’ll sell or barter.” He turned to point toward the north end of the street. “Right next to the saloon—there’s a big sign over the door—Guthrie’s General Store. He was here before the town, ran a trading post, dealing with the Indians mostly, so he’s used to trading.”
“Much obliged,” Joel said, and nudged Will with his heels.
They continued up the street toward the general store, both men fairly amazed at the number of people they passed, men and women, going about the business one would expect in a busy town back east. It was not what Joel had expected of a mining town. There were several men lounging on the boardwalk before a saloon that proclaimed itself to be the Miner’s Rest, and Riley turned to give Joel a grin as they rode past. Next door to the saloon, they dismounted and tied their horses to the hitching rail. Riley licked his lips as if already able to taste that drink he was bent on having as soon as their business in the store was completed.
“Don’t forget,” he felt compelled to remind Joel, “we need to have some cash money to boot.”
Joel chuckled. “I won’t. Else you might trade one of the horses for a shot of whiskey,” he teased.
“Mornin’, fellers,” Ed Guthrie greeted them when they walked in. A short, stocky man that struck Joel as the spitting image of Riley if he had had hair on his shiny bald head, he came out from behind the counter. “You fellers just hit town?” he asked, making no effort to hide his frank appraisal of the two Confederate soldiers. Not waiting for an answer for his question, he asked another. “What can I do for you?”
“We’ll be needin’ some supplies,” Joel answered, “some coffee, some sugar, flour, dried beans, some salt, and a few other things, soon as I can think of ’em.”
Riley, who had walked over to a counter on the other side of the store, piped up then. “Some pants and shirts, too,” he said. “These damn uniforms is about to fall to pieces.”
Guthrie nodded. “It’d be a pretty good idea, even if they weren’t,” he said. “Folks around here are lookin’ to forget about the Blue and the Gray. There’s been too much trouble between the two sides, and we’d just as soon forget about the war and get on with life.” He walked over to Riley. “You fellers thinkin’ about tryin’ your luck pannin’ for gold?”
“Nope,” Riley replied. “We’re just passin’ through on our way to Idaho country, so we need some stout clothes that ain’t gonna turn to rags first time they get wet.”
“Well, I can fix you up with anything you need,” Guthrie said. “What are you usin’ for money? Dust? Paper?” He paused a moment, then: “You know, I can’t do no business with Confederate scrip.”
“Feller at the bank told us you’d barter,” Joel said, stepping in. “We’ve got trade goods that are worth a good bit of money.”
Guthrie scowled, apparently disappointed. “Skins?”
“Well, we’ve got a couple of deer hides if that’s what you want,” Joel said. “But we’re talkin’ about things you can sell, like brand-new Sharps carbines, and boxes of ammunition to go with ’em, and two fine horses we’d let go at the right price.”
Guthrie’s frown disappeared immediately. “Brand- new?”
“Brand-new,” Joel confirmed, “never been fired.”
“Maybe we could work out a trade,” Guthrie said, “dependin’ on how much stuff you’re lookin’ to buy.” He cocked his head back and added, “Course I’ll have to take a look at the guns before we even get to talkin’ trade.”
“Sure,” Riley said. “I’ll go get one.” He walked out to the packhorses while Joel looked over Guthrie’s stock of woolen trousers. In a few minutes, Riley was back with one of the Sharps and handed it to Guthrie. “There you go. Like we said, ain’t never been fired. Weapon like this would cost you about forty dollars or more.”
“Well, I suppose so,” Guthrie allowed as he looked the carbine over. “Course that’d be the price back east at the factory. There’s a helluva lot of these army weapons showin’ up now, so the value might not be worth the price of a new one.”
Joel glanced over at a couple of old shotguns leaning against the wall behind the counter. “Don’t look like many have been showin’ up here,” he said. “I don’t see anything you’ve got to sell but those old shotguns. Seems to me that a shiny new Sharps carbine would be worth a lot more than the original price back east.”
“And I’ll guarantee you, there’s four deer hides out there on our horses that were shot from a helluva long ways farther than a shotgun could hit anything,” Riley said. He didn’t feel it necessary to explain that the deer were shot with their Spencers. The principle was the same.
Guthrie couldn’t help grinning. “All right,” he conceded. “Let me figure up everything you’re buyin’ and then we’ll see if we can work a trade.”
