Бесплатный фрагмент - The Buffalo Ridge Outlaw

Chapter 1

Imagine endless plains stretching to the very horizon, where the air is so transparent that one could almost reach out and touch the bottomless blue sky. Even at the hottest noon, the sky dazzles with its pristine purity: it is so relentlessly bright that one’s gaze involuntarily gets lost in its boundless blue expanse. The vast expanses stretch into the distance, dissolving in the trembling haze of summer heat, as if the very earth breathes in rhythm with the scorching air. Look to the west: at the foot of the majestic, imposing mountains, crystal-clear mountain rivers originate, pure as a tear. They carve their way through canyons and ravines, crashing down the ledges with roar and foam, to later merge with the wide, leisurely streams on the plain. Their waters, bubbling and untamed, like living creatures, carry the strength and energy of the mountain peaks, and then, calming their rush, find tranquility in the expanses of the plains. Thus, the harmony of two worlds is born — the wild power of the mountains and the serene breadth of the steppes.

Once these lands were home to mighty herds of buffalo: their dark silhouettes stood majestically against the backdrop of the sunset sky, transforming the steppe into a living canvas. At night, only the melodic singing of night cicadas and the drawn-out cries of coyotes, echoing through the area and getting lost somewhere beyond the horizon, disturbed the silence. Nature itself spoke here in its ancient language — the language of wind, water, and endless sky. Time has not spared the pristine silence of these places. The lands are now scarred by the traces of civilization.

Look to the east, where the plain meets the highlands: among the impregnable cliffs and deep gorges lies a railroad. Like a steel arrow, it cuts through this harsh yet beautiful land, connecting it to the rest of the world. It is a symbol of progress and inevitable change — a road that brings new opportunities but forever alters the face of ancient earth.

Between the chain of mountains and the swift river, on lands where the wise and brave Cheyenne once roamed, now stands a small settlement — Buffalo Ridge. The Cheyenne people have long left these places, heading far north to distant, snow-capped peaks, and now only faint echoes of their legends linger in the air, blending with the rustle of grass and the roar of water.

***

At the mountain river, where the water roars over the stones, a prospectors’ camp sprawls along the riverbank. Tents made of coarse canvas and makeshift shelters huddle against the cliffs as if seeking protection from the gusty wind. Narrow paths wind between them, trampled into pebbles and tough grass, and here and there the ground is covered with scattered brushwood and dry grass to keep their feet warm in the mornings. A little further away, under a canopy of rain-darkened fabric stretched over roughly hewn posts, dinner is being prepared: a smoked pot hangs over the glowing coals, and the rich aroma of venison with onions drifts over the camp, overpowering the smell of dampness and wet stone. Nearby, a makeshift shelf of boards is crowded with tin cans, bundles of dried herbs, and a stack of dented tin plates.

In the center of the camp, a fire pit blackens — a circle of burnt валуны, within which yesterday’s fire still smolders. Overturned crates serve as seats, and a couple of roughly-hewn stools lie around. An old copper teapot with a chipped spout leans against a rock nearby, and soaked mittens and tattered scarves dry on a rope. Along the edges of the camp, signs of prospecting life are visible: gold pans, picks, shovels with handles polished to a silky shine by countless hands. Near one of the tents, a pile of bags and bundles towers, and next to it, a tin lantern hangs on a peg — its dim glass covered with a mesh of fine cracks.

The sun was beating down so fiercely that it seemed as if the sky itself had decided to scorch the valley to the ground. On the riverbank, in the shaky shadow of a torn canvas canopy, two companions bent over their work.

John McBerry, a seasoned warrior of Irish descent, moved with the composed restraint typical of men accustomed to danger. Beside him, Sam, an aging prospector, bent over his pan; his face was etched with wrinkles, like a map of forgotten trails. The fervor of his younger years still lingered in his eyes, but his hands no longer held the pan with the same steady confidence, and his back ached more and more often from the perpetual bending over the water.

John worked with such diligence that it seemed as though his very life depended on every movement — and perhaps it truly did. He scooped up the heavy, wet sand with his shovel, flung it into the wide, roughly made pan standing nearby, and then began that endless, soul-wearying dance: swirling the shovel’s contents, washing away the murky water, and shoveling more in again.

