The Legend of Sam Dollar

By Langdon Pierce

Traveling from Wickenburg on his way to California, the stagecoach is waylaid by Indians and Sam is woulnded.  Dragged to safety by one of the passengers, they witness another of the passengers, Georges Latrelle, shooting, killing and scalping the driver, messenger and other passengers, to make it look like they were held up by Indians.  Sam is too hurt to give testimony and his fellow passenger, Ben Shaw, is in a hurry to get to California, himself.  
While in Ehrenburg on the Colorado River, Sam is invited to sail on a steamship, the Fortunado, along the coast and around the cape of Baja California.  The poker games entice, and the owner of the ship, Alejandro Mateos, intent on making a go of his shipping business, needs his help against pirates.  Elizabeth Fourchette, accomplice of Georges, is being squeezed out by Alejandro's sister, Adelita, and she uses poisoned wine to try to get her way.   
Seeing that he survived the stagecoach robbery, Sam isn't too keen on tracking down the mastermind, Georges Latrelle.  However, their paths keep crossing and when Georges tosses him overboard into the Sea of Cortez, that is the last straw.  Sam must see this through to the end, even if it takes a Poker Contest in San Francisco to do it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Langdon Pierce
• Release date: Oct 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215082492

Book preview

Chapter 1

The stagecoach hit an especially deep hole and Sam Dollar grabbed the window frame beside him to keep from falling onto the woman next to him.

Pardon me, ma’am, he told her as the coach leveled out.

Immediately, she dropped her hands from around his forearm, which she had used to keep herself in her seat.  Excuse me! She replied, leaning away from him.

Her name was Elizabeth Fourchette and she was pretty, very pretty.  Sam figured she was in her mid-twenties, still in the flush of youth.  Her dark eyes flashed a challenge at one rather than demurely moving about.  Pale skin, thick black curls and a full figure were the epitome of a desirable woman of the day and Miss Fourchette had them all.  White even teeth showed between red lips when she spoke in the well-modulated voice which told of good schools in the East.  However, she was a more than a little attentive to the men in the coach and she was traveling alone, which made him wonder what had happened between the good schools and her presence in Arizona.

When she dropped her handkerchief, he retrieved it for her, noting it held the scent of cloves.  It was an unusual choice to use for a scent and he wondered at it.  Namely because he’d smelled it just the night before in Wickenburg.

Upon leaving a saloon, he’d accidentally bumped into a woman who was passing by on the boardwalk. 

Pardon me, he’d told her, tipping his hat with one hand and gripping her wrist with the other.  After replacing his hat, he took his wallet from her other hand.  Thank you, he said, as she wrenched away from his grip and with her face turned away into the shadows, hurried down the boardwalk. 

It all took place in an instant and for a moment, he wondered if he should have done more to apprehend her.  Yet, she’d already disappeared into the shadows, a faint smell of cloves hanging in the air behind her.

Sam looked at the woman again but could not have told if Elizabeth Fourchette had been the pickpocket or not.  She certainly did not look at him any differently than the other men in the stagecoach.  He settled back and looked at the other passengers. 

As for the smell of cloves, the spice was often used for many things, an aphrodisiac for one and as a cure for motion sickness for the other.

Beside her sat a man small in stature who sat very erect.  He wore a suit of tan and black houndstooth cloth and a bowler hat.  His name was Simpson O’Dell and he worked for a newspaper or two back East.  Every little bit, he would make a comment, either about the passing countryside or some tidbit of news.  Or he would ask their opinion on something, waiting politely for the reply.  He never put forth an idea of his own.

Sam didn’t know if he was trying to be friendly, wanting to break the silence in the stage, or was just plain scared.  He’d mentioned the threat of Indian attack several times.  O’Dell’s concern seemed unfounded.  From what Sam had been told, the Yavapai Indians were keeping to the Date Creek reservation. 

Across from him were three men, two in the rough clothes of the frontier and one dressed very similarly to himself, only in black rather than silver.  Though Sam had never met the man before, the suit, lace edged shirt, brocade vest and hat proclaimed his occupation.  Like Sam, he was a gambler, though more flamboyantly dressed.

Georges Latrelle was his name and as they were boarding the stagecoach at Wickenburg, he overheard the messenger make a comment about him and the woman to the stationmaster.

Do you think they’re goin’ on their honeymoon?  He laughed raucously.

Naw.  When you get married, you need to have a job and he’s fresh out.