The trading went on for the better part of an hour, but it was finally settled to both parties’ satisfaction. Guthrie’s price for the supplies they gathered on the counter came to a little more than forty dollars. Bargaining for some extra cash money to boot, Joel and Riley finally agreed to let Guthrie have one additional carbine and a box of cartridges to go with each. He stood outside with them while they loaded their purchases on the packhorses. When he got a glimpse of the extra weapons that remained, he began bargaining anew, but the most Joel and Riley would do was to let him buy two more for the equivalent of sixty dollars in gold dust. The trading finally done, Riley announced, “Now, since I’ve got a little money, I’m gonna have myself a little drink to wash all the lying outta my throat.”
“Well, it was a pleasure to do business with you boys,” Guthrie said, then hesitated before deciding to say more. “I might give you a little advice if you’re fixin’ to go into the Miner’s Rest. Ansil Bowers, the feller that owns that saloon, is a strong supporter of the Union, and back before the war was over, folks that was loyal to the South didn’t do their drinkin’ in the Miner’s Rest.”
“Well, it’s all over now, and the Union folks oughta be satisfied. They came out on top,” Riley said. “Let bygones be bygones is what I say.”
Joel laughed. “You’re so anxious to get in that saloon, you’d better go on. I’ll be in in a minute after I finish tyin’ these packs down.”
“You talked me into it, you silver-tongued devil,” Riley snorted joyfully. “I’ll try not to drink it all up before you get there.”
Guthrie lingered a few moments longer after Riley disappeared through the saloon door, watching as Joel tightened the last knot on the packs. Joel sensed that the store owner wanted to say something more but was still making up his mind.
“You know,” Guthrie finally said, “you fellers seem like decent men, and you didn’t ask my advice, but I think you might enjoy your whiskey better if you went on down to the Gold Nugget. Fred Bostic owns that saloon. He backed the Union, same as Ansil Bowers, but he thinks pretty much like you boys. The war’s over, so let’s all bury the hatchet. But Bowers lost his only son in a battle against Rebel troops near Springfield, Missouri. The boy was fightin’ with a regiment of Kansas volunteers, and Ansil never got over it. You and your partner do what you want. I’m just tryin’ to give you a little friendly advice.”
“I understand what you’re sayin’,” Joel said. “I ’preciate it. We’re sure as hell not lookin’ for any trouble.”
Guthrie stepped back up on the boardwalk, then turned to say one more thing. “It mighta been better if you had shucked those Confederate uniforms and put on your new clothes.”
“You’re probably right. I’ll go see if I can keep Riley from gettin’ in trouble.”
• • •
Ansil Bowers glared at the stocky man in the rumpled gray uniform with sergeant stripes on the sleeves. He answered Riley’s friendly greeting with a sour grunt, which Riley ignored before ordering a shot of whiskey. Showing his obvious disgust by his unfriendly attitude, Bowers put a glass on the bar and picked up the bottle, hesitating before pouring.
“What are you using for money? I don’t take that Rebel money. It ain’t nothin’ but trash.”
Riley’s hackles went up just a little, but remembering Guthrie’s comment about the owner of the Miner’s Rest, he was determined to avoid any unpleasantness. He pulled his money out and slid it toward Bowers.
“Good ol’ federal dollars,” he said, and forced a smile.
Still undecided on whether or not he should refuse to offer service to a Rebel soldier, Bowers reluctantly poured the drink. Then he took the money and went to the end of the bar in an obvious move to put some space between himself and the unwelcome customer.
Seated at a table close to the end of the bar, two men played a casual game of two-handed poker. The exchange between Bowers and the stranger caught the attention of one of the cardplayers, Lige Tolbert, a sometimes miner, sometimes deputy sheriff, and full-time town bully. Engaged in none of those pastimes at the present, he saw an opportunity to relieve the boredom of the late morning. He had no particular loyalties to any cause, Blue or Gray included, but he knew the passion with which Bowers hated Confederate Rebels, so he decided to amuse himself as well as the few others in the saloon at that hour. With a grin for his card-playing partner, he stood up, pushed his chair back, and ambled over to the end of the bar across from Bowers.
“Damn, Ansil, what’s that awful stink? I swear, I never noticed it till just a couple of minutes ago. Smells like a dead rat run into the place. You smell it?”
He made sure his voice was loud enough for everyone in the saloon to hear. The room went suddenly quiet, as the conversation among the few patrons ceased and all eyes were drawn to the stocky gray-haired man in the weathered uniform.
