Dakota Ambush

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When Matt Jensen rode into Swan, Wyoming, few who knew him would have recognized him. He had a heavy beard, his hair was uncommonly long, and he looked every bit the part of a man who had not been under a roof for two months. Eight weeks earlier, he had said good-bye to Smoke Jensen back at Fort Collins, Colorado, arranging to meet him here in Swan on this date. Not since then had Matt seen civilization, having spent the entire two months in the mountains prospecting for gold.

The success of Matt’s two months of isolation was now manifested by a canvas bag he had hanging from the saddle horn. The bag was full of color-showing ore. Prospecting wasn’t new to Matt; he had learned the trade under the tutelage of his mentor, Smoke Jensen, so he knew the color in the ore was genuine. But exactly how successful he had been would depend upon the assayer’s report.

Swan was a flyblown little settlement, not served by any railroad, though there was stagecoach service to Rawlings, where one could connect with the Union Pacific. The town had a single street that was lined on both sides by unpainted, ripsawed, false-fronted buildings. It could have been any of several hundred towns in a dozen Western states. As Matt rode down the street, a couple of scantily dressed soiled doves stood on a balcony and called down to him.

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