In-Work Coming Summer 2027

October 1868
A mule’s meanness is not mere contrariness. I’m fully convinced it’s calculated cussedness designed to make a man miserable. I reached this conclusion long before we completed the task of bribing six hundred of the malevolent brutes onto the Kansas Pacific rail cars in Leavenworth. The mules were supposed to be broke, but that's a lie, except for a few dozen with bells cut in their tails. The rest were wild and wicked shavetails.

Earlier in the day, I'd talked to the corral master, and he offered a dollar and eats if I'd help with the loading. There’s another dollar to be had if I’ll ride the train over to Fort Hays and help hitch the mules to Army freight wagons. He said the wagons would haul from Fort Hays to Fort Dodge and then on to a place in the Indian Territory called Camp Supply.

“Any chance of getting work on the mule train?”
“Can’t say, you want this job or not?”
“I’ll take it.” I agree to it, although it is a miserly sum, but I'm down to a single dollar, haven't eaten in two days, and I need to get to Fort Hays anyhow to see a man. So I’m inclined to not be too picky.

“Name?” he asks.
I tell him, “Hezekiah Slaughter.” He pulls a folded scrap of paper from his shirt pocket, licks the tip of his pencil, and scribbles on it.