Chapter 12

The journey was a solitary one, the only companions the endless expanse of desert and the occasional howl of a coyote in the distance. The sun beat down on his leathery skin, his hat the only defense against the relentless heat. Yet, he didn’t mind. The quiet allowed him to think, to reflect on the path that had brought him to this point.

The horse’s hooves pounded a steady rhythm into the packed earth, a metronome to the tune of his thoughts. He thought of Erick, his mind’s eye seeing the boy’s eager face as he stepped into the schoolhouse. He had done the right thing, giving Erick a chance at a life he never had. A life of learning, of opportunity.

The horizon grew closer with each passing moment, the town of Stepcliff a beacon in the desert’s embrace. The sun hung high in the sky, casting a relentless heat down upon him. Sweat trickled down his neck, stinging his eyes and soaking his shirt. But he pushed on, driven by the promise of what lay ahead.

As the carriage rolled into town, the dust kicked up by the horse’s hooves mingled with the scent of sagebrush and the faint metallic tang of dust that hung in the air. The wooden buildings looked as if they had been carved from the very rock they clung to, their edges sharp and unforgiving. The saloon, The Rusty Spur, was a beacon of activity, a stark contrast to the rest of the town that slumbered in the midday heat.

Smoke felt the town’s eyes on him as he tied the horse to the hitching post, the silence of the streets a stark contrast to the cacophony of the saloon’s laughter and clinking glasses. He straightened his back, his hand resting on the grip of his pistol, a reminder of the world outside their little oasis.

Pushing open the swinging doors of The Rusty Spur, he was enveloped by the welcoming embrace of cool, dimly lit interior. The smell of stale beer and tobacco hung heavy in the air, a comforting scent of the old west. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the gloom, and when they did, they fell upon a bar that stretched the length of the room, gleaming under the flickering light of oil lamps.

Behind the bar, a man with a handlebar mustache and a paunch that strained against his waistcoat looked up from wiping a glass. “Howdy, oldman, I’m Terry Costello, What’ll it be?” he asked, his voice a rough rumble.

“Gimme a cold one, Terry,” Smoke said, sliding onto a stool. The bartender, known for his quick draw and even quicker wit, nodded and reached for a bottle of amber liquid. He popped the cap and slid it across the bar with a flourish. The cool condensation beaded on the glass, inviting Smoke to take a sip.

As he drank, Smoke surveyed the saloon. It was a typical hodgepodge of westward expansion: a mix of miners, ranchers, and drifters, all looking to make their fortune or escape their past. He knew the type; he had been one of them once. But now, with the gold from their journey, he was something more than a beggar. He had a purpose, a family waiting for him back at the farm.

Finishing his beer, he slammed the glass down on the bar. “Terry,” he called out, his voice cutting through the din. “I’m looking for a place to stock up on some farm supplies. You know of anywhere around here that can help me out?”

Terry leaned over the bar, his mustache twitching. “You’re in luck, Smokes,” he said, his eyes glinting with amusement. “There’s a general store right behind the sheriff’s office. You can grab some seeds and fertilizer there, but for the real good stuff, you’ll have to see John ‘Railroad’ McPherson. He’s got everything you need to turn that patch of dirt into a proper farm.”

With a nod of thanks, Smoke left the cool shade of the saloon and stepped back into the sun’s unforgiving embrace. The town was bustling with life, a stark contrast to the quiet farm that awaited them. He made his way down the boardwalk, the sun beating down on him like a blacksmith’s hammer. The general store was a welcome sight, its wide doors standing open to allow a trickle of cool air to escape.

Inside, the scent of leather and dry goods filled the air. Barrels of flour and sugar were stacked to the ceiling, and bolts of fabric in every color imaginable lined the walls. The owner, a stooped old man with spectacles perched on the end of his nose, looked up from his ledger as the bell above the door jingled.

“Howdy,” Smoke said, tipping his hat. “I’m in need of some supplies for the farm. Got any wheat, corn, and vegetable seeds?”

The old man’s eyes lit up at the mention of farming. “You’re just in time,” he said, pushing his spectacles up his nose. “Got a fresh shipment in yesterday. Right this way.”

He led Smoke to the back of the store, where wooden shelves groaned under the weight of countless packets of seeds. The smell of earth and potential filled the air, a stark contrast to the sterile emptiness of the desert outside. Smoke’s eyes scanned the offerings, his mind racing with visions of lush fields and plump vegetables. He picked out packets of wheat and corn, his hands lingering over the vegetable seeds: carrots, beans, and squash. The promise of a bountiful harvest made his heart swell with hope.

The old man, Mr. Jenkins, helped him select a variety of seeds that would thrive in the Freedom Worth soil, sharing tips and stories of other farmers who had braved the land. As they worked, they talked of the weather, the town’s latest gossip, and the ever-present threat of bandits on the outskirts. Smoke listened intently, his mind racing with the implications of each piece of information.

Once they had gathered enough seeds to plant a small empire, Smoke turned his attention to other necessities. “And how about some coffee and tobacco?” he asked, his voice a low rumble. “The good stuff.”

Mr. Jenkins chuckled, revealing a set of tobacco-stained teeth. “Every man’s vice,” he said, leading them to a corner of the store where the dark aroma of coffee beans mingled with the sweet scent of tobacco. “We’ve got the finest from the south, freshly roasted. And as for tobacco, I’ve got a variety that’ll make your eyes water and your heart race.”

Smoke selected a pound of coffee and a few tins of tobacco, his eyes lingering on the fine cigars displayed in a glass case. He had a soft spot for the luxuries of the old life, and the sight of them brought a hint of nostalgia. But he knew their priority was the farm, so he resisted the temptation.

As they approached the counter, Smoke’s gaze fell upon a shelf in the corner, cluttered with an assortment of painting equipment and drawing tools. A sudden idea struck him, and he gestured to Mr. Jenkins. “What’s the price on that set of paints and brushes?”

Mr. Jenkins’ eyes lit up. “Ah, that’s a fine set you’ve got your eye on,” he said, picking up a wooden box filled with a rainbow of colors. “Best watercolors this side of the Mississippi. And those pencils? They’ll make even the roughest hand look like a master’s.”