Two hundred miles to Prescott. It might as well have been two thousand. They couldn’t walk that far, the four of them couldn’t ride by horseback—even if they had horses—there was no railroad to Prescott, but . . . Big Ike stopped walking.
Just a few feet away, a livery barn and corral. Inside the corral were dozens of horses, and outside, over a dozen wagons in different degrees of disrepair. In front, a black man talking to a white man who appeared to be the proprietor.
The proprietor was short and fat and shook his head negatively as the black man pointed to the wagons. The black man took a deep breath, turned and walked toward a wagon hitched to two mules.
Even from a distance, the black man looked king-size, with a dark brown, handsome face, power-laden shoulders and arms, coal-black eyes glistening out of an unsmiling face. He boarded the wagon, where a woman and little boy about eight years old waited. The little boy appeared to be a miniature version of his father; the man’s wife was of lighter complexion, comely, in her late twenties.
Without saying a word, the man took up the reins, snapped them over the mules, and the wagon rolled away.
Ike approached the proprietor.
“Howdy.”
“Howdy yourself,” the proprietor said, and spat out a stream of tobacco juice.
“Ike Silver.”
“Herb Kokernut.”
“Mister Kokernut, do you have a wagon and team that could make it to Prescott?”
“And back?”
“No. Just to Prescott.”
“For you?”
“And my family.”
“Yeah, I got a wagon and team that could make it. Not so sure about you and your family.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean Apaches. Haven’t you heard?”
“I’ve heard. How much for the wagon and team?”
Herb Kokernut spat out another stream of tobacco juice.
“I’m thinkin’ it over.”
“How long will it take . . . to think it over?”
“I’m done thinkin’.”
“How much?”
“Say . . . two hundred.”
Ike reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills.
“Here’s a hundred on deposit. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Herb Kokernut took the money and shook his head.
“What’s wrong?” Ike asked.
“Maybe I shoulda said two fifty.”
“Maybe . . . and maybe not.” Ike smiled and walked away.
The passengers had disembarked and most of the cargo had been unloaded from the Colorado Queen as Ike Silver walked up to Jake and the boys, who stood next to their luggage on the wharf listening to a discussion that had already turned into an argument.
On one side of the disagreement was Captain Cyrus Medford of the Colorado Queen. On the other side, a mountain of a man with buffalo shoulders and a face that almost matched.
“What’s going on?” Ike asked his brother.
“Negotiation,” Jake answered.
“About what?”
“About none of our business.”
Captain Medford pointed to what appeared to be about a hundred barrels labeled FLOUR that had been unloaded from the ship.
“Look, Gallagher, the price has always been ten dollars a barrel.”
“Well, Captain, the price is now seven. Unless you want to get stuck with one hundred barrels of flour.”
“Lessur gets twenty dollars in Prescott.”
“Prescott’s two hundred miles away, and Mister Lessur told me not to pay no more than seven.”
“I got no time to argue—”
“You got time to load them barrels back on to that boat?” Gallagher looked around at the men with him and grinned.
As the disagreement continued, Jake noticed that Ike was rubbing his chin and glancing from the two men to the barrels and back.
“Ike, let’s go.”
“Hold on, Jake.”
“Hold on to what? I don’t like that look in your eye. Come on, let’s get to that stage.”
“What?”
Ike’s attention was still on the two men.
“. . . but I’m not authorized to sell this cargo for less than ten dollars a barrel.”
“And I’m not authorized to pay more ’n seven.”
Ike stepped forward. Jake reached for him but missed.
“Ike, for heaven’s sake!”
Jed and Obie looked at each other and shrugged.
“I beg your pardon, Captain.” Ike nodded toward the barrels. “Is that cargo for sale?”
“It is at ten dollars a barrel,” the captain said.
“You keep out of this, bub.” Gallagher pointed a huge forefinger and fist at Ike.
Ike ignored the gesture.
“Captain, you say it sells for twenty dollars in Prescott?”
“Payable by the United States Army at Fort Whipple and glad to get it.”
