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Imagine it's December 1869 in Indian territory near the Texas border.

You're a soldier with the 10th cavalry, and you've been on patrol all day on the north side

of the Red River, 45 miles south of your post at Fort Sill.

Muscles are aching after hours in the saddle, but you still keep your eyes sharp.

Whoa there.

You pull on your horse's reins as you come upon a white man sitting in the shade of a

covered wagon, smoking a pipe.

It looks like he's transporting bulky cargo from the way the wagon's canvas is straining

at the sides. You have a suspicion that the man is a whiskey peddler trying to trespass on the

nearby Kiowa Comanche reservation. Afternoon. Where are you headed? He looks up at you from under a

wide-brimmed hat and takes a long draw of his pipe. Ranch, not far from here. Looking for work,

hurting cattle. You glance at the tracks behind his wagon.

Funny thing, if you're looking for ranch work, I reckon you'd be heading south. From the

looks of your wagon, looks like you're heading north. Huh. Must have gotten myself turned around.

You nod slowly, taking in the wagon again.

The canvas bulges awkwardly.

He's carrying a heavier load than any cowboy you've ever met.

Then you won't mind if I search your wagon?

...