And you gotta give up the other ladies, added the first man.

Can’t teach an old dog new tricks, the stationmaster put in, and they laughed again.

Sam put no importance on their words or the subject of their conversation.  However, once seated, he took a closer look at Latrelle.

Blonde hair and wide open light blue eyes went along with his pale skin.  The oddest thing about his looks were his eyelashes.  They were so light colored, they seemed non-existant, giving him a look of being constantly surprised.  Latrelle’s moustache was thin but well groomed, his fingers smooth, fingernails clean; and his tailored suit looked new.  All of which, Sam thought, would bode him well in the eyes of women.   

Then he looked at Miss Fourchette.  From the conversation he’d overheard, it seemed that she was a courtesan; her business shut down by the righteous indignation of the wives of Prescott, from whence she’d come.  Regardless, it was a pleasure to look at her and he availed himself of it several times.

Though she smiled and made small talk, neither she nor Latrelle looked at one another.  If what the messenger said was true, it was a strange action for a couple on their honeymoon. 

The other two men said little, introduced themselves with a mumble and a duck of the head.  Sam was left to guess what they’d said.  To himself, he called the man with his pants tucked in the tops of tall boots as Boots, and the man with a dark streak on the sleeve of his shirt as Sleeves.  Neither had a lot of teeth, but plenty of facial hair.  Their hands were rough, tanned and stained, and showed the signs of hard work.  Probably miners, if he had to guess. 

They snuck glances at Miss Fourchette and nodded when introduced but otherwise kept to themselves.

Sam glanced at them and wondered why they were on a stagecoach bound for California, when the latest strikes were in Arizona.  But then, why were any of them going to California?  Like any other traveler to the West, they came to seek a better life, another chance, a new start.

However, he was going to meet a friend he had met in San Francisco years earlier, Hugh O’Hanlon.  From a telegram he’d gotten in Prescott, he learned that an old friend of theirs, Abe Shattls was opening a new theatre in the Golden Gate city.  He and Hugh were to meet up with him and discuss the old times.  Abe had been a traveling salesman for his father’s business when they met and through his encouragement, Hugh had written the play.

With the manuscript in hand, Abe gave up being a salesman and worked toward getting the play into production.  The Rose of Santa Rita became very popular, and Abe produced other works by Hugh as well. 

When Sam was in Baltimore or New York, he was always welcomed at the Shattls’ table.  However, he hadn’t been there in several years.  He leaned back in his seat and pondered the vagaries of life.  Soon, he’d see Abe and Hugh in San Francisco.  As usual, they would exclaim over his preference for the West and try to get him to move east.  He didn’t care.  The West was new and exciting; the East was old and crowded.  He preferred new.   

Since the stagecoach had left Wickenburg, they could feel that the road had a gradual downhill slant.  Now that they were in the desert, one might have expected the going to be smoother.  Instead, they were continually going up and down through shallow, sandy washes then up onto the hard flat.  Even though this team was fairly fresh, he could tell that they were already tiring with the work.

Sam tried to breathe in the fresh morning air, but it was hard to keep it separate from the smell of those around him.  Dried sweat, woodsmoke, and stale liquor seemed trapped in the confines of the coach and he noticed Miss Fourchette dabbing her handkerchief to her nose.  Though he felt for her discomfort, it was just part of the West and one dealt with it.

A particularly hard bounce of the stage and a sharp tilt made him wonder at his mode of transportation.  Going cross country in a stagecoach had not been his first choice.  If he had made his plans to go to San Francisco earlier, he could have taken a steamboat down the Gila River to Yuma.  It may not have been any cooler on the river, but at least, he wouldn’t have to deal with the bounces and jolting of the stage.  As it happened, the river level had already dropped for the year and here he was, on the stagecoach and headed to Ehrenburg.

Gazing out the window, he noted that all around them was scrub, palo verde trees, creosote bush, and cactus.  Mountains were in the distance, seeming to come no closer.

As he watched, he was aware that the stagecoach slowed and came to a stop.  Mr. Latrelle hunched over a little more, his right hand disappearing beside him, and cast a concerned look at the door.  Sam wondered at it.   

Thanks, driver!  A male voice called out.  I’ll put my saddle on top.

Then, the door to the coach opened and a young man stood looking in. 