Sam stood a short distance away, holding a smaller pan. The sand streamed through his fingers along with the water, revealing dark, stubborn grains of plain rock. The river was in no hurry to give up its secrets. Sam narrowed his eyes, trying to discern flecks of gold in the murky water.

— Not much today, — he grumbled without looking up. His voice was hoarse, as if it had once been scorched by smoke and never fully healed with time.

— Just a little more, Sam, — McBerry rasped, wiping his sleeve across a face crusted with dust and sweat.

— And what do we have to show for it? A couple of specks of gold dust in a whole day? I swear, I’ll collapse right here.

The sun was sinking toward the horizon, painting the cliffs in crimson hues. The prospectors made their way to the camp on the shore. John McBerry, having finished his work, stood motionless at the river’s edge, letting his weary arms hang at his sides. He thought of home, of his family. The past surged over him in a heavy wave — as relentless as the churning current before him.

Before his eyes rose the image of their ranch — once proud and sturdy, now seeming to have aged before its time. The fence leaned askew, stooped under the weight of hardship. The barn’s roof was rotting in places, marked with dark stains of dampness. The fields, which just a few years ago had delighted the eye with golden ears of grain, now looked desolate: the land had grown barren, its meagre yield barely enough to sustain the family. The air carried the scent of hay and horse sweat.

Mary stood at the threshold in a faded, worn dress. Her hands, calloused from labour, were clasped before her, and her eyes held a trace of anxiety.

— John, I’ve gathered a few ears of corn and a handful of beans — all I could salvage from our garden. I also took a couple of pumpkins, but they’re small, barely the size of a fist. If things keep going this way, we won’t be able to feed ourselves through the winter… and the livestock needs something to eat too.

John entered the house and went to his wife. The worry for his family’s future was plain in his eyes.

— I’ve been thinking for a long time, Mary. It’s time to make a decision. I’m considering heading to the old mine. They say there’s still a chance to find fortune there.

— Father! But what about the ranch? Who will help us with the farm?

Cal was fifteen, but that day he seemed older than his years. He stood a little behind his mother. A flicker of resentment showed in his gaze — his father was leaving them alone.

— The ranch is falling apart. If I don’t try, we’ll lose everything. This is our last chance. Remember, I told you about the gold mines? — John said, turning to his son. — There, you can earn enough to buy new land and start over.

— But not everyone finds gold…

— Yes, Mary, that’s true. But fortune might smile upon us as well.

Mary stepped closer; her face reflected both fear and resolve.

— Be careful, John. We’ll be here waiting for you, praying that luck is on your side. Her voice trembled, yet it sounded firm as she bade him farewell.

— Thank you, Mary. I’ll do my best to return as soon as I can.

John gathered his belongings, carefully considering each item so as not to carry anything unnecessary. He took his rifle, then looked over his family.

He drew a deep breath, feeling the weight of his decision on his shoulders. Tomorrow, a long journey to the mines lay ahead. In these harsh lands, only the bravest ever found their happiness. As he left the house, he embraced them and said to his son:

— Calvin, help your mother, take care of her. Then he stepped toward the horse.

Here, by the mountain river, far from his home ranch, the memories of his loved ones became a source of strength for the elder McBerry. They served as a reminder of what he was fighting for, of the very reason he found himself there.

— John, we’re getting dinner ready. Will you join us? Thomas, the sheriff’s deputy, approached him. The two were old friends who had known each other for years — they had served together in the army when they were younger. Back then, they had pulled each other through more than one tight spot: John had covered for Thomas in the fiercest scrapes, and later Thomas had hauled John out of the messes he constantly got into, all thanks to his fiery temper. It was during those years that their strong bond of friendship had been forged.

Good-natured Thomas was there now out of duty. He had taken the job as deputy right after the army, accepting the offer almost immediately upon hearing it. Thomas was a simple man with no grand ambitions, and the thought of spending long weeks searching for another position held no appeal for him. It was far easier to take what life handed him. He rarely interfered with the workings of the mining camp, and in truth, there wasn’t much to interfere with — the place had its own rules, harsh and straightforward: work until you drop, or leave. Still, his presence in the camp served as a quiet reminder that some semblance of lawful order still existed. From time to time, he would walk over to McBerry and Sam, watching their work in silence, squinting against the sun.

— It’s been a hard day, — Thomas added with a note of sympathy.

— That it has, — McBerry replied, lifting his pan and taking his shovel with him.

