The suffocating heat of the primitive blast furnace slowly dissipated, leaving the surgical tent smelling strongly of scorched canvas, chemical flux, and cooled iron.
Three heavy, perfectly rectangular gold ingots rested on the blood-stained surgical table. They possessed the dull, mesmerizing luster of absolute, unadulterated wealth.
Cole sat on the edge of the cot, his ruined clothes entirely stiff with dried mud and his own blood. His right leg throbbed beneath the heavy wooden splint and canvas bandages.
He was incredibly rich, but he looked exactly like a corpse that had been dragged out of a shallow grave.
Doc Weaver sat slumped in his wooden chair, staring at the three ingots with a gaze that bordered on religious fanaticism.
"We must leave the camp immediately," Weaver whispered, his voice hoarse from the chemical smoke. "If any of the prospectors or the local company enforcers realize what is sitting on this table, they will burn this tent to the ground with us inside it."
"I am aware of the logistical vulnerability," Cole replied, his voice flat and analytical. "We require transportation to the nearest civilized railhead. We require clean clothing. We require discretion."
Weaver nodded rapidly, his mind racing with the possibilities of his new, enforced employment.
"The nearest major hub is Terminus City, located seventy miles east across the Blackwood Ravine," Weaver stated, his medical knowledge replaced by frontier geography. "It is a heavy industrial and banking center. It possesses secure assay offices and federal banks that can process unmarked ingots without asking lethal questions."
"To reach Terminus City, we need a private, enclosed coach and a highly reliable driver. I can take one of the ingots to the local camp assayer, exchange it for federal Gold Notes, and purchase the best coach in the camp."
It was a perfectly logical plan for a desperate man.
But Cole was no longer a desperate man. He was a mechanical entity operating on mathematical certainties.
He looked at the blue text hovering silently in his vision.
[Current balance: 340.6 Silver Eagles.]
"System," Cole whispered, his voice completely hollow. "Deduct one Silver Eagle. Initiate simulation."
[Balance updated. Current balance is 339.6 Silver Eagles.]
[Simulation starting in 3, 2, 1.]
The blinding flash of temporal displacement wiped the tent away.
Cole opened his eyes in the projected future.
"Go to the assayer," Cole commanded Weaver in the simulation. "Take one ingot. Exchange it for currency."
Weaver eagerly wrapped one of the heavy gold bars in a white surgical towel, placed it in his leather medical satchel, and exited the tent into the muddy morning.
Cole waited on the cot. He placed the remaining two ingots back into the iron cash box and locked it.
Forty minutes later, the canvas flap of the tent was violently, aggressively thrown open.
It was not Weaver.
Five massive men marched into the surgical tent. They wore heavy canvas dusters and carried repeating rifles. They were the Company Men, the unofficial, heavily armed thugs employed by the largest mining syndicate in the camp to enforce local monopolies.
Standing behind them, his face severely bruised and his hands bound tightly behind his back with thick rope, was Silas Weaver.
A tall man with a deep scar across his jawline stepped forward. He held the heavy gold ingot in his left hand, bouncing it slightly to test the immense weight.
"Your doctor friend walked into the assay office with thirty-five ounces of perfectly smelted, unmarked bullion," the scarred man said, his voice a low, terrifying rumble. "The assayer works for the Company. We know every single claim in this mud hole, and nobody pulled a motherlode this size in the last three months."
The scarred man looked at Cole, observing the splinted leg and the muddy clothes.
"Which means you stole it from a Company shaft, or you murdered someone who did."
The scarred man did not ask for a defense. He did not ask for a confession.
He simply raised his heavy repeating rifle and aimed it directly at Cole's chest.
"Search the tent for the rest of it," the scarred man ordered his thugs. "Kill the boy. Hang the doctor from the crane as an example."
Cole raised his derringer, but a volley of rifle fire erupted before he could even pull the trigger.
Five heavy lead slugs tore through Cole's torso, instantly shredding his lungs and shattering his spine.
[Simulation terminated. Host vital signs depleted.]
[Cause of death: Multiple catastrophic ballistic traumas.]
[Resetting temporal coordinates.]
Cole gasped, his eyes snapping open in the sweltering tent.
Weaver was still sitting in his wooden chair, staring at the three ingots, completely oblivious to the fact that his plan had just gotten them both executed in a projected timeline.
