Dragons Teeth Crichton 2017 (WWT)

“He moved old Jake when the carriage ran him down.”
“That’s so, he did move Jake.”
They were still discussing it when Johnson walked on.
At Colonel Ramsay’s stables, he offered his wagon and team for sale. Cope had purchased them in
Fort Benton for the inflated price of $180; Johnson thought he could get forty or perhaps fifty dollars.
Colonel Ramsay offered ten.
After a long complaint, Johnson agreed to it. Ramsay then explained Johnson owed six already, and
plunked down the difference—four silver dollars—on the countertop.
“This is an outrage,” Johnson said.
Silently, Ramsay picked one of the four dollars off the counter.
“What’s that for?”
“That’s for insulting me,” Ramsay said. “Care to do it again?”
Colonel Ramsay was a hard-bitten man well over six feet tall. He wore a long-barreled Colt sixshooter
on each hip.
Johnson took the remaining three dollars, and turned to leave.
“You got a mouth, you little bastard,” Ramsay said. “I was you, I’d learn to keep it shut.”
“I appreciate the advice,” Johnson said quietly. He was beginning to understand why everyone in
Deadwood was so polite, so almost preternaturally calm.
He next went to the Black Hills Overland and Mail Express, at the north end of the street. The agent
there informed him that the fare to Cheyenne was eight dollars by regular coach, and thirty dollars by
the express coach.
“Why does the express cost so much more?”
“Your express coach is pulled by a team of six. Standard coach is pulled by a team of two, and it’s
slower.”
“That’s the only difference?”
“Well, of late the slow coach hasn’t been making it through regular.”
“Oh.”
Johnson then explained that he had some freight to transport as well. The agent nodded. “Most folks
do. If it’s gold, it’s one and a half percent of appraised value.”
“It’s not gold.”
“Well then, it goes at freight rate, five cents a pound. How much you got?”
“About a thousand pounds.”
“A thousand pounds! What on earth you got weighs a thousand pounds?”
“Bones,” Johnson said.
“That’s highly unusual,” the agent said. “I don’t know as we could accommodate you.” He
scratched figures on a sheet of paper. “These, ah, bones can ride up top?”
“I guess they can, if they’re safe up there.”
At five cents per pound, Johnson figured, the cost would be fifty dollars.
“Be eighty dollars, plus five dollars loading fee.”
More than he expected. “Oh, fifty for the freight and thirty for the express. Eight-five in all?”
The clerk nodded. “You want to book passage?”
“Not right now.”
“You know where to find us if you do,” he said, and turned away.
As Johnson was leaving, he paused at the door. “About the express coach,” he said.
“Yes?”