The implication was not lost on Riley. He looked over at Lige, who was grinning contemptuously. It was not necessary to spend much thought on the purpose of the man’s comments. Riley had seen more than a few troublemakers like Lige in more saloons than he could remember. He decided to ignore the comment and see if nothing more came of it. Lige, however, was not content to let it go without some reaction from the stranger.
“You can smell it now, can’t you, Ansil? It’s worse than a skunk, I swear.”
It was obvious to Riley that his antagonist was going to keep at it until he got some response from him. He knew that he could simply turn tail and slink out the door, which was probably what the bully expected, but it was not his nature to do so. Tapping his empty glass on the bar, he nodded to Bowers and said, “I think I’ll have another little snort.” Then he turned his attention to Lige and, with a knowing smile on his face, commented, “Couldn’t help hearin’ what you said about the smell in here. I think I caught a little hint of that stink when I walked in. And now that you mention it, you’re right. It got a helluva lot stronger when you walked closer to the bar.”
The leering smile instantly disappeared from Lige’s face. “Why, you old son of a bitch, you came to the wrong place to pick a fight. We don’t allow no Rebel trash in here, do we, Ansil?” Ansil responded with no more than a shrug. “So now I’m tellin’ you to get your worthless ass outta here before I throw you out.”
Unfazed, Riley remained at the bar, ignoring the bully, who had now taken a couple of steps away from the bar, preparing to follow up on his threat if Riley refused to leave. The crusty old sergeant refused to meet his gaze, looking at Bowers instead. “I’ll have that other drink now, if you please,” he told him.
“You’ll have what!” Lige exploded, scarcely able to believe the old man’s gall. “I’ll show you what you’ll have!” He had taken only a step toward Riley when he heard the sound of a rifle cocking. As all eyes had been trained on the confrontation at the bar, no one had noticed the lone figure standing in the saloon door.
“He said he’ll have another drink,” Joel said, his tone calm, but firm, as he stood there with his carbine held casually before him.
“You’re makin’ a helluva mistake, mister,” Ansil Bowers finally spoke up. “I ain’t gotta serve none of you Rebel trash.”
“You’re gonna serve this one,” Joel told him, “and the sooner you get on with it, the sooner we’ll be gone.”
Emboldened by Lige Tolbert’s presence, Bowers replied, “The hell I will.” In the next instant, he suddenly jerked backward, startled by the sharp crack of the carbine and the crash of broken glass as the lamp behind the bar was shattered. It was followed at once by the sound of another cartridge inserted in the chamber and, a moment later, by the gasps of the startled bystanders.
Joel motioned with the Spencer and said, “Pour him his drink, and be quick about it. I’m losin’ my patience.”
He did not discount the probability that the shot had been heard by a sheriff, or marshal, whoever represented the law in town. Bowers did not move, so Joel pulled the carbine up and aimed it at the large mirror behind the bar.
“Wait! Hold on!” Bowers screamed. “I’m goin’!” He moved at once to fetch the bottle.
Thinking the confusion had distracted Joel’s attention from him, Lige dropped his hand on the .44 he carried, but thought better of it when Joel said, “That would be your last mistake today.”
The barroom was gripped in stony silence as Bowers poured whiskey in Riley’s glass, his hand shaking so with rage that he spilled a good portion on the bar. He set the bottle down and took a step to his right. Motioning with the weapon again, Joel waved him back toward the end of the bar, thinking that Bowers might have tried to position himself where he kept a shotgun behind the counter. The consternation on Bowers’s face tended to convince Joel he had been right.
“Let’s hurry it along, Riley,” he said. “I’m beginnin’ to get a feelin’ we ain’t really welcome here.”
“Don’t you want one?” Riley replied, seeming to be in no particular hurry.
“I kinda lost the mood right now. Tell you what, take the bottle. Pay the man, so he won’t be out any money, and we’ll be on our way.”
Riley tossed his drink back, grabbed the bottle, and backed toward the door, one hand resting on the pistol he wore. “Gimme a minute,” he said, “and I’ll untie the horses.”
Joel continued to back carefully toward the door after him, alert to any motion from any quarter. “You’re lucky to get outta here alive, mister,” Bowers fumed.
Emboldened by Joel’s retreat, Lige took a step toward him, and when Joel didn’t seem to react, he took another. This was the moment when postmaster Sam Ingram, craving a drink, walked into the saloon, completely unaware of the tense situation inside. Surprised, Joel had to step quickly aside to keep from being bumped into by the equally surprised postmaster. Lige saw the confusion as his opportunity to act and charged Joel, drawing his pistol as he ran. His mistake was in misjudging the reflexive actions of the man holding the carbine, and his .44 barely cleared the holster when the butt of the Spencer slammed against his nose and dropped him like a stone on the barroom floor.
