Chapter 8

It took roughly another hour before the caravan was ready to head out. The lead wagon belonged to a man who dealt in bison. The man, one Walter P. Gray, actually had three wagons in the Caravan. The first was his own personal carriage, an ostentatious Concord Coach. I knew of them by reputation alone, as they were known for their extravagant price. A single Concord Coach, red painted with yellow wheels, sporting the smoothest ride you could expect, came in at over 1,000 dollars. It was something the wealthy used to flaunt their money.

Behind his Coach came the source of his wealth. Two Conestoga wagons. The massive wagons, with their low canvas covers, each hooked up to six horses, could carry up to six tons a piece. Each of his wagons was loaded to the brim with bison pelts and tongues. Mr. Gray was a hunter of the worst kind, in my opinion. He and his crew of five other hunters, profited off the bison that roamed the plains. The massive beasts were about the simplest thing to kill in the freaking world. You gun one down, and the herd would circle to the fallen bison. You could keep that going for a good bit, if you killed em fast enough, before the herd even thought to stampede. A few men, if they were skilled enough with their mana to create rounds strong enough to pierce the thick bones and hide of a bison, could take down probably close to a hundred without any issue in a single go.

The pelts, thick, heavy things, sold for a good bit of money, at over 3 dollars per hide. Add on another .25 cents per tongue, and it was no question where Mr. Gray got his money. I wasn’t the quickest when it came to math, but judging by the way the wheels creaked on those wagons, and the horses heaved initially to get them a going, he had a fortune alone on those two wagons.

Mr. Gray and his crew, being the lead of the caravan, and arguably transporting the largest sum of goods value wise, were the ones in charge with getting everything going. And the man took his sweet time getting everything going. I’d watched him, with more than a little distaste, as he finally joined the caravan. Coming from Bison’s Rest, smelling more than a little of liquor, he swaggered past each and every wagon, eying passengers, pedestrians, and hired guns alike, with an air of arrogance.

He was in his thirties, best I could tell, with black hair slicked back with pomade, and a clean-shaven face. His clothes were of the finest make, and he wore a heavy coat made of bison fur around his shoulders, even though the temperature was nowhere near cold enough to necessitate such a thing. At his side, for surely no reason other than because he could, he wore a calvary saber. Did he fancy himself a military officer? I had no idea, but the weapon was completely pointless, and I had to wonder if he even knew how to use the weapon.

Around his waist, across from his pointless saber, was a revolver. A black barrel, and black grip to go with it, while still maintaining a shape I recognized, gave me a hit to what it was. If I had to guess, he wore a Colt, similar to my Peacemakers. However, I was pretty sure his was the double action, a .41 caliber if I had to guess. A Thunderer, with the image of a bucking bronco plastered into the grip.

Neither sword, nor revolver, were much to take note of though. Sure, the sword was a… statement, and his revolver had a decent amount of intricacies added to it to attest his wealth, but it was his rifle that not only made the loudest claim to his wealth, on his person mind you, and also, his profession.

A cherry red, with almost all the metal portions, from barrel to trigger guard, to even the hammer and ornate baseplate replaced with soul silver and trimmed in gold, Mr. Gray’s rifle was a piece of art that put even Clint’s rifle to shame. The weapon itself, a Sharps Model 1874 Rifle, known as Old Reliable, was well known as being the preferred weapon of bison hunters. The thicker barrel allowed for larger mana bullets to be formed, roughly sizing in at .50 caliber rounds. The heavy barrels, and the mana rounds formed within, allowed for long range, powerful shots that worked perfectly against bison. A beauty of a weapon, and at the same time, I couldn’t help but shake my head at the pointless display of wealth.

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Mr. Gray’s core, an emerald green denoting an earth affinity, far as my eyes could see, was perhaps just a tad larger than Emma’s. So, either he simply had a healthy amount of natural mana affinity, like Clint or me, or he had refined his core to that of copper. Either way, I wasn’t impressed. In a gunfight, he’d be easy to deal with. ‘Specially since his prey of choice was large, stationary targets that didn’t fight back. He seemed the type, far as I was concerned, to hide and let others do the fighting if any trouble ever came his way. Which was probably what his other hunting buddies were for.

Mr. Gray was the money, and the lead when it came to bison hunting, that much was clear. And I had no doubt he could easily take down more bison than the rest of his compatriots. But the others of his party, mostly fire and wind mana users, all seemed a bit more practical minded, by the way they caried themselves. None had cores as bright or large as Mr. Gray’s, but they all wore twin pairs of six-shooters, and seemed a little rougher round the edges, meaning they were likely more experienced in the ways of… well… actual gunslinging.

All of this I thought as Mr. Gray rode past our carriage, and continued on towards his, to finally get the damn caravan moving. All of this I thought, as my displeasure and disgust for the man grew, as he put on his show. And all of this, no doubt, showed on my face, as I leaned against our wagon, casually smoking my pipe, as I stared down Mr. Gray as he passed me. The man made no attempt to hide the way he leered at Emma. And I made no attempt to hide the way my eyes blazed towards him. By the way he looked at me, and the scowl that crossed his face as he took in my appearance, before his eyes lingered on my Peacemakers, I had no doubt, he’d be some sort of special annoyance before this trip was done.

But, at the same time, I didn’t care. Because right here and now, even if he’d not looked at Emma in such a way, the man was causing me problems. After all, he was keeping me from something I cared greatly about in the world. Mr. Gray was keeping me from getting stronger. And that, by itself, was a punishable offence.

“If looks could kill,” Clint said with a chuckle as he looked down at me, once Mr. Gray had left earshot, “I’m pretty sure that man would have died a couple times over just now.”

“If looks could kill,” I said between the pipe in my teeth, “that man’s ugly face would likely have killed every woman he’s ever looked at.”

Clint chuckled, and I let the man act like I’d not noticed his own gaze towards Mr. Gray when the man had eyed Emma. If anyone’s look would have caused death, it was his. The bison hunter may not have known it then and there, but he’d just put himself in the crosshairs of the grim reaper himself. Meaning, for the next ten days, he’d need to be very, very careful, about how he stepped ‘round Clint, Emma, and I.

Did I think Clint would kill the man merely for eyeing Emma in a lewd way? Actually… probably. At the same time, did I think a man dressed the way Mr. Gray was, who flaunted his wealth in such a manner, would do something stupid enough to get himself gunned down in the next ten days… well, that was a probably as well.

Meaning, the real question, with regards to the trip to Lincoln, came down to… just how long before Mr. Gray did something stupid enough to get himself killed. And that question was truly the one I didn’t have an answer to. Nor, as the caravan finally started to leave Bison’s rest, did I care.

“It’s time, Mr. Smith,” Emma said as our wagon lurched forward, the horses expertly driven by Clint. I grabbed the side of the wagon and half leapt- half pulled myself upwards. With my strength, it was an easy task, and I was quickly within the cabin.

“Say no more, Mary,” I said, taking a seat across from her. “I’m ready.”