The two men made their way to the shelter where dinner was being prepared, then settled down by the campfire. Old Sam stirred the stew in the soot-blackened pot, occasionally tasting it with a long wooden spoon. Lanky McGraves sank wearily onto a log near the fire and began to rub his aching shoulders, glancing now and then at the bubbling pot. Young Billy, unable to sit still, bustled about, dragging dry branches to the flames. He stayed close to old Sam, eager to help in any way he could and not to miss a single piece of advice from the seasoned prospector.

The days merged into one endless, grey stream. The heat gave way to the wind, which hurled sand into their eyes, making them water. The mine offered a way to survive and promised a good deal of money, but there was little gold — so little that many grew disillusioned and left. Only a small handful remained in their camp — about six men.

McBerry never started the day without checking his rifle. Moving deliberately, he reached out to the corner of the tent and felt for the weapon wrapped in a piece of cloth. Grasping the stock, McBerry turned the rifle around and habitually checked the bolt. In these wild lands, the morning could bring anything: bands of outlaws could appear at any moment. Satisfied that the rifle was in order, he picked up a shovel and a pan and headed to the mine.

The water roared nearby, flowing around the stones, encouraging him with its incessant murmur. Old Sam, as usual, hunched over, swirling the pan in an attempt to catch a grain of luck. His hands, covered with a network of old scars and cracks, could barely feel the weight anymore, and a bitter feeling had settled in his chest — the kind that comes when hope becomes a habit rather than a belief.

That day everything proceeded as it always did — monotonous, arduous, hopeless. John scooped up chunks of rock with his shovel, almost mechanically prying up the next layer, when suddenly the shovel struck something hard — not a stone that would simply slide aside, but something resistant. John bent down, tossed the shovel aside, and began to dig through the damp earth with his hands. His fingers encountered something smooth, unusually heavy.

Sam raised his head and squinted, as if trying to read the answer on John’s face before he could utter a word.

— What is it? -Sam asked hoarsely, setting the pan aside.

John leaned down, scraped off the clinging clay to reveal the uneven surface of the boulder, and froze: it was a huge chunk of rock laced with golden veins, and protruding from its side was a heavy nugget, gleaming with a dull luster.

— Gold, — he breathed, unable to believe his own eyes.

Sam slowly sank to his knees, picked up the rock, and brought it close to his eyes. The yellow veins snaked across the dark stone. The river had finally decided to reveal its secret. His lips trembled in a smile — one he hadn’t allowed himself in many months.

— Well, — Sam whispered, — it seems luck has finally turned its face to us. A spark of joy flickered in his eyes — not just hope, but a premonition of change, of a new life.

John was already digging further, with renewed vigor and a fresh hunger, as if he feared the miracle would vanish the moment he stopped. Sam watched him, and in his chest kindled that same fire he had thought long extinguished. Here and there, other prospectors were finding gold.

And so, in a single instant, the gray stream of days was torn apart by a dazzling flash — the group of prospectors had struck a gold vein. Within a couple of days, that stretch of the river had been thoroughly dug over. The bank, once smooth and gently sloping, now lay buried beneath heaps of excavated clay. Scattered shovels and pans were half-submerged in the mud. The earth here had been turned inside out — as if some giant, in a fit of rage, had rent it with its claws. Everyone rejoiced at what they could contribute to the common haul: McGraves, at a nugget the size of a fingernail; his friend Harvey, unable to believe his luck, shoveling into sacks sand that sparkled with golden flecks. Old Sam, darkened by the sun, helped John. And young Billy, who had barely had time to trade his father’s revolver for a pickaxe, darted from pit to pit, terrified of missing even a grain of this sudden wealth. The golden sand was poured into pouches; the nuggets were set aside in separate bags.

In the days that followed, no further deposits were found downstream — not a single grain, not a hint of glitter among the clods of clay. Wearily, the prospectors stripped away layer after layer, but the river kept its silence. Only occasionally would someone sigh, wiping the spray-wet face with a sleeve.

— All right, — McGraves said, tossing his shovel aside and mopping the sweat from his face with a handkerchief. — I’ve had enough. There’s nothing more to find here. I’ll take my share and head back to the settlement.

— It’s a three-day ride to the settlement, and are you sure you won’t meet a few hotheads on the road — the sort who’d kill a man without a second thought? — John remarked, casting a grim glance at the horizon, where the sun was already sinking toward the sunset.

