Chapter 1

Clinton J. Elsworth, the third, was proud of his profession. So proud that he would get upset if he were called a ‘Drummer.’ Clinton was NOT a drummer. He was a Regional Wholesale Sales Representative. Clinton knew this because that’s what he was told when he was hired by Jackson Ceruthers, President, of the Greater Jacksonville Variety Wholesalers, himself.

“Clinton My Boy, you can go far in this company. All you need is the drive to sell more of our dry goods and sundries than our competition. I am going to do something I rarely ever do with someone as young as you, with such little experience. What I’m going to do is allow you to open up a new territory for us. You will be the sole representative for the Nevada territories.”

It was those inspiring words that set Clinton out to conquer his new world. BUT first, he had to get there. It took two months of various means of transportation. Some pleasant, some not so much. His current transport was one of the worst that he had experienced.

Riding the Wells Fargo stagecoach was the cheapest, and easiest method he could find. They had routes that led to most, if not all, of his targeted markets. But the ride was dusty, bumpy, and in most cases, his riding companions unsavory. At least by Jacksonville standards. This trip was an exception.

There were two women and another man on board. The older woman, in her late 30’s early 40’s, while a tad old for Clinton’s tastes, was still pleasant to look at. Her riding companion, however, was a definite treat. She was in her early 20’s, maybe younger. She was blond, slightly paler than her companion. Clinton wondered if they were mother and daughter. Both women studiously ignored Clinton. Refusing to respond to even polite comments. Such as to the weather, their destination. Even asking their names was an out of bounds topic.

The 3rd companion was a tall, 6 foot 2 or better, thin, well-dressed man. He wore khaki pants, A boiled white shirt, and canvas duster. To battle the dust, he had soaked his bandana in water from his canteen and then tied it over his mouth and nose. Clinton noted this and decided that on his next trip, he would include a canteen and bandana in his baggage. The stranger also wore a black cavalry slouch hat, which he had pulled low over his eyes. For all appearances, he looked to be asleep. Clinton found it difficult to believe anybody could sleep in these conditions. But all of his attempts to engage the mysterious man were ignored just as resolutely as the two women.

After 2 hours, the stranger pulled a collapsible cup from an inside pocket. Lifting his hat, He offered a cup of water to the ladies. Both eagerly accepted his offering. Clinton looked at the stranger with the obvious expectation in his eyes. He was grudgingly offered a cup. The ladies, while slowly sipping their ration, looked at Clinton with a touch of disgust or even horror when he gulped down his cupful and then handed the cup back with what looked like an unspoken demand for more.

Without taking a drink himself, the stranger capped his canteen and put his cup away. Clinton was tempted to comment on how rude the stranger was behaving. But as the stranger eased back into his seat, raising his bandana and lowering his hat, His duster fell open. On his right side was the well-worn butt of a pistol. On the left was the bone handle of a sheathed knife. After getting comfortable, the stranger re-arraigned his duster, hiding his weapons. And, as far as Clinton could tell, fell back asleep.

The way station at the midway point of their journey was just as frustrating for Clinton. The sanitary facilities were downright disgusting. Amounting to nothing more than a hole in the ground, surrounded by a flimsy wood structure. The flies were terrible enough, But the SMELL, Clinton gagged and almost lost his stomach. It was only after he had finished that he observed that the lady’s facilities were both separate, and fresher. Clinton decided that he needed to start recording these events. A sharply worded letter of complaint to the Wells Fargo office was required. Somebody was NOT efficiently doing their job.

Clinton was further outraged by the meal that was offered at the station. A greasy plate of tough, overcooked beef and beans. Joined with grainy and gritty cornbread that could hardly be described as food. The only saving grace was that there was no charge. Clinton also noted that while his fellow female travelers also regarded the meal unfavorably, the tall stranger tucked into the meal with gusto. Asking for and receiving seconds. He even went so far as to wrap two large pieces of the cornbread into a handkerchief. Complimenting the station masters cooking, he offered to buy him a drink. Several more were shared, with the stranger paying the freight each time.

Clinton himself purchased a drink of what was described to him as ‘Rotgut Whiskey.’ His first sip was liquid fire, scorching his insides to his belly. However, by the time he had reached the last of the glass, the burning sensation had subsided, and the ‘Rotgut Whiskey’ actually seemed pleasant. Unfortunately, the stage driver called for boarding before Clinton could order a second glass.

Clinton J. Elsworth was unconscious before the stage had left the station. And did not awaken again until reaching his destination, “Wilkins, Nevada Territories.”

