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Copper Halo at Mustang Pass

By Cindy M. Amos

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For three days, Argus Drury had rolled east like a raindrop off the Rocky Mountains along the Mullan Wagon Road to his appointed watercourse—the Missouri River. Threaded through Montana Territory’s eastern plain, the river served as a lifeline to St. Louis and from there, the entire civilized eastern seaboard. Fort Benton appeared ahead, the original military installation now outgrown by the bustling port town. Against the bleakness of the level plains, the cluster of wooden house gables represented no slight miracle.
Slowed by the drain of extended travel, he attempted a mental list of his afternoon’s procurement—a side task after their appointed retrieval—two oak axles, a set of wheel spokes mortised into a hub, a keg of grease for lubrication, and the crate of explosives Mr. Buckley had ordered for the mine. With a faint hope the steamboat’s manifest would be completed, he nudged his travel partner to rouse him. “Fort Benton is calling, Mr. Redmann. Open your eyes and get situated for finding what we came all this way to gain—your intended.”
The passenger wiped over his face and sat upright. “Saints be praised. I was done riding back at Helena. This third leg of the journey reminds me how far west Feenie and I wandered.”
“Rolling in by train isn’t quite the same, though I wouldn’t consider a freight line luxurious.” He guided the team of horses onto the first east-bound road, a broad avenue that seemed to end at an elevated wooden dock. When the horizon changed as he studied the structure, he caught a glimpse of the river’s claim to grandeur. “There she blows, Bernie, and not a moment too soon.”
A slender smokestack marked the floating vessel’s stopping point at the wharf. Sleek and lightweight to maneuver the upper reaches, the shallow-hulled mountain boat lacked the gaudy accoutrements of the Mississippi River’s steamboats. When a team of men wrapped thick ropes around several pilings, the boat’s spoonbill-shaped bow dipped as if nosing into place.
Bernie gave his travel bag a kick. “My chest is so tight can barely breath. What if I can’t find Rebekah?”
“Consider the favor we’ve had so far—an early spring, an on-time arrival, and not a squeak of disrespect from the wagon. In other words—you’ll find her just fine.” He combed through his beard as he assessed the scene ahead. “If I’m reading this right, it looks like we should park the wagon out from the wharf a distance and walk over.”

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