Chapter 7

“Hurry along Mr. Smith.” Emma said as we headed towards the staging area for the caravan. It consisted of a good fifteen wagons, most of which had been formed up in a wagon circle outside of town when we’d arrived under the cover of night the day prior. “It’s not proper business to keep people waiting.”

“As if I’m the reason we’re late,” I said, shooting a knowing look at Emma. She smiled innocently at me, while Clint chuckled beside us.

“Mr. Smith has a point,” Clint said, shooting me a grin, “I believe it was you, Miss Parker, who insisted on breakfast with the Mayor prior to our departure.”

“Are you implying it is my fault we are running late, Mr. Miller?” Emma held her hand over her mouth in mock surprise, “such disrespect from my own hired hands. Surely that’s not how you should treat your employer.”

“You hired me to keep you safe,” Clint retorted, “and nowhere in that contract does it say I can’t speak the truth, even if it’s a truth you didn’t want to hear.”

Our voices were louder than normal. Not by much, mind you, but enough that onlookers could hear our conversation, and more importantly, our names. In an effort to keep our identities, and thus our travels and intentions secret, we’d taken on aliases. Well, to be fair, I’d already been using an aliases, so all that had happened there had been I’d taken on a new one. It wasn’t anything new for me.

“I hired you and your friend there because I had no other choice. It’s hard enough finding hired hands this far away from anywhere proper, and I was eager to get back to my home in Lincoln, meaning I was desperate for any sort of help.”

“Well, that’s on you Miss Parker.” Clint said with the tip of his hat. “Just be glad Mr. Smith here agreed to our normal rates for this trip.” He’d traded out his union army style attire for a more…generic, get up. Meaning he looked like just about every other gun-toting hired muscle in the area, though with finer weapons, of course. Anything to distance himself from his reputation as the Grim Reaper, and as a veteran of the Civil War. As for myself, well, I didn’t really have any predetermined defining features or clothing. At least, not as far as I knew. With a rough beard growing in, unkempt shaggy hair, and otherwise unremarkable features, I was pretty good at blending in. Only thing that stood out about me, was my peacekeepers on my hip, and my New Frontiers strapped across my chest. I looked every bit the part of a hired gun.

“I’m sure the promise of an easy trip had nothing to do with it,” Emma said, turning her smile towards me. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Smith?”

“John’s fine,” I said, playing the part perfectly. “You’re paying me, no need to be polite about it. Sooner we get to Lincoln, the sooner I get paid and we part ways. From here till there,” I shrugged, “I’m your man through and through.”

“If you insist, John,” her smile reached her eyes. She was enjoying this little charade. “Then I insist you call me Mary.”

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I couldn’t help but crack a smile in response to that. One of Randal’s earliest lessons about blending in, was to pick names that were common, or more importantly, easily forgettable. Anything unique would stand out, and make people more likely to recall it.

I couldn’t even count high enough how many John’s I’d run into in my lifetime. Same with Mary’s. And Clint’s alias, well, George Miller was about as boring an forgettable a name as the others. Far as anyone on this caravan would know, and far as anyone in the town knew, save for the Mayor’s family, we were just two hired guns, and a merchant. Nothing special, nothing unique, nothing… memorable.

Our playful banter continued as we drew closer to the caravan that would be our home and mode of transportation for the next ten days. We had a single wagon, and it was much different from the horse drawn carriage Emma had used back in her town.

Commonly referred to as a Prairie Schooner, our wagon, which I knew was ours on account of Baron, Ghost staked next to it, had the telltale white canvas cover that practically all covered wagons used. The wagon itself was painted a distinct blue, with large wheels painted red. A team of horses was attached to it, courtesy of the Mayor. Once we arrived in Lincoln, we were to drop our wagon, and horse team off, along with a letter, to a friend of the Mayor’s. That friend would see to it the wagon was returned back to Bison’s Rest, filled with goods and supplies that the Mayor needed procured from Lincoln.

Normally, I knew these prairie schooner’s served as decent transport wagons, as well as common farm wagons. Settlers heading out West on the Oregon trail had used em quite a bit far as I knew, and they were easily some of the most recognizable wagons in existence. Ours, about ten feet long, was filled with some additional goods we were transporting to Lincoln for the Mayor, along with the supplies Emma had procured for this leg of the trip. Mainly, clothes, weapons, food, and of course, money and bank notes and the likes we’d need to use before beginning our journey from Lincoln to the Black Hills.

More importantly though, was the fact that our wagon had room within for us to sit, away from prying eyes. Part of our plans for these next ten days, after all, involved Emma teaching me how to refine my core. Not wanting to draw attention to us, that meant we’d be doing it outside of eye and earshot of others. While Clint drove the wagon, we’d spend some of our time within.

My fingers itched as I looked over the wagon, and the hustle and bustle all around us. Soon, I’d get to finally resume my training. Soon, I’d get to take the next step forward, in growing stronger. Once we hit embarked on our journey, once the caravan pulled away from Bison’s Rest, and headed ‘cross the plains northwards towards Lincoln, I’d learn the secrets of how to refine my core from its base level of iron, to copper. It was a single, small step, but I had no doubt it would be monumental. I licked my lips, imagining just how much stronger I’d be, once I refined my core. And, imagining past that, a future where my core was refined even further. If Emma’s core, compared to the Marshal’s, was any indicator… if I could push my core to Gold, just like Holiday’s, then truly, surely, there wouldn’t be a single man alive who could stand against me.

The government, society, those who held power and made the laws, kept this knowledge secret. They kept the path towards power hidden, ensured only those beholden to them, or willing to pay exorbitant prices, could climb the steps of power, of privilege, with the knowledge of core refinement.

I would uncover these secrets. I would grow stronger. And I would master all I could with regards to cultivating my core, to ensure no one, be it man, government, or secret organization, could keep me from my goals.

The world had taken enough from me. It was my turn to take, and my quest for vengeance had made me greedy for power.