Chapter 2
Chapter
The cold barrel of a revolver jammed into the back of Wyatt McQuaid’s neck and stopped him short in the middle of Fairplay’s dusty Main Street.
“Quit stealing my business.” The voice—and the sour body odor—behind Wyatt belonged to only one man: Roper Brawley.
“I ain’t stealing your business—”
“Jansen’s steers were mine.” Brawley dug the steel into Wyatt’s flesh, bumping and loosening his hat so it tumbled to the street.
Against the black felt, the chalky line from dried sweat was all too visible and encrusted along the brim with dust, grease, and mud spots. The center was dented where a heifer had recently trampled it. And the hatband of braided horsehair hung loose.
Even if his hat wasn’t pretty, it was still his pride and joy. And he wouldn’t stand for anyone knocking it from his head.
With a jab backward, Wyatt elbowed Brawley’s stomach, forcing the man to double over. With the pressure gone, Wyatt spun, latched on to Brawley’s gun arm, and slammed it down hard against his knee, giving Brawley little choice but to release the revolver.
The weapon flew several feet, landing in the gravel, far enough away that Brawley couldn’t easily reach it.
“This here is a free country.” Wyatt swiped up his hat and situated it on his head. Although the sun was on its evening hike down to Sheep and Horseshoe Mountains, the rays were still strong and hot. “The miners can sell their oxen to anyone in the blazes they want to.”
Nursing his stomach, Brawley straightened. A black patch covered a missing eye but couldn’t hide the thin, white scars scattered across his cheek—wounds he’d gotten fighting Indians. “Me and my men were here in South Park first.”
That was debatable. Wyatt had arrived in the summer of 1860 and tried gold mining like thousands of other prospectors. After scraping by and managing to pan only enough nuggets and gold dust to fill his pockets, he’d tried his luck at something different—ranching.
With the passing of the Homestead Act earlier in the year, he’d been one of the first to file an application and pay the registration fee at the land office in Denver. He’d gotten himself the one hundred sixty acres allowed under President Lincoln’s new legislation fair and square.
His pasturelands spread out to the southeast of Fairplay.
Wyatt had spent the spring and summer laboring from sunup to sundown, building a house and a barn on his claim.
He and Judd had buckled down and made the place livable for both man and beast. And over recent weeks, he’d started adding more steers to his small herd.
And now, Roper Brawley was determined to keep him from succeeding.
Brawley crossed his arms and nodded at several cowhands loitering outside Cabinet Billiard Hall. At their boss’s signal, they sauntered toward Wyatt, their spurs jangling, their hands resting on the handles of their six-shooters tucked into their holsters.
Wyatt made eye contact with Judd, who stood next to the livery guarding the two bone-thin steers Wyatt had just purchased.
The white-haired man limped forward too.
He didn’t reach for his Colts—didn’t have to.
Judd was the fastest gunslinger in the Rockies.
He could shoot iron quicker than the twitch of a cow’s tail.
Fortunately, Brawley and his men knew it. They stopped a dozen paces away, feet spread, hands at the ready.
Brawley spit a stream of tobacco into the street, then wiped his sleeve across his mouth. “This place ain’t big enough for the two of us, McQuaid.”
“If that’s the way you feel, then I guess you oughta be moving on.”
“You’re the one needing to move on.” Brawley’s bottom lip rounded out from the chew stuffed inside, and his thin, scraggly beard and mustache were stained with the juice.
Brawley probably wasn’t much older than Wyatt’s own twenty-three years, but his lean, leathery face and somber eyes spoke of hardships that had aged him too soon.
“Come on now, Brawley.” Wyatt attempted to dredge up some empathy for the man. After all, he knew a bit about hardships himself. “This land here in South Park can handle more than one ranch. Let’s aim to live in peace—”
“Peace?” Brawley scoffed. “You buying up all the cattle and leaving me with none ain’t aiming for peace.”
Wyatt almost snorted but held himself back. Brawley had things backward. He was the one buying up the weak and worn-out oxen as rapidly as the miners and teamsters came over the passes.
The rumbling of wheels and the pounding of hooves from the northeast end of town cut off their discussion. Discussion was too kind a word for Brawley’s attempt to intimidate Wyatt into leaving. It wasn’t the first time the rancher had made threats, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.
As the stagecoach rolled closer, the clatter and dust rose higher.
Brawley bent and retrieved his revolver and then headed toward his men.
Across the street, Judd watched with unswerving intensity, his bushy white eyebrows narrowed and his white mustache pursed until the men disappeared into the billiard hall.
Once they were gone, Judd tipped the brim of his hat at Wyatt before he shuffled back toward the newly purchased steers.
Wyatt rolled his shoulders and tried to release the tension. At the rate he was going, he’d never make enough profit to send for his ma and siblings. Even if he could help his family with the costs of traveling to Colorado, how would he support them once they arrived?
