Marcus was the best wagon handler Clay had ever met. He had driven wagons for Clay ever since Clay got into the business, mostly down into Texas, though he also made some trips into Nebraska. They were friends as well as employer and employee, and three years ago the two had even wintered together in the mountains of Colorado, trapping beaver. As Marcus once said, “The only way you can get closer to a body than winterin’ with ’em, is to marry ’em.” Marcus was a small man, with such weathered skin that he looked seventy, though he was actually just a little over forty. He was missing two fingers on his left hand, the result of getting his hand caught in a trap. Despite the loss of two fingers, he could handle most things as easily as if he had his entire hand, and he demonstrated that now, by deftly pouring whiskey into Clay’s glass. “Did you take a look at those three wagons down to Garland’s place?” he asked. “Yes. They’re pretty good wagons.” “Can’t beat ’em for the price,”
