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MERCER CITY, WYOMING was little more than a dozen buildings stretched along one wide dirt street. It was as far from St. Louis as Stiles could get. No factories belched black smoke into the air. No motor cars or trolleys, either. There were several small side streets with houses inching out from the main thoroughfare. The coach passed a church as they moved farther into town. It was a large whitewashed building with a steeple protruding above the double doors at the front. He could see a bell hanging in the open cutout sides. The dirt was packed down hard in front of the church. It was larger than most of the other buildings in the small town. Stiles wondered if they used the building for a school as some smaller communities did. The stagecoach stopped at the end of the street and everyone disembarked to stand and stretch their cramped legs and backs.
Directly across the street from where Stiles stood, waiting for his luggage to be dropped down from the top of the stagecoach, there was a small building with a sign stating Post and Telegraph Office. The weather-worn boards were shiny. Next door was a larger brick building with a whitewashed porch and columns. A sign hanging from the roof had red letters stating this was Walkers General Store.
Stiles chuckled at the large wooden Indian standing watch outside the barber shop a little ways up the street. Mercer was very much the picture of a small western town.
On the same side of the street where Stiles stood, next door to the stagecoach office, was a large, faded yellow-planked building two stories high. He had overheard a woman walking along the street tell her children they would be staying in Martin’s Boarding House as they carried their small bags in that direction. Stiles liked the small window boxes overflowing with some bright pink flowers. It made the building cheery and welcoming. He would have considered staying there if he were going to be in town longer than a night.
The most impressive and well-kept building on the street was the Mercer City Bank. It proudly stated on a sign beside the door that it was established in 1888 by Joseph P. Beatty. Stiles could see how the establishment of a reputable business would bring credibility to a town like Mercer. It would make it more than just another western cowboy town.
At the very end of the street stood an impressive large clapboard building. It towered over the others. A sign painted with dark green letters stated Patty’s Hotel and Saloon. That would be Patrick O’Donnell’s establishment, Stiles thought.
He tipped a young lad to carry his trunk down the street to the hotel. Stiles noted that most of the people he met along the way said good day to him and smiled. It appeared that Mercer was a friendly town. After he had registered at the hotel and had his luggage taken to his room, he crossed the street to the livery stable and saw about hiring a horse and rig to take him out to the Circle W Ranch.
The smithy was a large man, a head taller than Stiles, with huge muscled arms. He was also a very quiet man who didn’t offer much conversation.
“I’d like to hire a horse and rig for a few days,” Stiles said when the man finally noticed him standing at the open door of the stable.
The big man said nothing and just stared at Stiles.
Stiles tried again.“I need to drive out to the Circle W Ranch and I’ll be staying there on business for a week or two. Do you have a rig I can rent?”
“Nope.”
The large man turned his back to Stiles, picked up a pitchfork, and headed to the first stall in the stable. Stiles followed.
“Looks like you have several horses here. Are none of them for rent?”
“Nope.”
“Why in heavens not?”
Stiles jumped out of the way as a forkful of horse droppings flew over the burly man’s shoulder, landing at Stiles’ feet.
“Mr. Beare owns them and he doesn’t rent them out.” Another forkful of dung piled on top of the first.
“Well, how exactly am I supposed to get out to the ranch?” Stiles yelled. He had finally had enough of the ignorant man’s lack of help.
Mr. Burley, as Stiles had named him, turned to face him. He rammed the fork into the ground, narrowly missing Stiles, then rested his arms on the end of it and stared at Stiles.
“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” he offered as if that would explain everything.
“So?”
“Pete Huggins will be coming into town to pick up supplies. I suppose you could catch a ride with him.”
Stiles stared at the man as if he had totally lost his mind.
A slow smile spread across Mr. Burley’s face and he laughed. “Pete, he’s the cook out at the Circle W. Guess you didn’t know that? If I were you, I’d leave him a message over at the general store so as he don’t leave town without you.”
With that, the man turned back to his work and left Stiles standing there without another word said.
Suddenly the dream about the masks came back to Stiles and he realized he was right. You can’t really know what a person’s personality is if they chose to hide behind a mask. He wasn’t sure if the man he had just dealt with was really as ignorant as he seemed or if he was just pretending.
Mr. Walter Smyth—spelled with a ‘y’, he pointed out to Stiles—was a much easier person to figure out. He was a salesman. Stiles could see why the man was the owner of the general store. Mr. Smyth liked to talk, and he liked to sell you more than you needed. The man was very disappointed when he discovered that all Stiles really wanted was to leave a message for Peter Huggins.
“If you could please let Mr. Huggins know that I need a ride with him out to the Circle W, I would appreciate it, Mr. Smyth.” Stiles offered the man some change for his trouble.
“Are they expecting you?” Mr. Smyth was clearly curious about what Stiles would be doing at the ranch. “You don’t look like no ranch hand.”
“They are expecting my arrival but were not sure of the date.”
Mr. Smyth took the coins and said he’d let Pete know when he got there. Stiles bid the man good evening and headed back to the hotel.
