America 1883: The Western Homeland

Chapter 74 The Truth from the Bar Owner's Mouth

The clerk's eyes were so complex they could be wrung out.

Back at the Valley Bar, Dan poured Tom a full glass of whiskey, the caramel-colored liquid swirling in the glass.

"Does it seem strange?" Dan leaned against the bar and got straight to the point.

Tom picked up his glass and didn't deny it: "A little."

Dan took a sip himself, leaned forward slightly, lowered his voice, and asked with a direct probing tone, "Then... tell me, who killed Covington?"

"Sheriff".

Tom uttered three words, crisp and decisive.

Dan nodded, seemingly unsurprised by the answer.

He then threw out an even more crucial question, his gaze sharp as an eagle: "And you, Lee White, what exactly is your relationship with the sheriff?"

Yeah, what's the relationship?

When Covington breathed his last, only the two of them were breathing in the room.

But in the blink of an eye, Tom became a handcuffed murderer in the hands of the sheriff!

"His scapegoat!"

If Tom hadn't sensed something was wrong beforehand and found Bailiff Jim overnight to present evidence to prove his innocence... he would probably be dead by now.

Tom knew that his identity as a Secret Service agent played a major role in his escape.

Last night, he revealed his identity and even asked Jim to verify it with Frank in New York.

While waiting for the telegram, the two chatted about the Texas Rangers and discovered that they both knew William.

If it weren't for this shared language, Tom really doubted things would have gone so smoothly.

The bar owner, Dan, had a "I knew it" look on his face.

"What makes you think you can bring Mr. Covington, the wealthy Eastman and rancher, to justice?" Dan looked at the young man opposite him with amusement.

Tom waved his hand dismissively: "I didn't mean to do anything to him! It was his cowboy who tried to frame me and steal my money, a whole hundred dollars!" He emphasized the word "hundred dollars".

Dan didn't care at all: "You just bought a ranch of over three thousand acres like that, and you paid a deposit of three hundred dollars for a ranch of over twenty thousand acres without even blinking."

He refilled Tom's glass. "Do you really care about that hundred dollars?"

Tom felt there was no point in saying more, so he turned to leave.

Dan spoke up casually from behind, "Don't you want to know why the ranch you bought was so cheap?"

Tom stopped in his tracks and sat back down.

Dan leaned closer, lowering his voice even further: "Haven't you noticed? Your new ranch is right in the middle of Mr. Covington's ranch!"

Tom had long harbored suspicions but kept quiet, waiting for Dan to continue.

"At the earliest next spring, that land will belong to Covington, it's a sure thing. But now... something unexpected has happened." Dan's words were exactly what Tom wanted to hear.

"So you knew the sheriff would make his move when Covington left?" Tom pressed.

Dan, swirling her wine glass, glanced at him and asked, "Do you know who originally owned that ranch?"

Tom, of course, didn't know, but he had a vague guess in his mind.

"It's the sheriff's old buddy... and his kids' ranch!" Dan's voice carried a hint of barely perceptible coldness.

An old friend? Tom could understand.

A child? This news made his heart skip a beat!

Dan didn't continue, changing the subject abruptly: "I really didn't expect that you could actually move a bailiff and pull yourself out of the noose!"

Tom didn't have time to listen to his rambling and got up again.

"That pasture needs to be tidied up."

Dan's voice came from behind, "Stockpile firewood, the more the better, Montana winters can freeze you to death!"

Tom nodded in thanks.

Dan continued, "If you have a lot of livestock, you'll need to prepare fodder. Go to the livestock market and find a broker; they have connections."

Tom had already moved to the doorway.

"And another thing," Dan's voice caught up, "the ranch isn't just teeming with wolves at night, it also has cattle thieves!"

Tom whirled around: "The cattle thieves, where are they?"

Dan shook his head: "Who knows? Didn't you run into any bandits on your way here?"

Tom understood.

These "cattle thieves" probably have rather complicated identities!

But I don't have time to worry about that right now.

He needs to get the new ranch ready quickly.

His family should arrive in the town of Bozeman by the afternoon, or at the latest by night.

He absolutely cannot let them sleep in the wilderness!

"Remember, the bar is open after noon! Don't come knocking first thing in the morning!!!"

Tom heard Dan, the bar owner, roar behind him.

Tom waved and walked out of the bar!

"Zack!" Tom called to his companion. "We'll split up. You take some men to the ranch and make the houses habitable. I'll go to the livestock market and see if I can get some firewood, and also inquire about hay."

What he really wanted to know was the source of the fodder.

Compared to the renowned livestock markets of Fort Worth, Bozeman's livestock market was practically a shabby village. The air was thick with the smell of manure and hay, and there were hardly any people at the sparsely populated stalls.

Tom's gaze swept across the desolate area, finally settling on an old man dozing against a wooden post—Uncle Sam.

The old man was fast asleep, snoring softly, when suddenly he jolted awake, as if a cold gun barrel was pressed against his back, and his cloudy eyes snapped open.

He met Tom's scrutinizing blue eyes.

"Buy a cow? Or a horse?" Sam wiped his face to shake off the sleepiness, let out a long yawn, and his voice was hoarse from just waking up.

He looked Tom up and down, his youthful face making his tone somewhat nonchalant. "Beef? Longhorn, Hereford, Angus. Horses? Morgan, Quartermar, that's all."

He was very casual, clearly not expecting to make a big deal.

Tom's gaze wasn't on the livestock at all, but fixed on Sam's weathered, deeply lined face.

"We'll be spending the winter here," Tom's voice wasn't loud, but it cut clearly through the market's noise, "How much firewood will we need for ten people?"

Sam was clearly taken aback for a moment, a knowing glint in his cloudy eyes. Oh, some clueless cowboy running errands for some stingy rancher.

He clicked his tongue, speaking with a tone of knowing wisdom: "Montana, this godforsaken place, is so cold in winter it can freeze a rattlesnake's tail off! Fifty tons! At most! And that has to be hard wood like oak or birch!"

He emphasized, "It's heat-resistant and burns fiercely; it's a lifesaver! Soft, flimsy pine wood won't hold up!"

"Where can I get it?" Tom pressed.

"The general store!" Sam's interest visibly waned, his head shrank further under his greasy, tattered felt hat, and his eyelids began to droop. "They have it there, it's a bit pricey..."

Tom shook his head, interrupting his drowsy state: "Too expensive. I want fifty tons."

"How much!" Sam nearly jumped up from where he was leaning, as if he had been pricked by a spur. His sleepiness vanished instantly, and a shrewd light shone in his cloudy eyes.

"Fifty tons!" Tom repeated, his tone flat but like a stone thrown into a stagnant pool.

Sam's wrinkled old face instantly blossomed into an almost fawning smile, like a dried-up bean pod soaked in water: "A general store? Ha! Those vampires also hire people to cut down trees in the forest; the wages aren't cheap!"

He leaned forward eagerly, lowering his voice with an alluring, seductive tone, "I'll deliver it to your door, including cutting and transport, three dollars a ton! All top-quality, freshly felled hard birch! Guaranteed to be powerful!"