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Randolph Colorado, November 1895

     Tipping his hat low and keeping close to the stout mercantile building to block the icy gusts of wind battering his well-oiled but frayed coat, Wyatt Boudreaux wished for the thousandth time he could stay home.

     Not that home was anything more than a one room shack with a smoky fireplace his father had traded for from a deserting miner when they first arrived to Randolph from Louisiana. But it was a sight better than his thin hat, and woolen trousers which soaked up the cold despite him tying a rope around each of his ankles. He couldn’t afford those new thick blue pants with the rivet fastenings that prevented pockets from ripping. His envy was wide and long for strong pockets because he’d lost too much hard tack over the years when he jumped one ditch to another.

     There’d be no jumping today, though his body did want to spring away from the cold. He never knew a cold could be so cold before they’d moved here. Not that he remembered much of where he was born, but his brother, Etienne, used to talk about it fondly.

     Wyatt didn’t think about anything fondly, except for escaping the abject poverty their father had put them in. Constantly a dreamer, never planning, living from one grand idea to another, their father lost whatever dowry his mother brought to their marriage. If Wyatt could completely wipe out his existence to reinvent himself and his family, he would do it without hesitation.

     Which was why he was heading into town instead of huddling around the meagre fire in their shack on this freezing day. There was a rumor of a contest. Such a rumor he would usually dismiss because it’d been told and repeated in the most disputable saloon in Randolph. Any man there would already be on his last legs and using his final credit to go further into whiskey debt. When men get that desperate, their stories tend to be as exaggerated as the tall tale that brought them to Randolph: that gold is as prevalent as Colorado dirt.

     So when he heard Dawson cackling with glee at the poker table, and a flyer snatched by young Johnny who couldn’t read a lick, Wyatt didn’t pay any attention to the growing excitement.

     However, when ol’ Tom read aloud the flyer’s contents everyone in the desperate saloon was riveted, including himself. A mountain race during winter was unheard of, but one which was sponsored by the Carson family, now that had some merit. The Carson family owned most of the land the government hadn’t confiscated. If they were holding an endurance contest with the prize of gold at the end, it might just be enough to change his life.

     Sidestepping around a swaying miner pissing against the side of the building, Wyatt jauntily stepped off the clapboard porch and out onto the street.

     “Look boys who finally decided to slink into town!”

     Cursing, Wyatt gripped the front of his coat to block the cold and turned to face his enemies.

     As usual Billy, William Joe, to his mother, was surrounded by his posse of false flatterers who should have known better than to revere a braggart. Unfortunately for him, it looked like they were all available to watch whatever humiliation Billy felt like shoveling out this day.

     “Bit cold for your kind around here, isn’t it?” Wyatt said.

     Billy’s eyes slitted so far it was a wonder he could see. “Just what do you mean about that? It’s no colder for us than it is for you.”

     Wyatt knew he needed to hold his tongue, but he was made to stand out here instead of getting on with his business so he didn’t feel like it. “Considering you have to travel from hell to get here, I would think it would take you a while to get used to crisp Colorado air.”

     One of the men around Billy guffawed before he was elbowed in the ribs to shut up.

     Billy’s face turned red before he clutched his chest and let out a fake belly laugh. “That’s a good one considering we know you can’t afford no decent clothes. Even the ropes around your ankles are frayed.”

     That one stung, but he’d be damned before he’d let this tormentor under his skin. “Yeah, I’m cold, and colder still waiting for you to get your sentences out. What do you want Billy? I have to get to the mercantile before sunset, and you’re struggling to put words together for a decent crack at me.”

     Billy took a few storming steps; his gang fluttered behind him. “Go to the mercantile for what? Just to get thrown out again by Eustace because you can’t pay off your father’s debts?”

     If he was a might younger, and wouldn’t tear the armpits of his coat, he would have swung at Billy. The man may be as large as the building behind him, but he couldn’t fight. On a good day, Wyatt knew he could take all of them. It’d feel good to wipe that smug expression off their faces.

     But it wasn’t worth tearing holes in his coat or shirt, which was bound to happen since the men fought dirty. And feeling good for two bright seconds wasn’t worth not having a coat for winter.  Wyatt silently patted himself. If his older brother, Etienne could see him now, he’d believe his younger brother had already reinvented himself. Out of all the siblings he was the most impulsive, and quick to temper. What he learned was this: men could reinvent themselves; it just took absolute desperation and hard times to do it.

     “I pay as well as you, Billy,” Wyatt said keeping his voice steady. “Best be looking at your own wallet instead of concerning yourself with others.”

     Grinning maliciously at his buddies, Billy bragged, ‘He is right boys, nothing to see here, nothing to do, nobody important. Let’s go get us some real fun.”