Winchester 1887 by William W. Johnstone

survivin’ that eternal storm of yesttiday, but it’ll keep yer belly from rubbin’ ag’in yer backbone.”
    The younger one’s blue eyes danced. “He’s a right fair hand at cookin’.” Then he, too, started moving away from the wagon, boots splashing in the puddles that even the parched patch of land had not yet soaked in.
    James rolled out from under the wagon. It was huge. Even the rear wheels stood over his head. The eight-feet-high wheels had to be six inches wide, and the tires had been double-rigged, to prolong their wear. Sixteen feet long, the wooden sides of the wagon stretched up at least ten feet, and although the big freight wagon had the bows for a canvas cover—like one of those old prairie schooners from the Oregon Trail days he had read about—the ribs were empty. It was no Conestoga, but bigger. Considering the lack of cover, whatever those two folks were carrying in the back, was soaked from the hail and rain.
    â€œHelp yerself to the grub.” Wildcat Lamar slurped some coffee from a tin cup. “Got a heavy load, so we ain’t goin’ nowheres till the ground dries a mite. Don’t fancy gettin’ stuck out here.”
    James rubbed his head, shifted the rifle to his left hand, and looked up at the wagon. “You could fit a stagecoach in there,” he marveled.
    â€œTwo more ’n likely.” Lamar finished his coffee and tossed the cup to James.
    He fumbled with it, dropped it, and knelt to pick it up, but not before making sure Robin Lamar wasn’t ready to jump him.
    After that incident in the Fort Worth–Denver City boxcar, James wasn’t trusting anyone.
    â€œAin’t got an extry cup to share,” Lamar said. “Didn’t expect to have no comp’ny payin’ us a visit.”
    Robin moved around James, giving him a wide berth, and squatted beside his father. “How come you landed underneath our wagon?”
    James scanned the countryside, puzzled.
    The old man laughed. “Twister run off our oxen, iffen that’s what yer lookin’ fer.”
    â€œIt is,” James admitted, and moved toward the fire. The smell of coffee proved more than he could stand. He filled the cup, sipped some, and finally relaxed.
    â€œHow come you landed underneath our wagon?” Robin asked again. He piled two biscuits and some huge bits of jerky on a plate, and slid the plate across the slick grass toward James’s boots.
    â€œThe twister dropped me here.” James smiled as their eyes widened. “I’m kidding.” The biscuits practically broke his teeth, and the jerky felt even harder.
    He kept trying to make himself more presentable, but the ripped shirt and everything else about him made that impossible. Before long, nothing mattered. The coffee, even the tough food became his sole focus. He didn’t speak further until he had cleaned the plate. Neither the old man or his boy spoke, either.
    â€œI’m bound for Fort Smith,” James said at last.
    Coughing, Robin spit out a mouthful of coffee, and his father leaned forward, mouth agape. “Afoot?” the old man roared.
    The coffee tasted finer than even the chicory Ma brewed. But after all that time without food or anything other than hard water, anything would have tasted good. Well, maybe not the granite-like biscuits and jerky.
    James lied. “Lost my horse a ways back.”
    Old man Lamar seemed to accept that, nodding. “It’ll happen. Lost yer way, eh?”
    James eyed the man curiously.
    Wildcat laughed and found a pouch that hung from the belt over his waist. He opened the piece of fringed leather and pulled out a twist of tobacco, from which he bit off a sizeable chunk and began softening the chaw with his gums. “Ye ain’t followin’ no knowed trail to Fort Smith,” he explained after a moment.
    â€œYesterday’s storm,” James offered as an explanation.
    Again, the