“Butt out,” Gallagher growled.
“You in the market, Mister?”
“No!” Jake interrupted.
“Silver. Ike Silver.” He turned toward Gallagher. “You going to give the captain his price?”
“Wiseass . . . I’ll give you something in a minute.”
About a dozen of Gallagher’s teamsters moved closer.
“I’ll ask you just once more,” Ike said.
“And my answer, bub, is I’m hauling that cargo to Prescott!”
“Not at seven dollars a barrel,” the Captain said and turned to Ike. “Mister, give me a thousand dollars and it’s all yours.”
“Isaac!” Jake rubbed at his face.
“You do,”—Gallagher doubled both fists—“and I’ll break your arm, Isaac!”
“A thousand, Jake.” Ike reached out.
“It’s the money for the store!” Jake was sweating.
“Don’t worry.”
“It’s the end of the world and he says ‘Don’t worry.’ ”
“Jacob . . .” Ike turned his palm up.
“All right, all right!”
Jake unpinned the pocket, counted out about half of the currency and handed the bills to Ike.
“Here’s your money, Captain.”
The captain reached into the inside pocket of his uniform and placed a piece of paper in Ike’s palm.
“And here’s your receipt.”
“Just a minute, Isaac.” Gallagher looked around at his men, then back at Big Ike. “Don’t put that receipt in your pocket.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ll tell you what you’re going to do instead, Isaac.”
“Tell me.”
“You’re going to sell me that cargo, one hundred barrels, at seven dollars a barrel.”
“Before or after you break my arm?”
“That’s up to you.”
Sean Dolan and his miners, consisting of not quite as large a contingent as Gallagher and his teamsters, had arrived on the wharf and were privy to the latter part of the proceedings.
“Any trouble, Big Ike?” Dolan enquired pleasantly.
“Am I glad to see you,” Jake said enthusiastically.
Ike put the cargo receipt within the inner pocket of his tan canvas jacket.
“No trouble.”
“Big Ike?” Gallagher chortled. “Did you hear that boys? Big Ike! He don’t look so big to me.”
And with that proclamation Gallagher shoved Ike, who responded with a swift left cross to Gallagher’s jaw.
Gallagher almost went down—almost—but not quite. He rushed back at Ike and that ignited a battle worthy of Ares, Mars, Odin, Tyr and all the war gods combined. The best knuckle-buster the port of La Paz could remember. Fists against flesh. Boards against bone. Heads against heads. Elbows, boots and blood. Dolan’s miners against Gallagher’s teamsters.
On the wharf and into the water, men dropped, got up and dropped again. And all the while Ike was outpunching Gallagher.
Obie tugged at Jake’s sleeve as Jake picked up an axe handle.
“Uncle Jake, is Daddy going to hurt that man?”
“I hope so!”
A fight is not about who is right, a philosopher once noted, it is about who is left. There weren’t many of Gallagher’s men left on their feet when the shotgun blast went off into the air.
A man wearing a marshal’s badge stepped forward holding a double-barreled scattergun with his finger on the second trigger of the weapon. He would have been a noticeable man even if he weren’t carrying a shotgun, but with the weapon he commanded immediate attention and respect.
He was a square-built man with a square-built face, hunter green eyes between a prominent nose, under which flourished an even more prominent winged mustache.
“That’ll do, boys. My name’s Jonas Trapp. Marshal Jonas Trapp. Now you can quit fightin’ and go to drinkin’, or you can go to jail.”
Marshal Jonas Trapp turned and walked away as the sea of spectators parted in respectful silence.
Ike smiled at Dolan.
“Thanks.”
“Any time.” Dolan wiped the blood from his mouth.
“Well, Jake,”—Ike turned to his brother—“looks like we own a hundred barrels of flour.”
“Congratulations.” Jake nodded. “How are we going to get ’em to Prescott?”
“I’ve got an idea.”
“You and your ideas got us into this pickle in the first place.”
“Sean,” Ike said, “you and your boys might want to come along.”
“Sure. Where to?”
“A journey of two hundred miles starts with a first step.”