Dumarest
Vaquero de Alta California
- Joined
- Jan 20, 2018
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Wells Fargo stagecoach agent Eli Johnson and shotgun messenger Zeke McAdam load a combination-locked metal strongbox in the front boot and perch on the driver's box as U.S. Army troopers, their blue shirtsleeves soaked through with sweat under a high white sun, unceremoniously toss baggage atop the Wells Fargo stagecoach and tie it down tight with rawhide cords. Private Buckley gestures with a thumb swollen by a recent missed hammer blow to Private Steve Anderson astride his Appaloosa and asks Corporal Lewis how Anderson rates riding into town with the mail?
"Maybe 'cause he don't miss every other shot at an Apache; now get back to work, ya goldbricker!"
The late June air dry and still, every movement in the open sun is to exposed skin akin to warming your hands at a woodburning stove.
Corporal Lewis says to Private Anderson and the Wells Fargo men, "Take a good long look at the river, boys, 'cause that Colorado's the last water y'all're likely to see for the next week less'n it's pouring outta your canteen. And remember them Apache, it's when ya can't see none that you got to worry most about them bein' 'round."
Corporal Lewis slaps a horse's hindquarters and the stagecoach rolls out of Fort Yuma, the gates closing ominously behind you as you start downhill to the ferry that will carry you across the Colorado River to Arizona City, where you have five passengers waiting at the Wells Fargo office. From your vantage point you can see across the river and past the city to the desert, wide open and waiting, as hostile to fools as the unvarnished truth.
Meanwhile, in the bustling city of eleven hundred, Marcus Boone and Oliver Lloyd wait at a hitching rail outside the Wells Fargo office for the next coach to Tucson to arrive, bemused by the appearance of a dude* in dark grey broadcloth and a brand-new hat who couldn't look more tinhorn if he had been waxing his mustache. He is accompanied by a rather younger black-eyed, dark-haired woman in modest attire that cannot disguise her shapely form. The dude introduces himself and his wife as Travis and Juanita Beck. Overloaded with luggage held by straps and handles and in the crooks of his arms is an older man who looks salty and no-nonsense.
*original meaning
"Maybe 'cause he don't miss every other shot at an Apache; now get back to work, ya goldbricker!"
The late June air dry and still, every movement in the open sun is to exposed skin akin to warming your hands at a woodburning stove.
Corporal Lewis says to Private Anderson and the Wells Fargo men, "Take a good long look at the river, boys, 'cause that Colorado's the last water y'all're likely to see for the next week less'n it's pouring outta your canteen. And remember them Apache, it's when ya can't see none that you got to worry most about them bein' 'round."
Corporal Lewis slaps a horse's hindquarters and the stagecoach rolls out of Fort Yuma, the gates closing ominously behind you as you start downhill to the ferry that will carry you across the Colorado River to Arizona City, where you have five passengers waiting at the Wells Fargo office. From your vantage point you can see across the river and past the city to the desert, wide open and waiting, as hostile to fools as the unvarnished truth.
Meanwhile, in the bustling city of eleven hundred, Marcus Boone and Oliver Lloyd wait at a hitching rail outside the Wells Fargo office for the next coach to Tucson to arrive, bemused by the appearance of a dude* in dark grey broadcloth and a brand-new hat who couldn't look more tinhorn if he had been waxing his mustache. He is accompanied by a rather younger black-eyed, dark-haired woman in modest attire that cannot disguise her shapely form. The dude introduces himself and his wife as Travis and Juanita Beck. Overloaded with luggage held by straps and handles and in the crooks of his arms is an older man who looks salty and no-nonsense.
*original meaning
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