Chapter two

You mean all I have to do is follow this map, and it’ll get me to the North Canadian River? That’s where the best farmland is, right?”

“That’s right, sonny. This map can’t lead you wrong.”

Would that man never give up? Frisco had shut down his scam twice already, and the huckster had just moved his pile of fraudulent misinformation to another corner. Frisco ran a finger beneath his starched collar. After a few days of rain, the April sunshine was welcome, but not the humidity. It made tempers short, and his had been pushed to the limit.

His satchel crushed against him as he squeezed through the crowd of suckers standing under the balcony of the bank. Cash sprouted from the confidence man’s arm garters, showing that he’d been busy.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Frisco proclaimed in his best oratory voice, “the race of next week is supposed to be a fair contest. Everyone who stands on the starting line will have an equal chance to find a home, no matter their age, race, or creed. Buying a map of Ontario, Canada, will not increase your odds.”

“Ontario?” A man flipped open his map and held it at arm’s length as he squinted. “This says Ontario! I demand a refund.”

“Ontario? What?” The shyster manufactured the same counterfeit shock that he had the last two times Frisco pointed out the error of his product. “Honest mistake, gentlemen. Honest mistake.” He dug deep in his pocket and began distributing dimes as Frisco gathered up his stack of maps. “Hey, where are you going with those?” he demanded.

“I’m going to find a privy that’s running low on paper,” Frisco said. “That’s all these are good for.”

The peddler puffed up like a potato getting ready to split its skin. “Mr. High and Mighty. Let me guess—your father is a general at the fort, and he’ll throw me in jail if I don’t stop.”

Frisco couldn’t help the grin that broke out. So Miss Caroline hadn’t changed entirely. No wonder she was suspicious when she saw him with a map selling town lots. While he had nothing in common with this crook, he could understand her confusion. That was Miss Caroline for you. Always sticking her nose where it didn’t belong.

“He’s not my father,” Frisco said, “and he’s not a general. He’s a major, and he’ll throw you in the guardhouse, not jail. On this, I speak from experience.”

And then he left to find a burn pile so the loathsome pamphlets couldn’t do more harm. For years Frisco and his mentors—men like David Payne and William Couch—had demonstrated against the government keeping good land unclaimed when there were so many willing hands ready to farm it. Years ago, all Indian Territory had been set aside for the tribes, but it was 1889. The tribal boundaries were set. Now, whether those treaties were fair or made under duress, that wasn’t for Frisco to say. They were law, and there, right in the midst of all the native nations, was the jewel of the territory sitting fallow and unused. Nearly two million acres ready for the plow.

According to the Homestead Act, adults over twenty-one had the right to claim empty government land if they could hold the land for five years and make improvements on it. But for some reason the government thought the rules didn’t apply to the Unassigned Lands. So Frisco and other boomers like him decided to test their resolve. In 1884, the government lost their case against Payne, and it was ruled that it was legal to settle on the Unassigned Lands, yet even the court’s decision didn’t change the soldiers’ orders. Thus the charade continued—soldiers following their orders to arrest boomers on the land, boomers being taken to court, the court releasing them because they hadn’t broken the law.

It was a parody of justice, but Frisco and the others persisted, knowing that public opinion was lining up behind them. And finally they got the news they’d been waiting for—the government was declaring the Unassigned Lands open for homesteading.

And all these people—wagons as far as the eye could see, depot crawling with newcomers, tents pitched in every empty lot—were proof that the boomers were right. Americans needed this land. They needed a new start, and they’d do anything to get it.

Flames licked the sides of a cauldron situated in the center of a group of tents. A harried woman wiped the sweat from her forehead as she stirred her laundry in the bubbling brew. Frisco tipped his hat and stuffed the maps into the blaze.

A tent flap burst open, and a young pup rushed out and began yapping at Frisco’s heels.

“Chauncey, come back.” A stout little fellow barreled out of the tent and caught the dog around the middle. He grunted as he lifted the long-eared pup off the ground, but it stretched as he pulled. Doggy toenails never left the ground.

“Get him back on his tether,” the woman ordered. To Frisco, she said, “Sorry, sir. It’s a lot of excitement for a dog . . . and a boy.”

“No harm done,” Frisco replied. His nose twitched at the smell of lye soap. “You wouldn’t happen to be taking in laundry, would you?”

“Yes, sir. That’s exactly what I’m doing. It’s a week until the run. Might as well pass the time while bringing in some coin.”

“Well, I’ll be. That isn’t Frisco Smith, is it?” a new voice said.

Frisco spun on his heel to see a bull of a man coming out of the tent. He was clean-shaven, with a fresh haircut and eyes that nearly disappeared when he smiled. His swagger was so like the little boy’s, there was no denying the connection.

“Patrick Smith!” Frisco cried. Patrick extended his hand, but Frisco pulled him forward for a hearty embrace. “I can’t believe my eyes.”