Joel watched him for a few seconds, but when Lige didn’t move, he kicked the dropped pistol away from his hand and continued to back slowly out of the saloon. In the doorway, he stopped to give one last warning.
“So far, nobody’s had to die over this, but know one thing for certain I will shoot the first man I see come out this door. That, I promise you.”
He paused a second longer to make sure everyone understood him before suddenly stepping outside, where Riley was waiting in the saddle, holding the chestnut’s reins. Joel ran to jump into the stirrup and they were off before he swung his other leg over, thundering off down the street toward the north end of town.
Behind them, the cloud of silence that had gripped the saloon during the tense moments before suddenly erupted into a noisy kettle of excited conversation.
“Who the hell was that?” Sam Ingram asked as Bowers and the man Lige had been playing cards with knelt down beside the injured man. No one bothered to answer him, curious as they were to see how badly Lige had been hurt. They rolled him over, causing him to groan in pain, his face covered with blood.
“Well, he ain’t dead,” Bowers stated, “but damned if his nose ain’t spread all over his face.” He sent a boy who worked in the saloon to the pump to get a pan of water and a washcloth. “Maybe we can clean you up a little,” he said to Lige, whose brain was still rattled and who was not sure what had happened. When the boy returned with the pan of water, Bowers sent him to get the doctor. “Better tell the sheriff while you’re at it,” Bowers called after him. “I don’t know why he ain’t here already. He musta heard that gunshot.”
Gradually, Lige came around. As he gained consciousness, he realized the pain even more as it had come to grip his whole head like a vise. He winced with each gentle stroke of Bowers’s washcloth, unable to breathe without gasping for air through his mouth. When his head was clear enough to remember, he murmured painfully, “He’s a dead man. He’ll pay up for this.”
“Maybe you’d better just forget about it,” Bowers said. “He’s already long gone, and you don’t look like you’ll be in shape to ride anytime soon.”
“We’ll see about that,” Lige grunted, pushed Bowers’s hand away, and struggled to get to his feet, only to stagger over to a chair to sit down and wait for the doctor.
Bowers gave his flattened nose a long look before making a sarcastic comment. “I don’t reckon you’ll notice the stink if he comes in here again,” referring to Lige’s original remarks that had caused the altercation. Lige was about to retort when Doc Calley walked in.
“I thought your boy said he was shot,” Doc remarked to Bowers as he went over to examine the injured man. His tone was almost one of disappointment. There were many in town who considered Lige Tolbert a bully the town would be better off without.
“I think it’s broke,” Lige said.
“I think you’re right,” Doc replied sarcastically as he tilted Lige’s head back and peered at the results of Joel’s rifle butt. “He damn sure flattened it.” He continued to study it for a few minutes, then told him there was very little he could do to fix it. “I can push some of the bone back to where it was, but you’re gonna have a flat nose from now on. I’ll try to fix it so you can breathe a little easier through it.”
“Just be quick about it,” Lige said. “I’ve gotta ride.”
“I don’t expect you’ll feel much like riding by the time I’m through,” Doc told him. “You’ve already got a lot of swelling starting up and pretty soon your eyes are gonna puff up like toadstools. But I’ll do what I can.”
“Hurry up, Doc. I ain’t got time to sit around here all day,” Lige said, with as much bluster as he could manage through his aching head. He had a reputation as a bully that he was forced to defend, and he was already aware of the look of amusement in the faces of some of the spectators. “Tommy,” he said to Bowers’s boy, “go down to the stable and tell Buck to saddle my horse. I’m goin’ huntin’ for a damn Rebel.”
“All right,” Doc sighed patiently, and went to work on him. “But my advice is to take it easy and let it heal.” He turned to see Sheriff Jack Suggs coming in the door.
“Took you long enough,” Lige complained.
Suggs was another man Lige didn’t get along with. He was only the acting sheriff, until the elected sheriff came back from Cheyenne, but Lige was still sore over the town’s decision to give Suggs the job instead of him.
“I was eatin’ my dinner,” Suggs said. “Who got shot?”
“Ansil’s carnival glass lamp,” one of the spectators replied with a chuckle.
Suggs turned to him and asked what had happened, and listened while he watched Doc work on Lige’s face. When he had heard what the man had to say about the altercation, and his story was confirmed by the head nodding and agreeing grunts from the other witnesses, Suggs shook his head impatiently at Lige.
