Dancing with the Devil

Chapter One

Wyoming Territory

Early June

1878

Ansel Adams, or Ance as nearly everyone who knew him referred to him, led his horse down the draw and into the grassy canyon. The beast was tired and hot and so was he, making that tiny grove of trees beside the stream look mighty tempting.

Judging by the weather, they were in for one hot, dry summer and those weren't the kind that Ance preferred. He dismounted his roan mare and rid her of her saddle before hitching her to a small bush beside the stream allowing her to fill her stomach with soft grass and wet her whistle a bit as well.

Ance took a long drink of the cool clear water himself and then sat down at the base of the poplar tree and leaned his back against the rough bark. He put his hands behind his head and watched the man who had been tailing him for the past four hours begin the descent into the canyon.

With a curse, Ance realized who it was and wondered what kind of half-brained scheme Irish would have up his sleeve today.

"Hello there, Ansel!" Irish called jovially when he was within hearing distance, his Irish brogue filling the midday air. "It took a bit of doin' for me to catch ya."

"Because I didn't much feel like bein' caught," Ance replied pulling his cigar from his mouth. "You're lucky I didn't shoot you, Irish. You can't be following after folks that way."

"Ya wouldn't shoot me, Ansel. If ya did then who would bring ya opportunities like the one I brought ya today?" Irish asked as he tied his horse off beside Ance's and sat down next to him beneath the poplar.

Ance squinted into the sun and put his cigar back in his mouth, leaving it to hang off his lip. "And just what kind of opportunity have you brought me?"

Irish's green eyes lit up and he scratched at his jaw which was covered in red stubble. "The chance to make ya a small fortune."

"And just how might I be making this fortune?" Ance questioned, unable to determine if he was feeling more amusement or irritation at having his peaceful day intruded on. Ance was a man who enjoyed being alone--he simply didn't like having his solitude disturbed.

Irish reached in his pocket and pulled out a brown glass bottle with a paper label claiming it was a 'cure-all' and guaranteed to rid you and your loved ones of anything that ailed you from the common cold to polio. A snake also adorned the label with sharp fangs and a tongue that wrapped in and out of the label's words.

"You followed me down here to sell me this bullshit?" Ance snorted, taking the bottle and holding it up so the sunlight would stream through the liquid inside.

"O'course not!" Irish feigned insult. "I followed ya down here to enlist ya to help me sell it!"

Ance sighed and tossed the bottle back to the brain-addled man. "No."

"Come on, Ance!" Irish insisted. "This is a guaranteed way to make a lot of money in just a wee bit of time!"

"No," Ance repeated as he relaxed back against the tree once again, pulled hat down a bit lower over his dark hair and puffed on his cigar.

Irish grumbled under his breath and kicked Ance's outstretched legs. "I thought I could count on my friend to help me."

Ance growled and without pulling his hat off his eyes he replied, "I ain't nobodies goddamn friend, Irish, and if you ever lay hand or foot on me again you'll have the bullet hole to prove it."