— Word’s out about our claim. Out in these parts, gold’s wolf’s blood — they smell it coming from a mile off.

— I’ve got a rifle, — McGraves replied proudly.

— And what good is that? One gun against a gang is no protection.

— We should stick together. It’s safer that way, — Sam noted.

— But we can’t just leave everything here — all our gear, the wagons, the horses, -Billy asked. — How will we get the gold out?

— We’ve found the gold, but it’ll bring us little joy if we can’t get it to the city, — Sam added, running a hand over his stubble.

— With that load, the journey will take all of five days, — Thomas muttered, stepping up.

— Let’s send Thomas, — Sam said, crossing his arms and narrowing his eyes, as if weighing his words. Let him bring help — we’ll feel safer returning with them.

— That’s wise, Sam.

— Thomas is the sheriff’s deputy, — McGraves said, tightening the girth on his horse. — It’ll be easier for him to arrange things. I’ll give him my bay — the best horse in the county. If he leaves now, he’ll reach the town in a day or two, and be back with help in five.

McBerry stood silent, looking first at the heavy sacks of gear and golden sand, then at his companions.

— Let him go, — he exhaled.

Sam gave a wry smile and clapped him on the shoulder. Then he took out a flask and handed it to Thomas.

— Here, take this. It isn’t much, but it’ll last you to the settlement. And keep your revolver loaded.

Thomas took the flask, tucked it into his saddlebag, checked his holster, and, without looking back, spurred his horse. Dust rose from beneath the hooves, and soon his figure dissolved into the golden light of the sunset.

Sam watched him go, then turned to his companions.

— Now the main thing is to hold out through these days.

McGraves nodded grimly, adjusting his hat.

John McBerry spoke quietly, scanning the camp.

— Let’s just hope no one figures out we’ve found gold here. Otherwise, these days will feel like an eternity.

While the prospectors at the claim waited anxiously for Thomas’s return, he himself galloped along the dusty road, urging on McGraves’ chestnut horse. The two days of travel flew by unnoticed. The wind whistled in his ears, and the sun beat down mercilessly, yet Thomas refused to slow his pace. He knew time was working against them; every hour of delay could cost the prospectors their lives.

At last, the outlines of the town appeared ahead. The houses, saloons, and shops all looked so ordinary, almost peaceful. Thomas dismounted in front of the sheriff’s office, tethered the horse, and strode resolutely inside. A difficult conversation lay ahead — one on which his friends’ lives depended.

Chapter 2

The sun was at its zenith when Thomas made his way to the sheriff’s office. The two-story building stood on the main street between shops and the post office. Weathered boards, a faded sign with the barely legible inscription “Sheriff’s Office”, and a wide veranda with crooked railings gave the structure the appearance of a weary but still proud guardian of law and order. Shadows from the railings fell across the boards in slanted stripes, and a curtain fluttered lazily in the half-open second-floor window.

The ground floor housed the reception office — a spacious room with a high ceiling that smelled of dust, tobacco smoke, and old iron. Just inside the creaking door stood a massive counter made of roughly hewn wood, behind which the lawman received citizens’ complaints and recorded information in a well-worn logbook. The walls displayed reward posters for criminals’ capture: faded sheets with blurred ink pinned with nails and thumbtacks. A heavy grandfather clock ticked softly in the corner, its steady rhythm seeming to count down the seconds until the next disturbance.

Adjacent to the reception area was the detention cell — small but secure. Thick iron bars, blackened with age, separated it from the rest of the space. Inside was a narrow bench made of unfinished planks and a bucket in the corner. The floor was covered with straw, which absorbed moisture and odors rather than softening the hardness of the place. The cell door was locked with a heavy padlock, the key always kept by the sheriff — or his trusted deputy when the sheriff was away.

The staircase to the second floor led directly from the reception area — steep, narrow, with worn steps that creaked treacherously with every step. Upstairs, in the sheriff’s office, was a small but bright room with two windows overlooking the street and the backyard. Here stood a heavy oak desk piled with papers, maps, and case files. On the wall hung a rifle on a hook and a couple of revolvers in holsters, always within reach. In the corner sat an old safe with a peeling door — it held important documents and confiscated weapons. Near the window was an armchair with worn upholstery, where the sheriff often dozed off after long shifts.