“Sounds to me like you stuck that nose into somethin’ that it’da been best kept out of. He flattened the hell out of it, all right.”
Already tired of hearing how flat his nose now was, Lige demanded, “Ain’t you goin’ after him? He cut loose with a damn carbine in here.”
“No, I ain’t,” Suggs said. “From what I hear, it warn’t nothin’ but a barroom brawl and you come out on the bottom. And I ain’t got time to chase after somebody in a bar fight.” Finished with the issue then, he turned to Bowers. “Might as well pour me a drink, long as I’m here.” He walked back to the bar, leaving Lige to seethe, well aware of the injured man’s hatred for him, but smug in his thinking that Lige was helpless to do anything about it. When Bowers poured his drink, Suggs asked, “Who started this thing, Ansil?”
Bowers shrugged, as if the answer was obvious. “Lige,” he answered. “He was rawhidin’ a friend of that feller. They were both wearin’ Confederate uniforms.”
“That’s what I figured,” Suggs said, and tossed his drink back. Satisfied that he had an accurate account of the disturbance, he felt there was nothing he should do about it. “Well, I’ll get on back to the office,” he said, cast one more quick glance in Lige’s direction, then walked out.
“Nobody gets away with this,” Lige grumbled. “I’ll get that son of a bitch.”
“Hold still,” Doc told him, “or you’re gonna have this bandage wrapped around your neck.”
Lige held still, but he was thinking that Doc could show him a little more respect.
Maybe after I track those Rebels down, I might come back and take some of that sass out of you, he thought.
As his mind cleared, he became more inflamed with the desire for vengeance. To add a little incentive to his desire to catch up with the two Rebels, he remembered then that someone who saw the two men leave town said they were leading four horses, two of them with packs. “I can track as good as any Injun,” he boasted. “I’ll find those bastards.”
“I hope you do,” Doc said. “I hope you do. Make us all proud of you.” The sarcasm was lost on the simple being who was Lige Tolbert. It only confused him.
• • •
Approximately twelve miles north of Denver City, Joel and Riley sat by a fire on the bank of a small stream. Unaware that the man bent on tracking them was already in the saddle, even with his face swollen from injury, they were drinking coffee made from the beans they had purchased in Guthrie’s store. Joel had taken his drink of whiskey before changing to coffee, primarily because Riley insisted upon it.
“Weren’t fair that you didn’t get the chance to have a drink back there in the saloon,” he said.
Not sure whether there would be anybody coming after them for the disturbance in the saloon, they had taken precautions to hide their trail. Their path had led them to a river not more than a mile from town, but the water seemed too deep to ride in for any distance upstream or down. So they crossed over and continued on until reaching a wide stream that just served the purpose. Entering the water, they rode upstream, closer to the mountains, for about half a mile before leaving it to head due north again. Feeling it a good bet that they would have lost anyone thinking of tailing them, they relaxed to enjoy the coffee.
“That feller ain’t likely to forget you for a long time,” Riley remarked. He had gotten a brief glimpse of Joel’s encounter with Lige through the open door of the saloon. “Dang, that musta smarted somethin’ fierce. Laid him out cold, I reckon.”
“Well, he didn’t get up,” Joel replied with a shrug.
“I expect we’ve seen the last of him,” Riley said.
He felt very pleased with the situation. He had already known of Joel’s character in a regiment-sized skirmish, and he had wondered how his young partner could handle himself in a barroom fight. Now he knew he could count on him in most any situation.
“I reckon this is as good a time as any to shuck this uniform,” he said. “Much longer and it’d be fallin’ off by itself.” He pulled his boots off in preparation for disrobing.
“I expect you’re right,” Joel said, and started coming out of his uniform as well. “It seems they ain’t much good for anything but startin’ trouble.”
Riley suggested it would be a fitting final ceremony to close the war officially by burning the tattered uniforms. Joel agreed, so they cast the remains onto the fire. The grimy uniforms almost put out the fire, and Riley had to tend them using a stick for a poker until he could feed portions of the heavy cloth little by little. An undesired result of the ceremony was the creation of a black smoke column that rose from their camp.
“That ain’t good,” Riley remarked, and pulled the uniforms from the fire. He and Joel stomped the smoldering material until the flames were extinguished. “Everybody in the whole damn territory will know we’re here.”
“I expect you’re right,” Joel said. “We’d best move on outta here. The horses are rested enough, anyway.”