TwelveSix months before, and three days out from Fort Laramie, a stagecoach trundled along the rutted trail, heralding its passage by the loud, grating clinking and clanking of axles and the motion of the thoroughbrace, which sent everything topside into a frenzy, the railings barely able to save the luggage and other items from falling to the ground.
Inside the sweltering coach, Senator Bowen sat squeezed between his aide, Withers, and a large woman dressed in prim blue dress and pillbox hat. Opposite, on the other seat, two businessmen clutched satchel bags balanced on their knees, looking green with travel-sickness. Crushed up against the side window was another man, lean, three-day's worth of stubble on his hard chin, Navy Colt revolver in his waistband.
“How far is it now, Withers?”