At any time, he would have been striking, for his height and good looks.  His hat was large and black, a well-used sombrero.  A drooping, faded bandana hung from his neck, his gunbelt was ornately carved, and a red star was on the tops of boots that his pants were tucked in.  Dark curly hair hung about his face under his hat, and when he moved, it was with languid grace, like a cougar.  A thick black moustache drooped over his lips, trail drover-style and Sam had him pegged.  The young man was from Texas and had likely gone up the Trail a time or two.

My pardon, ma’am, he tugged at his hat brim.  Looks crowded in here.  I reckon I’ll ride up top.

No, no, Latrelle told him, motioning with a sweep of his hand.  There’s room inside.

The newcomer looked at the middle bench, which had no back to it.  Both Boots and Sleeves were using it as a footstool and their boots had dirtied it.  I’ll ride up top.  His voice was mild and unoffensive.  He closed the door and soon they felt the coach move with his clambering on top of it.

When they started moving again, Sam noted that Latrelle and Fourchette had exchanged glances, but nothing was said.

I wonder how that young man came to be so far from town?  O’Dell spoke up.  Did you see his spurs?  A horseman, to be sure.  No wagon driver.

He threw his saddle up top, Sam replied.  Probably his horse went lame or perhaps was run off.

By Indians?  Elizabeth Fourchette asked, casting her dark eyes at him.

Each time she had done this, Sam was aware of a shock within him.  Was it the boldness of her gaze or some power within her that he was feeling?  It also made him wonder, was she the pickpocket of the night before?  Was she appraising him, sizing him up for another try?

The stagecoach gave a larger than usual bounce and his attention went to maintaining his seat.  There was no true road and the stagecoach ran through washes with steep banks.  That meant it was either warm in the coach when the sun struck it, or fairly chilly when in the shadow of the banks.

Could we close the curtains?  Miss Fourchette shivered and drew her cloak close about her. 

Certainly, Sam assured her and did his part in pulling the canvas shades down.

Each man sitting on the side of the coach did the same.

Again, Sam was aware that Miss Fourchette seemed to be wordlessly speaking to Latrelle.  She shifted in her seat and directed her gaze to the other men.

Anyone for a game of cards?

Even to Sam’s ears, Latrelle’s voice seemed forced.

No one seemed eager to join in.  But when Elizabeth Fourchette took the deck from him and began to shuffle, there was sudden interest.

Count me out, Sam leaned back against the coach.  I’ve lost enough money already this trip.

Using the middle bench as the table, the others began to play poker.  Latrelle only stayed in for a hand or two, then dropped out. 

O’Dell also dropped out, citing motion sickness.

The miles sped behind them as Sam leaned back against the coach.  Ehrenburg was still over a hundred miles away and he decided to make the best of the rough going.

An hour or so out from Wickenburg, Sam became aware of another sound added to that of the stagecoach and the running horses.  More running horses.  He pushed aside the curtain and turned to look behind them.

Apparently, O’Dell had done the same because they said in unison, Indians!  Only O’Dell said it a lot louder. 

Robbers?  Boots seemed not to have heard the others.  In one hand he held a pistol and in the other, the curtain that had once covered the window.  He leaned out the window, trying to get a bead on their assailants.

Hold fire, Sam told him, aware that Latrelle had pulled out a pistol while beside him, Miss Fourchette held a derringer. It made him uncomfortable to see the gambler’s pistol pointed in his direction; he hoped it was only momentary.

When Sleeves leaned forward to see, Latrelle put an arm across his stomach, restraining him, to keep him in his seat and perhaps out of the line of fire.

Indians!  Boots cried out and fired his pistol.

Bullets burst through the wooden sides of the stage and arrowheads thrust through the wood.  Rifle shots came from the top of the coach.

Fire!  Latrelle called out and shot his pistol.

There was a flash and smoke and Sam seemed to feel the burn of the bullet as it passed in front of his face on its way to the Indians.  Why Latrelle wasn’t shooting out the window next to him, was a question with no answer. 

Sam saw an Indian fall off his pony and wondered at the man’s marksmanship.  As for himself, he fired one shot, hitting a horse who veered away from the road, dumping his rider in the process.  It was difficult to get any kind of bead on the riders when the coach was veering from side to side.

He was aware that the woman beside him sat calmly, her eyes straight ahead, saying nothing.  It was striking; her show of no emotion, just her hands gripping the edge of the seat.  The derringer was in her lap, waiting.

