Wyoming Territory

Early June

1878

Ansel Adams, or Ance as nearly everyone who knew him referred to him, led his horse down the draw and into the grassy canyon. The beast was tired and hot and so was he, making that tiny grove of trees beside the stream look mighty tempting.

Judging by the weather, they were in for one hot, dry summer and those weren't the kind that Ance preferred. He dismounted his roan mare and rid her of her saddle before hitching her to a small bush beside the stream allowing her to fill her stomach with soft grass and wet her whistle a bit as well.

Ance took a long drink of the cool clear water himself and then sat down at the base of the poplar tree and leaned his back against the rough bark. He put his hands behind his head and watched the man who had been tailing him for the past four hours begin the descent into the canyon.

With a curse, Ance realized who it was and wondered what kind of half-brained scheme Irish would have up his sleeve today.

"Hello there, Ansel!" Irish called jovially when he was within hearing distance, his Irish brogue filling the midday air. "It took a bit of doin' for me to catch ya."

"Because I didn't much feel like bein' caught," Ance replied pulling his cigar from his mouth. "You're lucky I didn't shoot you, Irish. You can't be following after folks that way."

"Ya wouldn't shoot me, Ansel. If ya did then who would bring ya opportunities like the one I brought ya today?" Irish asked as he tied his horse off beside Ance's and sat down next to him beneath the poplar.

Ance squinted into the sun and put his cigar back in his mouth, leaving it to hang off his lip. "And just what kind of opportunity have you brought me?"

Irish's green eyes lit up and he scratched at his jaw which was covered in red stubble. "The chance to make ya a small fortune."

"And just how might I be making this fortune?" Ance questioned, unable to determine if he was feeling more amusement or irritation at having his peaceful day intruded on. Ance was a man who enjoyed being alone--he simply didn't like having his solitude disturbed.

Irish reached in his pocket and pulled out a brown glass bottle with a paper label claiming it was a 'cure-all' and guaranteed to rid you and your loved ones of anything that ailed you from the common cold to polio. A snake also adorned the label with sharp fangs and a tongue that wrapped in and out of the label's words.

"You followed me down here to sell me this bullshit?" Ance snorted, taking the bottle and holding it up so the sunlight would stream through the liquid inside.

"O'course not!" Irish feigned insult. "I followed ya down here to enlist ya to help me sell it!"

Ance sighed and tossed the bottle back to the brain-addled man. "No."

"Come on, Ance!" Irish insisted. "This is a guaranteed way to make a lot of money in just a wee bit of time!"

"No," Ance repeated as he relaxed back against the tree once again, pulled hat down a bit lower over his dark hair and puffed on his cigar.

Irish grumbled under his breath and kicked Ance's outstretched legs. "I thought I could count on my friend to help me."

Ance growled and without pulling his hat off his eyes he replied, "I ain't nobodies goddamn friend, Irish, and if you ever lay hand or foot on me again you'll have the bullet hole to prove it."

Ance heard Irish shove himself to his feet. "Are ya certain ya won't help me, then? I didn't figure a man of your caliber would be bothered by sellin' a bit of snake oil and turnin' a handsome profit."

Ance sighed and pushed his hat back. He pulled his cigar from his mouth and blew out a large puff of smoke. "And what's in that concoction that is supposed to cure these people?"

"A little of this, a little of that, a dash of whiskey and a large helpin' of opium."

"Holy hell, you Irish bastard. Are you hoping to kill them or cure them?"

Irish grinned, "They'll feel so damned jolly after taking a swig they won't care either way."

While Ance was amused by the Irishman, he wasn't sold on the idea. He didn't like people enough to be a businessman. "Go peddle your wares someplace else, Irish. Let me get back to my nap."

"Are ya sure, Ansel?" Irish questioned as he hopped onto his horse. "I was hopin' ya could pretend to be a blind man and have one sip of my elixir cure your sight and have ya shootin' birds outta the air."

"I'm sure, Irish. But keep jawin' that way and I'll shoot an Irishman out of the saddle."

"Alright, alright, I'm goin'," Irish conceded. "Shite, Ansel, ya never do help me out when I need it."

"And yet you just keep asking," Ance muttered.