“And look at you!” Patrick clutched him by the forearms and stepped back to survey his suit. “You’ve been busy.”

Frisco nodded at the boy. “So have you.”

Patrick beamed as he motioned the boy to his side and ruffled his hair. “Millie, come here and meet my partner foundling in crime.”

Frisco hoped she didn’t notice his wince. He hated the word foundling. It sounded so weak, so vulnerable.

“Mrs. Smith.” He removed his hat as he bowed. “I should have known Patrick wouldn’t settle until he’d won the most beautiful lady for his own.”

Her cheeks were already pink from the fire. She pushed back her damp blond hair and said, “This is Frisco? I thought you said he was a wild rabble-rouser.”

“Don’t let the clothes fool you, ma’am,” Frisco said. “They don’t change the man.”

“Have a seat.” Patrick ducked into his tent and carried out two milking stools. “I suppose you mean to run next week.”

If he only knew. “Of course. And you?”

“Absolutely. I’ve got my sights set on a homestead but would settle for a town lot. Being the first saddler in an area is my goal. Guess I’ll hop the train and head to Oklahoma Station. If all the lots are full there, I’ll ride on up to Guthrie.”

“Oklahoma Station is the train’s third stop,” Frisco said. “By the time you get past the Norman depot and Moore, the horsemen from the eastern border will have reached it. Never mind Guthrie. You’re on the wrong border for that.”

Patrick stretched a leg out in front of him. “It might not be a good plan, but it’s all I got. My old draft horse isn’t fast enough to get us anywhere. I’m better off jumping from the train and trying my luck on foot. Surely I’ll find something.”

No, not surely. Very unlikely, with the fifty thousand people coming in.

Frisco pulled his satchel around in front of him and unfastened the latch.

“You’re still hauling that old bag around, I see,” Patrick said. “Looks like you could afford a new one by now.”

“It’s the perfect size to carry my things,” Frisco said. “I’ll unpack it when I get home.”

“Home? Have you got a home I don’t know about?”

Frisco ignored the stab of pain the observation brought and shook his head.

“You are a mystery, Frisco Smith,” Patrick said.

“And here I am, ready to explain the world to you. Let me tell you how your luck has changed.” Frisco pulled his city plans out of his satchel. “I’ve spent the last four years traversing the Unassigned Lands looking for the best place to set up a city, and I found it. Fertile land, adequate water, nearby timber, and almost a guarantee that the railroad will be passing through in the next three years. Redhawk is going to be a prosperous city. Why don’t you and Mrs. Smith settle there?”

“If there’s no railroad, how am I going to get there? I may be strong, but you know I’ve never been fleet-footed.”

“I’m going to claim it. I know the best route—the only route from the west—and instead of sitting on one hundred and sixty acres, I’m dividing it into town lots.”

Patrick’s dark brows lowered. “You always have a plan, and you’d think by now I would’ve learned not to get caught up in your grand schemes. I like the sound of it—”

“Of course you do—”

“But how much is it going to cost me?”

Frisco watched Mrs. Smith lift a heavy paddle dripping with water. Industrious even while waiting for the grand event. He turned his attention to the boy playing with his puppy and then looked back at his friend. “How about free laundering of my sundries for a month? But you can never tell any of your neighbors what a bargain I gave you.”

“Only a month? You can’t be profitable that way. What’s your angle?”

“I’ll keep the best lots for myself. In fact, I’ve already got a dugout built and a summer crop in on the plot. Just a few acres, mind you, but enough to give me some sustenance in the fall.”

Patrick’s brow furrow deepened. “You can’t claim land beforehand. That’s cheating.”

“I’ll be on the line with everyone else at high noon,” Frisco said. “We all have the same opportunity to run. All I’ve done is sweeten the prize at the end. It’d be even better if I had an expert saddlemaker in town.” He nudged the paper toward Patrick. “Far be it from me to change your plans. Go ahead and buy that train ticket, but know you have a place in Redhawk with me if you don’t succeed.”

“Thanks, Frisco,” Patrick said. “I’ll be just fine, and you will too, as long as you keep your socks dry—”

“—and your stomach full.” Frisco hadn’t heard the saying since he’d lost contact with his friends, but it brought a bittersweet smile to his face.

Frisco had always been a man of vision, but his visions weren’t always shared by the other boys in the orphanages. His friend Patrick had intervened repeatedly and if not saved Frisco from every beating, had at least prevented them from being worse. Frisco’s offer was generous, but it would benefit him as well, for more important than the big lot in the new city was the fact that he’d be the founder. The fatherless would be a city father, the homeless would be responsible for a whole community. Having someone with Patrick’s character and loyalty would prove invaluable to his dreams.

It would be a win for everyone, and Frisco could think of nothing that motivated him more.