"We cannot use the local assayer," Cole stated flatly, instantly vetoing Weaver's suggestion. "A thirty-five-ounce unmarked ingot is an anomaly. Anomalies attract the Company Men. If you walk into that office with that much raw capital, they will torture you, trace you back to this tent, and murder us both."
Weaver blanched, instantly realizing the terrifying logic of Cole's assessment. The gold was simultaneously their absolute salvation and their most lethal liability.
"Then how do we acquire transportation?" Weaver asked, panic creeping back into his voice. "We cannot buy a coach with medical supplies, and I only possess forty-two Silver Eagles in currency. A luxury coach and a reliable armed escort will cost at least two hundred."
"We do not require a luxury coach," Cole replied mechanically. "Luxury attracts attention. We do not require an armed escort. Hired guns on the frontier are simply bandits waiting for a convenient opportunity to betray their employers."
Cole stared at the locked iron cash box.
"System. Deduct one Silver Eagle. Initiate simulation."
[Balance updated. Current balance is 338.6 Silver Eagles.]
[Simulation starting in 3, 2, 1.]
Cole awoke in the second projected future.
"Take your forty-two Silver Eagles," Cole instructed Weaver. "Go to the local stables. Hire a covered supply wagon and a driver who knows the route to Terminus City. Pay him twenty Eagles upfront. Tell him we are leaving immediately."
Weaver nodded, grabbed his currency, and hurried out of the tent.
An hour later, Weaver returned. He helped Cole out of the tent and into the back of a canvas-covered wooden supply wagon.
The driver was a greasy, quiet man named Briggs, who smelled heavily of cheap tobacco and unwashed horses. Briggs cracked his whip, and the wagon rolled out of the muddy mining camp, heading east toward the Blackwood Ravine.
Cole lay in the back of the wagon, hidden beneath a pile of old canvas tarps, his hand resting on the iron cash box containing the three gold ingots.
They traveled for six hours. The dirt road was heavily rutted and flanked by steep, heavily forested hills. The constant bouncing of the wooden wagon sent agonizing spikes of pain through Cole's splinted leg.
As the sun began to set, casting long, dark shadows across the ravine, the wagon suddenly ground to a complete halt.
Cole heard Briggs whistle sharply. It was not a whistle to calm the horses. It was a highly specific, rhythmic signal.
"Why have we stopped?" Weaver asked nervously from the passenger bench.
"Fallen tree across the road, Doc," Briggs replied casually.
Cole pushed the canvas tarp aside and peered out the back of the wagon.
Three men stepped out from the dense tree line. They wore dirty bandanas over their faces and carried double-barreled shotguns.
Briggs did not reach for his weapon. He simply lit a cheap cigar and smiled at the approaching bandits.
"What do we have today, Briggs?" one of the masked men asked, racking the action of his shotgun with a loud, terrifying clack.
"A disgraced doctor fleeing his debts," Briggs replied, blowing a cloud of gray smoke into the evening air. "He paid twenty Eagles for the ride. Means he probably has a stash hidden in his medical bags. Take him out."
Weaver screamed, reaching frantically for his coat pocket.
The masked man did not hesitate. He raised the shotgun and fired both barrels at point-blank range directly into Weaver's chest.
The massive blast of heavy buckshot lifted the doctor entirely off the wooden bench, throwing his ruined, bleeding body backward into the mud.
The bandits climbed into the back of the wagon. They found Cole lying next to the heavy iron cash box.
They did not speak to him. They did not ask him to open the box.
One of the men simply placed the smoking barrel of his shotgun against Cole's forehead and pulled the trigger.
[Simulation terminated. Host vital signs depleted.]
[Cause of death: Catastrophic ballistic trauma to the cranium.]
[Resetting temporal coordinates.]
Cole gasped, his eyes snapping open back in the surgical tent.
He stared at the ceiling, his breathing perfectly controlled.
The second parameter was confirmed. Hiring a local driver was statistically equivalent to hiring an executioner. The ecosystem of the Western Fever was entirely comprised of predators feeding upon the weak. A crippled boy and a drug-addicted doctor traveling with a heavy iron box were the ultimate prey.
"We are not hiring a driver," Cole announced, sitting up on the cot.