"It's just me foolish Irish heart hopin' that someday I'll come up with a deal you can't refuse."

Ance watched Irish ride away and then resumed his resting. It seemed Irish never was going to stop trying to find out ways to get rich fast and trying to get Ance to go along with him. What Irish didn't seem to understand was that Ance just didn't like him well enough to become business partners.

***

One week later, Ance rode into the tiny backwater town of Hope Springs. The town's name was truly misleading since there was nothing hopeful about this place and there was no spring--just a well that had water the scent of rotten eggs in between some dilapidated buildings.

There was no law, no society and the only folks that came and went around here were a bit rotten and completely lawless--just like him. It was the perfect resting spot to find a whore, have a poke and load up on supplies before hitting the trail once again. As Ance made his way down the muddy street he saw many familiar faces and a few new ones. Some of the new faces attempted to greet him but none of the familiar ones did.

Ance had earned a reputation, a reputation that he had worked very hard to earn and enjoyed having as it gave him the solitude that he desired. Ance had made it clear that unless he greeted a person first and engaged them in conversation, they weren't to bother him. Most people respected that--unless you counted Irish but, then again, Irish always had been a few bushels short of a load.

Ance was nearly to the ramshackle old saloon which was home to his favorite assortment of soiled doves when he saw a familiar face down the road that he wouldn't mind striking up a conversation with.

Barnaby Wallace was a man who matched his name perfectly. He was big and loud and welcoming to all those around him--but that wasn't quite all there was to the man. Barnaby might look harmless in his black trousers, bright red jacket and felt top hat, but the man was actually far from it.

Barnaby was a businessman of sorts. He sold goods that he obtained for free without caring if the former users still had use for them or not. He was not a man many people chose to cross and those that did cross him quickly learned that they had made grievous mistake.

Ance dismounted and walked his horse over to the large covered wagon that Barnaby had loaded down. "Looks like you've got quite the load, Barnaby."

Barnaby smiled beneath his thick graying mustache and held out his arms, "Nice to see you, Ance! You're looking well!"

"Thanks, Barnaby. It seems you haven't missed a meal yourself."

Barnaby chuckled and laid his hands over his large stomach. "I have to keep up this physique. It drives the ladies wild."

Ance shook his head. "I'll bet it does." He glanced at the wagon and the three pack mules loaded down tied to the back. "Just where you going with all this stuff?"

Barnaby's blue eyes turned a bit more predatory and Ance knew what that meant. "I was actually hoping to enlist your help, my boy."

"You know I don't go around helping people, Barnaby. It just don't sit well with me and makes my stomach churn."

Barnaby clicked his tongue at the familiar song and dance. "Yes, but this would be a business arrangement. You help me get to where I have to go with my load and I pay you three hundred dollars in cash."

Ance shook his head. "How about you tell me exactly where we're taking this before we talk cold hard cash."

"You have the makings of a fine businessman!" Barnaby boasted proudly, his jowls shaking as he spoke. "I have ten other men, though none of them are quite your caliber and are quite wet behind the ears. We're taking this load of supplies over to Indian territory."

"If you've got ten men what do you need me for?" Ance questioned, not quite sure three hundred dollars was enough money to get him wandering around in Indian country. While most Indians were living safely on the reservations there were still those that were roaming free and plenty mad over the way the government had treated them.

"Because you are a man that men listen to--even Indians."

Ance frowned at the load of goods. Clothes, fabrics, guns, ammunition, whiskey, pots and pans and one large crate with holes near the top of the lid was sitting toward the back of the wagon. "And the Indians will buy all of this?"

"Of course they will." Barnaby appeared offended. "I could sell ice to an Eskimo."

"Make it five hundred and I'll help you get through Indian Country," Ance offered. He knew that despite the look of shock on Barnaby's face and the exclamations that Ance was trying to rob him blind, Barnaby would give him the five hundred. Ance had worked for Barnaby many many times and the men knew each other well.

"I don't know...." Barnaby began.

Ance shrugged. "Take it or leave it, Barnaby. If you take it then I'm ready to go when you are. If you leave it then I got whores to be getting to."

Barnaby sighed and held out his hand. "You got yourself a deal, Ance! Great to have you working for me once again."