A small shed adjoined the building from the backyard, where horses were kept and equipment stored. An inconspicuous door there served as a back exit in case someone needed to leave the office quickly and discreetly. The entire appearance of the office spoke of a focus on practicality rather than grandeur — everything was designed for efficiency and business.

Dusty rays slanted through the sheriff Babbitt’s office window, illuminating clouds of tobacco smoke hanging in the air as Thomas ascended to the second floor. A half-open curtain let sunlight into half of the window. Bright rays fell on the worn leather of the armchairs, stacks of papers, and the sheriff’s silver badge, gleaming faintly on his chest. The cramped room smelled of tobacco, old wood, and something sour — either spilled whiskey or years of accumulated fatigue.

Thomas, a stout man with a round face that exuded kindness, leaned forward slightly, resting his palms on the edge of the desk. His hat lay nearby, its brim creased from the long journey. He spoke quietly but insistently:

— Sheriff, I understand you have plenty on your plate, but these people… they’re not bandits or cutthroats. They’re simple prospectors. I lived side by side with them for months, saw them bending their backs, saw them panning for gold in icy water. Now they have a load — and a considerable one. And the road to town is like a trap: canyons, passes, places where even shadows seem threatening. Please, just send two men to escort the wagon train. At least some cover.

Sheriff Babbitt nervously adjusted his badge. His thin, sharp face twitched in a barely noticeable grimace. He avoided Thomas’s eyes, scanning the desk, shuffling through some papers as if searching for an answer he already knew.

— We’re short-handed, Thomas, — he said a bit more sharply than necessary. — I don’t have an army to escort every prospector on the road. Besides, why should I? They’re their own masters. If they managed to get the gold, they can protect it. They have picks, shovels, and some of them even have rifles.

Thomas frowned slightly, but his voice remained gentle.

— Guns are one thing, but Slaughter’s gang is another matter entirely. You know yourself they prowl these trails like wolves. Prospectors aren’t fighters, Sheriff. They’re used to digging in the dirt, not pulling triggers.

Babbitt finally looked up, and a cold, calculating gleam flashed in his eyes. He leaned back in his chair, and it creaked pitifully.

— Thomas, — he drawled, stretching the word out as if tasting it, — you worry too much. I’ve got few men, and I need them here in town.

— I have to go back, — Thomas said firmly. — John McBerry ‘s out there. I can’t just leave him.

— Maybe you shouldn’t go back at all. The road’s long, dangerous… Who knows what might happen. So… don’t rush.

The words weren’t a piece of advice — they were a thinly veiled hint. Thomas felt something tighten inside him, but he did his best not to show it.

The sheriff fell silent for a moment, then slowly pulled open a drawer in his desk. Thomas tensed. Babbitt took out a roll of money, tightly bound, and placed it on the table, sliding it toward Thomas.

— Take it, — he said curtly. — For the road… but wait a couple of days before you leave. Consider it a token of gratitude for not meddling where you shouldn’t.

Thomas froze, staring at the roll. Something stirred within him — resentment, anger — but it quickly faded, replaced by weariness and a kind of quiet resignation. He was a gentle man, unaccustomed to blunt rejections or open hostility. Right now, it seemed easier to take the money, walk away, and figure out what to do next later.

He slowly reached out and took the tightly rolled bundle, feeling the cold paper against his fingers.

Babbitt gave a barely perceptible smirk — not kind, but rather one of relief.

— Good, — he nodded. — Just don’t be hasty. Let things take their course.

Thomas put on his hat, gave a brief nod, and left the office, leaving behind the scent of tobacco, old wood, and something subtly rotten that lingered in the air — not from the objects, but from the words, the looks, the very atmosphere of the place. Outside, the sun struck him full in the face, and for a moment Thomas closed his eyes, as if trying to shake off the sticky web of the conversation he’d just endured. The money lay heavy in his pocket, a reminder that the world wasn’t as simple as he’d like it to be. He headed for the saloon, intending to drown the last of the bitterness in whiskey.

The dust, stirred up by a gust of wind, swirled inward as the door of the “Flaming Cactus” saloon creaked open. Thomas, seated near a table of poker players, glanced at the newcomer.

Sheriff Babbitt stood on the threshold. His neat uniform and heavy belt with a holster immediately set him apart from the regular patrons. Inside, a dim half-light reigned, softened by the slanting rays of the sunset that pierced through the grimy windows. The air was thick with the scent of whiskey, tobacco smoke, and sweat.

