Herb Kokernut put the roll of bills into his pocket and smiled.
“Mister Silver, you just bought yourself some wagons and teams.”
“And left us bankrupt,” Jake added.
“Not quite.” Ike smiled.
“Close enough. Good thing we won that poker game last night.”
“’Course,” Herb Kokernut added with a wry glance at the wagons, “they do need a little repair.”
“So does his head,” Jake said.
“But,” Kokernut shrugged, “they were the only wagons for sale in La Paz.”
“I repeat,” Jake said, “we’re—”
“Never mind, Jake, just wait ’til we get to Fort Whipple.”
“If.”
Jake kicked the wheel of one of the wagons. The wheel collapsed, bringing down part of the wagon.
“I can fix those wagons,” a voice said from behind them.
Ike, Jake, Jed, Obie, Dolan and his men all reacted as the man stepped forward.
Ike recognized him as the black man who had been at the livery earlier. Behind him in the distance, the man’s wife and son watched from their wagon.
The man came closer and stopped in front of Ike and Jake.
“What are you?” Jake asked. “A magician?”
“I’m a blacksmith.”
“Maybe he is.” Herb Kokernut shrugged. “Been tryin’ to talk me into lettin’ him fix them wagons all morning.”
Ike looked from Kokernut to the black man.
“I’m Ike Silver. My brother and my boys.”
“Ben Brown.” He motioned toward the wagon. “My wife and son.”
“How much do you want,” Jake inquired, “to fix these junk piles?”
“Understand you’re going to Prescott. We’d like to ride along that far.”
“What do you need us for?” Jake said. “You’ve got a wagon.”
“Better odds against . . .”
“Apaches?” Ike smiled.
Ben nodded.
“Okay.” Jake nodded toward the wagons. “But how much to fix them?”
“That’s the price.” Ben shrugged.
“That’s more than fair,” Ike said. “How long will it take to get them rolling?”
“Tomorrow soon enough?”
“Too soon.” Ike smiled. “Can’t be done.”
“Yes, it can.” Dolan stepped up next to Ben Brown. “If he has some help. Me and the boys’ll pitch in. We want to roll just as soon as you do.”
“You don’t object to that, do you?” Ike looked at the blacksmith.
“No, sir, Mister Silver.”
“They call me Ike.” He smiled.
“I’d rather call you Mister Silver.”
“All right . . . Mister Brown.”