The arrival of the Wells Fargo stage generally attracts interest from several groups.

The Wells Fargo office has a professional interest. Also, people looking for deliveries and mail are interested. Then there is a crowd looking for a possible monetary landfall from the passengers. Not least of which is are boys looking for any opportunity. Usually being the strong backs needed to unload the cargo.

When the stage came to a stop, Clinton J. Elsworth, the third, was jolted awake. He was experiencing his first hangover of his life and was in an ill temper. He started to rise, with the intent to disembark the stage. The tall stranger put his boot in Clinton’s way, “Ladies first, Drummer.”

As soon as the two ladies had exited, they were swarmed by the crowd of youngsters. All begging for the job of carrying the lady’s luggage. Elizabeth Utley, the elder of the pair, selected 2 of the strongest appearing boys and directed them to take her luggage to the hotel.

After the ladies had disembarked, Clinton was allowed to leave. He immediately asked the station manager where the nearest apothecary was.

The Station manager laughed, “We ain’t got nothing like that round here. You could try Doc Stone, but he’s in the middle of a poker game and not likely to appreciate being interrupted. Or, you could try the dry goods store. They’ve got all sorts of remedies and patient medicines. Albert Beale, He’s the owner. He brags that he’s got something to cure everything except a broken leg. Course Doc says that if death is a cure, then Al’s tellin’ the truth.”

Clinton moaned, his headache seemed to be getting worse in this heat. “The store, please.”

The station clerk pointed over Clinton’s left shoulder. “Right over there, partner.”

Turning, Clinton saw the store sign for dry goods and bolted for it. “Mister, what about your luggage?”

“Have it taken to the Hotel.” Clinton almost screamed.

Last off, the stage was the tall stranger. Addressing the Station manager, “Looking for the land office, sir.” He asked.

“We don’t have one of those. The Sheriff records deeds and claims. His office is right over there, next to the saloon. But he won’t be there. He and Doc are playing poker with the Mayor and a couple of drifters. And from what I hear, the Sheriff’s losing. Which means he’ll be in a bad mood.”

“Well, I’d best not irritate him then. How about a hotel or boarding house? Someplace I can put up for a couple of nights?”

“Well, the Majestic is the hotel, right over there. Then there’s Mama Jones. She takes in boarders. Her place is at the end of 2nd street. Whitewashed picket fence and all. Cain’t miss the sign. But if you’re feeling randy, the saloons got rooms overhead. A handy bedwarmer is included in the price. They charge by the hour or the night. They also cost the highest of the 3. Mama Jones is a nosey old biddy, so expect your personals to get picked over when you’re not around. The Majestic is the best bet. The doors lock, and their restaurant is the best in town. That’s because it’s the only one. That is if you don’t include the cantina over behind the Livery.” The manager started laughing uproariously at his joke as he walked back to the coach.

The stranger stood for a moment considering his choices. Then he hefted his saddle and duffle to his shoulder and headed towards the Hotel.

As the driver and guard were passing down cargo and luggage, the driver informed the Station manager that it looked like the run to Wilkins might not last very much longer.

“Yeah, I had that feeling. What with the mines still shut down and all that bandit activity, I’m surprised Wells Fargo hasn’t pulled the plug yet? I wonder where they’ll send me, or if they’ll even keep me on. I’ve gotten kinda used to this place.”

Checking into the hotel, Fullmer Gustin, the clerk, showed a more than passing interest to the stranger. This was partly due to the novelty of so many visitors to Wilkins. First were the two ladies that he had put into the quietest room in back. Then there was this tall drink of water. There was something about him that smelled of money, military, and command.

However, his questions, while not rudely rebuffed, were unanswered. He asked for a room in front, facing the street. Even when Fullmer cautioned him about the noise level. When the Stranger signed the register, he wrote J. Anderson, Maryland.

“Well, Mr. Anderson rooms are $5.00 a night. You get a pitcher of water and one set of towels per day. It’ll be extra if you want more. The jakes are out back. No loud noises after eight, and I lock the front door at midnight. If you’re out after midnight, Tough, I hear the livery stable will give you a spot in the hayloft for a dollar. Cletus Cudworth runs the livery and is a right surly bastard. Dinner is served at 6:00, Breakfast at 8:00. Any other time of day, try the saloon. They offer bread, cheese, and pickled eggs to paying customers. nickel beer and 4 bits a shot for rotgut whiskey.”