What he needed to do was purchase a herd of purebred Shorthorns from the breeder he’d met in Missouri during his days transporting livestock for Russell, Majors, & Waddell. Beeves like that would thrive on the buffalo grass, wheat grass, and moss sage.
He peered beyond the buildings that lined the street to the grassy plains that spread out to the distant Tarryall mountain range in the east. Since the grass was endless and free, he’d have no trouble fattening up the cattle for butchering.
The miners always had a hankering for beef, tiring easily of the fish they caught in local streams or the canned goods they bought for exorbitant prices.
In fact, if Wyatt could purchase a big enough herd of Shorthorns and start his own breeding, he’d be able to send a stream of beef to the markets in the east. Eventually, he might make enough from sales to buy up more of the surrounding land and expand his ranch.
The trouble was, he didn’t have a tail feather left, not after pouring every penny of his savings into the start-up costs of his place.
He could hardly afford the worn-out oxen that newcomers were practically giving away.
Besides, he couldn’t rely on that supply forever, especially with Brawley’s hackles rising every time Wyatt made a purchase.
As the stage rolled to a jerking halt in front of the Fairplay Hotel, Wyatt expelled a pent-up breath. What he needed was an investor, a partner who’d be willing to help him build up his herd.
The gold mines in the mountains surrounding South Park had made millionaires out of numerous men. Would any of them be willing to invest in his ranch?
Wyatt scanned the buildings lining Fairplay, most having the typical false storefronts that made the businesses appear bigger and more significant to draw men in.
Set at the center of the flat grasslands along the intersection of Beaver Creek and the South Platte, Fairplay had earned its name from its first prospectors who’d vowed that their mining camp would be different from the others in the area, that they’d operate with integrity and fairness.
Although the town had its share of taverns and dance halls, it was a shade tamer than some of the other colorful mining towns that had sprung up in the area, towns like Buckskin Joe and Tarryall.
Of all the mining towns Wyatt had lived in and visited, he liked Fairplay best, mainly because he liked and respected the men who ran it.
Men like Landry Steele . . .
Steele stepped down from the stagecoach, wearing his usual dark suit coat, vest, and matching trousers. He turned around and offered his hand to a woman in the stagecoach door.
The woman accepted the help descending. The brim of her bonnet hid her face, but from the litheness of her movements and the womanliness of her form, she was awful young to be Steele’s wife.
In a blue dress, the woman was also too plainly attired to be Steele’s fancy eastern wife.
Besides, Steele had yammered on more than once about his wife refusing to live in the Wild West.
As the woman planted both feet on the ground, Steele reached up to the doorway again and, this time, offered his hand to a little girl.
Wyatt couldn’t contain his surprise and released a low whistle. Maybe Steele’s wife had decided to come west with their child after all, although hadn’t Steele talked about a son, not a daughter?
The girl bounded down, her bonnet pushed back, revealing long, loose hair the color of a newborn fawn. Petite and pretty, the child smiled her thanks to Steele before skipping away.
“Astrid, stay close.” The woman spun after the child and revealed her face. Her hair was the same light brown as the child’s, and her features were just as pretty but fuller and slightly rounder.
Astrid didn’t heed her mother and frisked away from the stagecoach in the direction of Simpkin’s General Store.
“Astrid, please.” The woman grabbed a fistful of her skirt and picked up her pace, then cast a glance over her shoulder at Steele.
Steele smiled and waved her on. “Go and explore. You know where to find me.”
She nodded, her expression emanating gratefulness, before she hustled after her child.
Stroking his mustache, Steele watched the young woman until she disappeared into the store behind the little girl.
Wyatt needed to stop staring, but his curiosity got the better of him. If this woman wasn’t Steele’s wife, then who was she? Couldn’t be his mistress. Steele had never struck Wyatt as the type of man who’d cheat on his wife, no matter how much he had a hankering for a woman.
As if sensing the scrutiny, Steele’s gaze swung to Wyatt, where he still stood in the middle of the road. Steele touched the brim of his bowler in greeting.
Wyatt repeated the action.
“Don’t look at me like that, McQuaid,” Steele called.
“Like what?” Blast it all. Why hadn’t he walked away before Steele had caught him staring?
“Like I’m doing something I shouldn’t be.”
“She ain’t your wife, is she?”
“No, of course not.” Steele huffed.
“I took you for a God-fearing man who took his marriage vows seriously.”
“And I am.”
“Then what are you doing with a pretty lady like that?” Wyatt glanced at the dusty window of the general store but couldn’t see inside past the grime to the woman in question.
Steele pressed his lips together and crossed toward him. “Do you think she’s pretty?”
Wyatt hadn’t seen her long, but it had been enough to know she was a real beauty. “A man’d have to be blind not to think so.”
Steele halted in front of him. The dust from the journey lightened the black of his suit coat to a charcoal gray. “Good. Then I want you to marry her.”