At the bar, wiping a glass with a greasy towel, stood the bartender — a stocky man with grey stubble and a sharp, watchful gaze. His name was Hank Dawson; he knew everyone in the county and knew how to keep their secrets — for a reasonable fee.

Babbitt approached the bar unhurriedly.

— Evening, Hank, — he said curtly, without raising his voice.

— Same to you, Sheriff, — the bartender replied, inclining his head ever so slightly. — How’s things in town?

— Quiet, — Babbitt answered, his gaze sweeping the room. — For now, quiet. Give me a glass of water.

Hank poured the water silently from a pitcher. While the sheriff took a sip, his eyes scanned the room once more. In the far corner, shrouded in deep shadow, sat a stranger. His face was almost hidden by the low-brimmed hat, but Babbitt knew: the man was waiting.

The sheriff set the glass on the bar and tilted his head — a barely perceptible nod, one that only someone who knew the signal would notice. And then, as if on cue, the stranger slowly raised his hand, adjusted the brim of his hat, and stood up. His movements were calm, devoid of any unnecessary haste — the measured motions of a man accustomed to danger. Without looking back, he headed for the exit. The door creaked again, and the stranger vanished into the golden glow of the sunset, leaving behind only a faint stirring of dust.

Babbitt lingered at the bar for a moment longer, then looked at Hank again.

— How’s the daughter? — he tossed out casually.

Hank’s brief question about the daughter sounded more like a habitual remark than a genuine inquiry. The sheriff muttered something in reply. Hank didn’t bother to catch the words — he simply nodded, the way old acquaintances do when the sheriff takes his leave.

Thomas had been watching everything unfold as if through a murky veil — every movement the sheriff made imprinted itself on his mind with frightening clarity. The slight, almost imperceptible nod from the sheriff would have gone unnoticed by anyone else. But Thomas had seen it. He didn’t know whom the signal was meant for, or what it signified. Perhaps the sheriff needed that man to leave — or, conversely, to appear in the right place. Who knew… This uncertainty only made the sticky, heavy sense of impending doom grow stronger in his chest.

And yet, not so long ago, when he’d taken the money from the sheriff — the very coins that now burned in his pocket with an unsettling warmth — Thomas had convinced himself it was just a deal, that he wasn’t risking anything. Now it seemed that from the very moment he’d accepted that coin, he’d become a part of someone else’s dangerous game.

A couple of days later, Thomas set out for the mine. He decided to take the route past the McBerry ranch. The trail leading to the ranch first wound its way between low hills, covered with coarse grass bleached by the sun. There were no signs of the usual homestead here: no fences, no hitching posts, no barns — only wild land and sparse shrubs clinging to the rocks. Only as he drew closer to the ranch did pastures appear, where cows roamed and solitary haystacks stood.

Dust swirled in the wake of Thomas’s horse as he turned toward the McBerry ranch. The gates stood ajar, and the yard was unusually quiet. Mary stepped out of the house — she moved slowly, as if each step cost her an effort. Her face was pale; dark half-moons lay beneath her eyes, and the shawl draped over her shoulders slipped down. Thomas instinctively leaned forward to adjust it.

— Thomas, — Mary breathed softly, offering a faint smile. — I’m glad to see you.

Thomas nodded, trying to conceal his worry.

— I won’t stay long. I was passing by and wanted to see how you’re getting on.

Mary waved a hand, as if brushing aside unnecessary concern.

— Everything’s fine. It’s just that I don’t have the strength I used to… Are you heading to the mine? Tell my husband not to worry.

Thomas nodded again, feeling a tightness in his chest. He knew Mary wasn’t one to complain.

Calvin slipped out from behind the corner of the barn — wiry, his eyes bright.

— I heard you’re going back to the mine. I’ll come with you!

Thomas glanced at Mary; she gave the slightest nod, as if she’d known all along that her son would ask to go.

Calvin had already saddled his horse and was now looking impatiently toward the road. Youthful resolve surged within him; he seemed ready to ride all the way to the horizon, just to prove he wasn’t a boy anymore, but a real helper.

— We’ll take the direct route through the gorge, — Thomas said, hoisting the bag of supplies onto his shoulder. — It’s quicker, but it’s not an easy path. Are you sure you’re ready?

Calvin squared his shoulders.

— I know these trails better than any prospector. I used to ride out with my father when he went hunting.