said, “You drive a hard bargain, Mister,” and added ten percent to his assessment.
Waltz glanced at Weiser to see his reaction to this surprising assay of their ore, but Weiser busied himself trying on a new hat and said nothing. Waltz pocketed the extra gold, and with it a seed of doubt in Weiser’s honesty.
At the next supply stop, the merchant also gave a higher value for their gold, supporting Waltz’s suspicion that Brown had cheated him. Weiser’s continued nonchalance made him increasingly suspicious that Weiser was somehow in on it, and maybe had pocketed part of the profits himself.
By the time they reached Atlanta, Weiser was sick and tired of camping out. He thought it was high time they spent some of their gold on a little on comfort, and he was looking forward to a soft bed and a nice supper. When Waltz barely slowed down for an unappetizing stew at a roadside tavern, Weiser rebelled. “What’s the hurry?” he demanded. “The wagon train won’t leave without us.”
“How do you know they won’t?” Waltz said quickly.
“I don’t,” Weiser admitted, “but I bet there are plenty of other wagon trains if we miss this one.”
“Well this is the one I decided on,” Waltz said, with the same take-charge attitude that was beginning to really eat at Weiser, “an’ this is the one we’ll be on.”
Weiser wasn’t happy, but neither was he prepared to go it alone, at least not yet. He held his tongue as they continued west through the hills and valleys of the Georgia piedmont, descended the gently rolling hills of Alabama to the alluvial plains of Mississippi and Louisiana, and reached the mighty Mississippi River at Baton Rouge. It was late afternoon and they could see the last ferry loading, but this time Weiser dug in his heels and refused to hurry. They were a week ahead of schedule and he wanted a night in a soft bed.
But Weiser had underestimated Waltz’s frugality. Although the ferry pulled out without them, Waltz refused to go to a hotel, and set up camp on the dock.
Weiser’s resentment finally boiled over when they reached San Antonio and Waltz traded their horses for mules. “What the hell do you think you’re doing,” Weiser hissed. “I’m not riding any ugly, low-class mule!”
Waltz had had enough of Weiser’s complaining. “You’ll ride that mule if you’re coming with me,” he snapped. “We’ll be crossing a thousand miles of desert an’ our horses ain’t tough enough to survive. I ain’t going to let you kill a horse because you’re too high-an’-mighty to ride a mule.”
“You could of asked my opinion,” Weiser grumbled.
“I didn’t ask because I knew damn well what you’d say. Now shut up an’ get your ass on that mule,” Waltz barked.
It took every ounce of Weiser’s self control to keep from lashing out at Waltz, but he knew he still needed him — at least until they reached civilization. Without another word, Weiser climbed on his mule and followed Waltz the last thirty miles of their journey to Fort Hondo.
Their hearts sank when they reached Fort Hondo and discovered there were only ten able-bodied prospectors, and the rest of their train was ten Conestoga wagons of immigrant German farmers and their livestock. And though Adam Peeples was one of the prospectors, he was not the leader of this wagon train.
Weiser took one look at this motley group and whispered to Waltz, “Let’s get out of here. We don’t need this bunch of farmers. They’ll only slow us down.” He paused and added, “You know enough about prospecting. We could get on a stagecoach and be in California before this bunch even gets on the road.”
“The plan was to go with Adam,” Waltz said quietly. “And we need to stick to the plan.”
“He won’t miss us,” Weiser protested, ready to go it alone.
“A plan is a plan,” Waltz said firmly. “An’ anyway, I ain’t spending our gold on a ritzy ride.”
The assembled crowd fell silent as a tall man with
Waltz glanced at Weiser to see his reaction to this surprising assay of their ore, but Weiser busied himself trying on a new hat and said nothing. Waltz pocketed the extra gold, and with it a seed of doubt in Weiser’s honesty.
At the next supply stop, the merchant also gave a higher value for their gold, supporting Waltz’s suspicion that Brown had cheated him. Weiser’s continued nonchalance made him increasingly suspicious that Weiser was somehow in on it, and maybe had pocketed part of the profits himself.
By the time they reached Atlanta, Weiser was sick and tired of camping out. He thought it was high time they spent some of their gold on a little on comfort, and he was looking forward to a soft bed and a nice supper. When Waltz barely slowed down for an unappetizing stew at a roadside tavern, Weiser rebelled. “What’s the hurry?” he demanded. “The wagon train won’t leave without us.”
“How do you know they won’t?” Waltz said quickly.
“I don’t,” Weiser admitted, “but I bet there are plenty of other wagon trains if we miss this one.”
“Well this is the one I decided on,” Waltz said, with the same take-charge attitude that was beginning to really eat at Weiser, “an’ this is the one we’ll be on.”
Weiser wasn’t happy, but neither was he prepared to go it alone, at least not yet. He held his tongue as they continued west through the hills and valleys of the Georgia piedmont, descended the gently rolling hills of Alabama to the alluvial plains of Mississippi and Louisiana, and reached the mighty Mississippi River at Baton Rouge. It was late afternoon and they could see the last ferry loading, but this time Weiser dug in his heels and refused to hurry. They were a week ahead of schedule and he wanted a night in a soft bed.
But Weiser had underestimated Waltz’s frugality. Although the ferry pulled out without them, Waltz refused to go to a hotel, and set up camp on the dock.
Weiser’s resentment finally boiled over when they reached San Antonio and Waltz traded their horses for mules. “What the hell do you think you’re doing,” Weiser hissed. “I’m not riding any ugly, low-class mule!”
Waltz had had enough of Weiser’s complaining. “You’ll ride that mule if you’re coming with me,” he snapped. “We’ll be crossing a thousand miles of desert an’ our horses ain’t tough enough to survive. I ain’t going to let you kill a horse because you’re too high-an’-mighty to ride a mule.”
“You could of asked my opinion,” Weiser grumbled.
“I didn’t ask because I knew damn well what you’d say. Now shut up an’ get your ass on that mule,” Waltz barked.
It took every ounce of Weiser’s self control to keep from lashing out at Waltz, but he knew he still needed him — at least until they reached civilization. Without another word, Weiser climbed on his mule and followed Waltz the last thirty miles of their journey to Fort Hondo.
Their hearts sank when they reached Fort Hondo and discovered there were only ten able-bodied prospectors, and the rest of their train was ten Conestoga wagons of immigrant German farmers and their livestock. And though Adam Peeples was one of the prospectors, he was not the leader of this wagon train.
Weiser took one look at this motley group and whispered to Waltz, “Let’s get out of here. We don’t need this bunch of farmers. They’ll only slow us down.” He paused and added, “You know enough about prospecting. We could get on a stagecoach and be in California before this bunch even gets on the road.”
“The plan was to go with Adam,” Waltz said quietly. “And we need to stick to the plan.”
“He won’t miss us,” Weiser protested, ready to go it alone.
“A plan is a plan,” Waltz said firmly. “An’ anyway, I ain’t spending our gold on a ritzy ride.”
The assembled crowd fell silent as a tall man with
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