"But I do not know how to drive a multi-horse coach," Weaver protested, his hands trembling. "I am a surgeon, not a teamster."
"We are not buying a coach," Cole said, his voice entirely devoid of emotion. "You are going to take your forty-two Silver Eagles. You are going to go to the livestock trader at the edge of the camp."
Cole outlined the flawless, mathematically perfect exit strategy.
"You will purchase a used, highly unappealing wooden supply wagon. You will not buy fast horses. You will buy two sturdy, dull-witted mules. Mules do not panic, they do not require high-grade oats, and they do not attract the attention of highwaymen looking to steal valuable livestock."
"You will spend exactly five Eagles on a set of clean, oversized adult clothing, a heavy wool blanket, and a pair of sturdy wooden crutches."
Cole looked directly into Weaver's sunken eyes.
"You will drive the wagon yourself. We will travel slowly. We will look exactly like a miserable, bankrupt doctor and his crippled apprentice fleeing the camp in utter defeat."
Weaver swallowed hard, recognizing the sheer, terrifying brilliance of the completely unassuming plan. Camouflage was far more effective than armor.
"I will secure the assets," Weaver said, standing up and grabbing his coat.
"Leave the velvet pouch on the desk," Cole commanded softly.
Weaver paused, his eyes lingering desperately on the hidden morphine, but the memory of the twin barrels of the derringer forced his compliance. He left the narcotics and walked out into the camp.
Cole was entirely alone in the tent.
He looked down at his ruined clothes. They were stiff with a horrific mixture of dried mud, sweat, and Elias's arterial blood.
He felt a profound, deep sense of physical disgust. He was shedding his past, layer by layer, but the physical residue still clung to his skin.
He hopped off the cot, balancing precariously on his good left leg. He moved to Weaver's surgical washbasin. He poured cold, clean water from a tin pitcher into the ceramic bowl. He found a rough sponge and a bar of harsh, lye-based carbolic soap.
He stripped off his ruined, bloody shirt and his torn trousers, leaving only the canvas bandages and the wooden splint on his right leg.
He stood shivering in the cold air of the tent.
He looked at his reflection in the small, cracked mirror hanging above the basin.
He was incredibly thin. His ribs pressed prominently against his pale skin. His collarbones were sharp. His body was a map of old scars, purple bruises, and fresh, healing cuts.
He did not look like a boy who had just murdered a veteran prospector and secured a king's ransom in solid gold. He looked exactly like a victim.
Cole dipped the rough sponge into the freezing water and scrubbed the carbolic soap viciously against his skin.
The harsh lye burned the open cuts on his arms and chest, but he did not stop. He scrubbed away the deep, ingrained dirt of the mine shaft. He scrubbed away the dried blood of his abuser.
He washed his hair, watching the dark, muddy water cascade down his pale shoulders and spiral down the drain of the basin.
He was completely erasing his physical history.
By the time he finished, his skin was raw, red, and entirely clean. The scent of mud and copper was replaced by the sharp, clinical, chemical smell of carbolic acid.
He hopped back to the cot and wrapped himself tightly in a thin surgical sheet, waiting in the silence.
Two hours later, the tent flap opened.
Weaver entered, carrying a large burlap sack. The doctor looked utterly exhausted, but he nodded toward the back of the tent.
"The wagon is secured," Weaver reported, dropping the sack onto the floor. "It is parked directly behind the annex. Two mules, as instructed. They are old, slow, and completely unremarkable. I purchased the clothing and the crutches."
Cole pulled the items from the burlap sack.
He found a pair of heavy, dark wool trousers, a thick white cotton shirt, leather suspenders, and a heavy gray wool coat. The clothes were clearly designed for a grown man.
Cole dressed himself. The white shirt swallowed his thin frame, the sleeves hanging past his wrists. He rolled them up meticulously. He pulled on the heavy wool trousers, carefully maneuvering his splinted right leg through the wide fabric, and secured them tightly to his narrow waist using the leather suspenders. He draped the heavy gray coat over his shoulders.
He looked ridiculous, like a child playing dress-up in a dead man's closet.
But it was exactly what he needed. In the oversized clothes, his severe malnourishment was completely hidden. He looked larger, formless, and entirely anonymous.
He picked up the sturdy wooden crutches.