Sam tried to aim and shoot, knowing his ammunition was limited, but the targets were erratic in their movement.  Boots had stopped shooting, instead looking down at the ever-growing red blot on his chest.  Beside him, Sleeves grabbed the pistol from the man’s hand and began firing indiscriminately out the window.  Across from him, Simpson O’Dell felt of his bloody face.  He looked at Sam with a beseeching gaze then fell to the floor of the coach.

Sam merely glanced at the man, aware that the woman beside him still stared ahead, looking neither to the left nor right. 

A pistol went off in front of him.  The sound and the flash were loud, seemingly louder than before.  Sam assumed Latrelle was firing at targets on the other side of the stage, though he had enough to handle on his side.

Sleeves grunted then went slack, also slipping to the floor.  Another shot, and Sam looked around to see what Latrelle was shooting at.  A groan came from someone above them and he saw Latrelle’s pistol coming down from having been aimed at the roof.  It kept coming down, down, down until it was pointed at Sam.

Though surprised at this turn of events, there was no time to speak.  His pistol was pointed outside of the coach, his forearm resting on the windowsill.  There was no way he could bring it to bear in time.  Even as he thought it, the horses began running faster and with no one at the reins the coach began to careen.  Apparently, Latrelle had shot the driver. 

Outside, the Indians were still racing alongside, shouting and shooting.  Inside, Sam’s eyes were on Latrelle, waiting for a bullet and thinking of a way to bring his pistol to bear.

There was a scream from one of the horses, apparently, he’d been hit.  When he went down, the stagecoach was jerked to an abrupt halt and began to tilt.

Beside him, Miss Fourchette sat very still, the grip of her hands on the seat keeping her from falling.  Her gaze was forward, staring.

As the coach turned onto its side, Latrelle fired.  Sam felt the burn of the bullet across his chest, for as the stage rolled over, his body twisted with it.  It might have been just a graze from the feel of it but hitting his head on the side of the stage as it rolled sent him into black depths.

When Sam opened his eyes, it was to hear men talking.  He lay on the side of the coach where it rested half turned over in the wash.  Above him was the opposite side of the stagecoach.  From the look of it, not many moments had passed since the attack.  Carefully, he took inventory of his body and the situation.  Though feeling like his head was separated from his body, he could still move his arms and legs.

Then, he realized he lay on a heap of bodies.  Boots, Sleeves and O’Dell were below him.  A little movement from the newspaperman told him that he still lived.

I told you it would be messy!  Elizabeth Fourchette’s voice rose in the thin morning air.

Sam tried to turn his head to find her but realized that the stagecoach blocked his view.

Moments later, the woman cried out, Why don’t you kill him before you scalp him?

Latrelle muttered something, but Sam wasn’t going to stick around to find out what it was.  Slowly, he turned and eased off the pile of bodies.

The coach was on its side and lying across a small ditch, apparently a tributary to the wash in drier seasons.  After checking on his wound and seeing that it was a deep graze, Sam crawled out of the coach and through the ditch to the deeper channel. 

The sand and gravel of the wash was cool in the shade and warm in the sun.  He kept crawling, trying to keep his belly from touching the ground.  He didn’t want to give away his presence with a blood trail.  Once away from the coach, Sam looked back at the scene.

The bodies of the stage driver and the messenger lay a few feet apart.  No Indians could be seen, other than a white man dressed as an Indian, straddling the body of the stage driver.  The fallen man gasped and tried to pull away, but he had no strength.  Sam saw him go limp, waiting to die.

You need a sharp knife for that job, Emil, Latrelle told the man sitting on the back of the driver.

Just be glad I know how to do it, brother, was the harsh reply.  When he stood, he held the scalp of the driver.  Below him, the fallen man writhed on the sand, his head bloody. 

That’s pretty, Georges scoffed.  But that is an Apache scalping, not a Yavapai scalping.  Latrelle shot the driver, and he stopped moving. 

You know so much about Indians, the other retorted.  Do it yourself.

Your brother is an expert in Indian life, Emil.  Remember that, Elizabeth Fourchette spoke sarcastically to the younger man. 

With this comment, Sam looked again at the two men.  Except for the gambler being taller, the two men had a familial resemblance, though Emil had sandy blond hair and not the light yellow of Georges.

They approached the stagecoach and Sam had the feeling they were looking for someone else to scalp, Yavapai style.

This one will do, Emil pulled the smaller man, O’Dell, from the coach.  He’s got enough hair to get hold of.