He ordered a bath and took his time relaxing in the steaming water. Returning to his room, he dressed and then went in search of a meal. The hotel had a small dining room and it was nearly full when he arrived. The meal was a simple beef stew with potatoes, fresh bread, and hot coffee. There was pie for desert and Stiles enjoyed it all. After he finished eating, he inquired at the desk if Mr. O’Donnell was available and was told that he wouldn’t be back in town until Monday.
Stiles slept well, even with the noise from the saloon going on through most of the night. When he rose in the morning, he felt rested and refreshed and ready to take on whatever the day would bring.
PETE HUGGINS WAS nothing like Stiles was expecting. He was probably close to Stiles in age, with a slender body and an easy smile. He had pale blond hair and light blue eyes that twinkled when he laughed, and he laughed a lot.
“Lord, Mr. Beare is going to shit when he sees the likes of you.” He offered his hand to Stiles to shake as he spoke. “Pete Huggins is the name. I’m cook on the Circle W, but I guess you already knew that. Tiny said you were nosing around at the stable yesterday.”
“Tiny? That’s his name?” Stiles was laughing now. That big burly oaf of a man went by the name Tiny.
“Yep. That’s all I’ve ever heard him called. I guess he might have a real name, but I don’t reckon anyone in town knows what it is.”
Stiles tried to get comfortable on the buckboard’s bench, but it didn’t look like that was going to be happening during the ride to the ranch. He tried to think of something besides his aching arse.
“How long until we reach the ranch?” Stiles asked, squirming again.
“’Bout another hour.” Pete watched as Stiles moved again. “There’s a blanket behind you on the floor of the wagon if you need to sit on something a little more comfortable.”
There was a snicker in the way Pete said the word “comfortable”. It didn’t matter. He was uncomfortable and he was supposed to be acting as if he knew very little about the rough life a rancher had to live. After all, he was a snobbish city slicker who was out to buy their ranch right out from under them. He reached behind him and pulled up a piece of something that looked like it might have been a wool blanket at one time, but the dogs had either been sleeping in it or pissing on it. He dropped it back to the wagon bed and decided maybe he was a bit of a snobbish city slicker after all. This made Pete bellow in laughter.
“Yep. Beare’s going to shit when he sees you!”
The rest of the ride, Stiles stayed quiet and followed the scenery. It was beautiful country. Miles and miles of prairie grass. Every now and then a thicket of trees and bushes grew up alongside a stream or pond, like a tiny oasis in the middle of the wilderness.
They had been following the same rutted road for about an hour. Stiles was glad that he was wearing a hat because there wasn’t much shade along the way. Finally, the track smoothed into a well-worn path which looked more like a road. Stiles noticed a large gate up ahead. There was no fence connected to it. It looked strange standing there in the middle of the prairie all by itself. Across the tall arch the letter W was encased in a circle. This was the entrance to the Circle W Ranch.
It was another mile or two before they reached the area where the buildings sat. There was a large two-story framed house, painted bright white, with a covered porch wrapped around it. Stiles took this to be the main house. It was lovely and well cared for. Two large barns, a fenced-in riding circle, a long bunk house, and an intricate staging area for cattle made up the rest of the area.
The yard was filled with clucking chickens, barking dogs, and one three-legged cat. Two ranch hands strolled toward them from the first barn. They met the wagon as it pulled to a stop in front of the main house. The taller of the two tipped his cowboy hat back on his head and raked his eyes over Stiles, from the bowler hat to the tips of his polished boots. It was easy to see the man was making assumptions and Stiles was coming up short in every way. Finally, the fellow shook his head in disbelief and laughed.
“What the hell did you drag back from town with you, Pete?”
“Shut up, Gus, and start unloading the wagon,” Pete answered as he jumped down.
Stiles remembered the name Gus Williams in the file he had looked at in McCullough’s office before leaving St. Louis. Here was the second person on that list. The first being Pete himself. The other young man with Gus could be one of the Largo brothers, but Stiles had no idea which one. He didn’t look directly at Stiles, but he nodded his head in a sort of silent welcome, then headed to the back of the wagon.
“I can help too, Pete,” he said, throwing a large white sack with the word sugar stamped on it over his shoulder. There was another sack the same size labeled flour. He heaved that across his shoulder as well.
Stiles jumped down from the wagon bench so he stood level with the others. Pete introduced him then.
“This here’s Mr. Long. He’s the fellow Beare has been expecting.” Pete’s eyebrow arched over his left eye and he stared at Stiles questioningly. “He sort of surprised us. Since we weren’t expecting him for a couple more weeks.”
Gus scrunched up his face and said, “Shit! Beare don’t like surprises, and I know he ain’t gonna like this one.”
Stiles waited beside the wagon as the three men continued to heft bags of sugar, coffee, and flour over their shoulders and carry them into the house. There were numerous crates as well that had to be unloaded.
He let his gaze wander over the rest of the open space around him. He smiled as he watched the dogs bark and chase after the chickens, causing the birds to scatter in every direction. The cat he’d seen earlier made its way to the porch and curled up in a ball. The sounds and smells of horses and cattle carried through the air to where he stood. It was then he heard someone barking orders from behind the farthest barn. The voice was deep and rough. A voice that carried authority and demanded obedience. Stiles’ heartbeat sped up as the voice grew louder.