He positioned them under his armpits and gripped the wooden handles. He applied weight to his hands, lifting his good left foot off the ground.
His triceps and shoulders burned from the effort of supporting his entire body weight, but the mechanics worked. He could move independently without dragging his broken leg across the dirt.
He swung himself across the tent, testing his balance.
"Pack the medical supplies," Cole ordered Weaver, pausing near the desk. "Empty the glass cabinets into your leather bags. Take the bone saws, the clamps, and the empty bottles. We must leave exactly the kind of chaotic void a disgraced doctor would leave behind."
Weaver moved quickly, frantically packing his surgical instruments into several heavy leather satchels.
"And the furnace?" Weaver asked, pointing to the heavy iron blast furnace in the corner.
"Leave it," Cole said. "It is too heavy, and it implies industrial intent. We are traveling light."
Cole walked to the iron cash box resting on the desk. He opened it, looking down at the three heavy, perfectly rectangular gold ingots. He placed the small velvet pouch containing Weaver's five vials of liquid morphine directly on top of the gold.
He closed the heavy iron lid and locked it, placing the small brass key into the pocket of his new gray wool coat.
"Carry the box," Cole commanded.
Weaver lifted the heavy iron cash box, his thin arms straining slightly under the immense weight of the gold.
They moved to the rear canvas flap of the tent.
Outside, the rain had started again, a slow, miserable drizzle that turned the camp into a gray, featureless blur.
Parked in the muddy alley behind the tent was a battered, weathered wooden supply wagon. Its canvas cover was patched and stained. Hitched to the front were two massive, gray mules, standing perfectly still in the rain, looking entirely bored with existence.
It was the most pathetic, uninspiring vehicle in the entire mining camp. It was completely invisible to greed.
Weaver loaded his heavy medical satchels into the back of the wagon. He placed the heavy iron cash box deep beneath a pile of old, dirty canvas tarps.
Cole used his crutches to maneuver through the deep mud. He reached the rear of the wagon and pulled himself up, dragging his splinted leg carefully over the wooden tailgate.
He sat in the dark, cramped interior, surrounded by the smell of wet canvas, old leather, and Weaver's chemical supplies. He pulled the heavy wool blanket over his shivering shoulders.
Weaver climbed up onto the exposed wooden driver's bench. He picked up the leather reins.
The doctor looked back into the dark interior of the wagon.
"The journey to Terminus City will take four days at the pace these mules can manage," Weaver said, his voice completely devoid of his former arrogance. "We will have to camp on the road."
"Drive," Cole replied from the darkness, his hand resting firmly on the hidden iron cash box.
Weaver snapped the leather reins against the backs of the gray mules.
The heavy wooden wheels of the wagon groaned in protest, sinking deeply into the thick mud before slowly rolling forward.
They did not take the main thoroughfare. Weaver navigated the treacherous, narrow alleys between the slag heaps and the boneyard, entirely avoiding the saloons and the heavily guarded assay offices.
The wagon bumped and swayed violently, every jolt sending a sharp spike of pain through Cole's healing tibia. But he did not make a sound. He simply sat in the dark, clutching the iron box, his eyes completely dead and calculating.
Within thirty minutes, the chaotic, sprawling noise of the Western Fever camp began to fade behind them.
The endless sea of canvas tents and mud gave way to the towering, silent pines of the deep frontier forest. The dirt road narrowed, winding its way up toward the treacherous pass of the Blackwood Ravine.
Cole pulled back a small corner of the rear canvas cover.
He looked back at the mining camp. It was a dark, ugly scar against the side of the mountain, illuminated by thousands of small, desperate campfires.
Down there, men were dying in collapsed holes. Men were murdering each other for trace amounts of dust. Silas the neighbor was likely still trying to figure out how to claim Elias's empty shaft.
Cole let the canvas flap fall closed, sealing himself in the absolute darkness of the wagon.
He had survived the mud. He had survived the collapse. He had survived the doctor.
He looked at the blue text floating passively in his retinas, his ultimate, infallible guide to the universe.
[Current balance: 338.6 Silver Eagles.]
The first phase of his existence was completely over.
The boy who dug in the dirt was entirely dead. The entity that possessed the power to mathematically purchase tomorrow was on its way to the city.
And Terminus City had absolutely no idea what was coming.