Sam looked again, hoping that the newspaperman was dead.  From the limp look of him, he was.  As for himself, he was aware of the burn of his wound and a weakness stealing over him.  He was dizzy and nausea threatened, so he was careful with his eye movement.  His concern was that Latrelle would notice he was missing and come searching for him. 

In the shape he was in, it was likely he would find him.

What about the money?  Elizabeth asked, plaintively.

It can wait, Latrelle replied.  The other stage isn’t due through here for hours.  He knelt over O’Dell and in a few quick slices, removed the man’s scalp from forehead to neck.

Sam felt a wave of nausea come over him, adding to his weakness.  Perhaps he should stand, attract attention and get a quick bullet to end his suffering.  If he was to be scalped, he wanted to be dead.

Even as he thought it, he felt a tug on his bootheel.

Looking down, he saw the young man who had hitched a ride on the stage.  He motioned with his hand, insistent.

Rousing himself up, Sam crawled further into the brush and debris lining the wash, following the young man.  It took a lot out of him, and he lay panting.

We got to get out of here, the young man informed him.

Sam looked at him, seemingly unscathed, and blinked.

I’m Ben Shaw, he said.  When they started attacking, I started shooting.  But when the stage did that first hard turn, I come off.  He looked at Sam’s backtrail.  I’m gonna brush that out.

He was quick and agile as a cat as he did so, the rifle in one hand, a branch from a creosote bush in the other.  When he came back, he held out his hand.  I need your jacket.

Sam stared at him.  His clothing had cost a pretty penny and yes, he was vain about how well he looked in it.  But he knew that the suit was ruined with his blood all over it.  Yet, he wondered at the young man’s insistence on having his jacket.

I’m gonna make ‘em think you’re at the bottom of the pile.

Sam let Shaw roll him gently from one side to the other to take off the jacket.  As he disappeared once more into the brush, Sam waited to hear guns firing at his discovery. 

But there was silence.

When Shaw returned, Sam was aware of great relief.  If he was to get out of the area, Shaw would have to help him.  There was no way he could do it on his own without being discovered.

What’s the plan?  Sam preferred to shy away from plans since he liked to remain as free as a will-o’-the-wisp.  However, he always respected a person with a plan, just in case they had something more interesting to offer.  And he was always open to suggestion when it involved staying alive.

Get us outa here, was the short reply.

You can travel faster alone, Sam reminded him.

You’re comin’ with, Shaw stated and that was that.  He slid into the shade of a nearby creosote bush, then disappeared, looking for a way out.

The stage had only been an hour out of Wickenburg when the attack started, maybe eight or ten miles.  The morning was heating up and the desert was coming to life.  It was also getting hot.

When Shaw came back, he helped Sam to his feet.  Grabbing the back of the waist of his pants, he lifted him from the ground.  In this way, Sam could walk, though bent over, and be supported. 

By the time the young man let him down, Sam was surprised that they were on a small hill overlooking the stagecoach.  A fringe of bushes and shrubs lined the area, shielding them from sight.

You need a bandage, Shaw indicated the wound then pulled a shirt out of his own shirt.  I think it belonged to the man with the glasses, he explained.  Tearing off the sleeves, then ripping the back in half, he was able to wrap the strips around the wound.  Got no water.  Can’t clean you up.  That will have to do.

Thanks.  Sam was glad to have that much done to the injury.  Already, the bleeding had mostly stopped.  He turned onto his side and from under the shrubs watched as Latrelle and his brother went through the mail bag, opening envelopes and pulling out the letters, then returning them.

What are they doing?  Shaw sat beside him, lower down the slope, yet still hidden by a large boulder.

Looking for money, was Sam’s best guess.

They got money, Shaw replied.  Don’t they?  Wasn’t there a gold shipment headed out?

Sam wasn’t sure about that.  It seemed there was always a rumored shipments any time of the day and night.

They watched as Latrelle and his brother tried to turn the stagecoach back onto its wheels, but it was beyond them.  Then, the two men climbed up onto the driver’s seat.  Emil reached underneath and came down carrying a heavy chest.

There it is, murmured Shaw.

As they watched, Latrelle and his brother walked up the road, carrying the chest between them.

After a few minutes, they returned without it.

Looks like they buried it.

When they returned to the woman, Latrelle motioned that she should stand beside the stage.  I’m sorry, my dear, but it has to be done.  To make our story believable. 

Sam was astounded as her supposed husband drew his pistol and shot at her.  When the smoke cleared, she was still standing, but with various wounds on her face and arms from the splintered wood.  Blood stained her sleeves and ran down her hands to drip on the sand.

Take care of her, Emil, he told his brother.  I’m going to take your horse and ride up Date Creek.  To give the posse a trail to follow.

In the thin, clear air, sound traveled far, and Sam was surprised at how well he could be heard. 

Emil did as he was told, and Sam knew a yearning for the water from the canteen the man poured on the woman’s wounds.  She tore one of her petticoats into strips and handed them to the man to use as bandages.

An hour or so later, Latrelle once more rode up to the stagecoach.  Made it plain as day, he said with a satisfied smirk on his face.  A blind man can follow that!

Once dismounted, he walked over beside the stagecoach, near where the woman had stood.  My turn, Emil.

This time, his brother fired at him.  But, Sam noted, Latrelle kept his own pistol pointed at Emil.  If his brother’s aim failed, he would pay the price.

She’s hurt more than he is, Shaw noted.

Sam had seen that, too.

Alright, Emil, Latrelle walked him to his horse.  We will meet again in San Francisco and plan our return.

The younger man stepped into the saddle, nodded to Elizabeth Fourchette, and rode west.

As the sun rose, it grew hot.  Elizabeth Fourchette sat in the shade of the stagecoach, resting her back on the undercarriage.  Latrelle either walked back and forth or stood in the shade of the coach.

Why don’t they unhitch and ride one of the horses back to Wickenburg?  Shaw asked.

Maybe these horses don’t ride, was Sam’s mild reply.  Or maybe they’re too hurt to ride.

After another few minutes, Shaw spoke again.  And what about all those guns and ammunition? 

He referred to the weapons laying around the stage and further away near the brush where fallen Indians had dropped them.  Of course, there were no Indian bodies.  They had been carried off by their comrades.

Sam had no answer for that.  He kept his eyes busy looking around, to keep his mind off the pain that seared his abdomen.

I seen that brother.  Emil, Shaw stated.  Back down the road a mile or two.  He run his horse out of the brush and the Indians followed.

Sam looked at him, realizing that since he’d been on top of the coach, he’d had a good look at what had happened.  Until he’d fallen off.

A white man who will dress up as an Indian.  I got no truck for.  The young man spat.

Sam lay under the brush, trying to wave away the flies that wanted to swarm his wound.  Shaw helped some, too, but he mostly kept his eyes on the stagecoach.

I’d git you outa here, he told Sam, But, there ain’t much cover.  They’d shoot us down like fish in a barrel.

Sam knew there wasn’t much in the way of shrubbery to shield their movements.  If only someone would come along and collect Latrelle and the woman, leaving them to make their way to Wickenburg on their own.

He hurt, the wound seeming to sear through his body and his head throbbed.  Shaw told him he was no longer bleeding, but he still hurt.  And he knew, any movement would tear his wound open again.

I’m not killed, he told himself.  But it wouldn’t take much to make it so.

Sometime in the afternoon, Shaw spoke.  Where is everyone?  Why isn’t anyone comin’ along?

Been some Indian trouble, maybe, Sam replied, surprised that he spoke in a whisper.

Not around here, the young man frowned.  At least, not til today.

Indians were paid to do this.  The gambler’s brain was fuzzy and he peered about them, trying to stay alert.  Closing his eyes and slipping away from the present was looking more and more favorable.

If they was Indians, Shaw noted as he gazed about them.  I know that Latrelle.

He didn’t have to say which one for Sam to know the man he spoke of.

I seen him around.  He was the paymaster at the fort.  I heard some talk that he got let go.

Fired?  Sam’s voice was raspy.  What he wouldn’t give for some water!

I heard ‘let go’.  Seems like there was some funny business goin’ on.

Stealing?

Shaw shrugged.  I’m tryin’ to remember.

That was the last thing Sam remembered until he woke to hearing the familiar jingle of harness and bits and horses trotting.  He opened his eyes to realize the day had passed into afternoon.

What’s that?  Shaw hissed.

Sam followed the young man’s gaze.  Mail wagon.

As they watched, the wagon halted and the two men on the seat began talking to Latrelle.  They got down and walked around, taking in the sight of the bodies and the overturned coach.  As they moved about, a group of riders joined them.

Locals, was Sam’s observation.  They did not have bedrolls and saddlebags, which made him think they were of the area.  However, they did have a shovel among them and after walking around