The scarlet-tinged morning sun was slowly sending its glare over the crest of the distant Rocky Mountains. As its blood red light slowly slipped over the undulating prairie, there came the faint sounds of cracking whips and the ponderous creaking of wagon wheels.

Over a rise came riding a single horseman. He was sitting tall in the saddle on the blaze-faced sorrel horse, he called "Champion." Gene Autry's white, high-crowned hat reflected reflected the sun, as he sat and gazed with pleasure at the rolling grasslands stretching away as far as the eye could see. The plains rolled on towards the distant blue-black snow-capped mountains, whose jagged peaks reached for the coral pink sky.

Reaching around behind his back, Gene pulled the guitar he had hanging from a strap around to the front of his saddle, and, as he nudged Champion forward, the cowboy began to strum a tune. His cheerful tenor voice rang out across the plains; "Out on the endless range, where the wind always blows free, I sing as I ride along, of the rose of the prairie...."

Suddenly, from behind him, Gene heard the sound of thudding hooves. Still singing, he glanced over his shoulder to see his saddle partner, Pat, come pounding up alongside him. Pat was a big, bearded man, with a red and black plaid shirt, and tan, high crowned tan hat. The dust his partner raised up by his coming, settled against Autry's dark blue shirt, but he didn't seem to notice. He merely beamed a smile at his friend and finished his song.

"That team of Miss Tilson's give you any more trouble this morning, Pat?" Gene asked his pal, as he unslung his guitar and hung it from the saddle horn.

"Oh, that darned old mule of hers, the right wheeler, he kicked me again." Pat whined.

"Where?" Gene asked. Then he saw that Pat had placed a small pillow on the seat of saddle, to cushion his sore bottom. "Oh," he laughed, "I see."

"I should talk Miss Tilson into sellin' me that goldarned ol' mule." Pat told Gene, nudging his heels against the sides of his wiry bay mustang pony, to make it keep up with Champion's long, graceful strides.

"Why, I thought you hated that mule!" Gene responded, giving his friend a puzzled look.

"Well, you see, Gene, back home there was this farmer I knew, had a mule just like this here one. That farmer also had the worst consternated mother-in-law you ever did see. Nothin' satisfied her! She was making his life miserable day and night, follerin' him around everywhere he went, finding fault with everything he did. Well, one day, he was in the barn shoeing his mule, when she come up behind them, demanding to know why her son-in-law was wastin' good money on shoes for a mule...when all of the sudden, the mule lashed out with his hind hoof, and kicked that woman clean in the head. That farmer's mother-in-law was dead before she even hit the floor!"

"Why, that's awful, Pat!" Gene exclaimed, reining Champion around a prairie dog hole. "But what's that got to do with you wanting Miss Tilson's ornery old mule?"

"'Cause that farmer made a mint, by renting that mother-in-law kicking mule out to every married man in the whole county."

It took but a second for Gene to realize Pat was pulling his leg, and he laughed, shaking his head.

As if by some unspoken signal, the pair of them reined to a stop and turned, watching as the first of the covered wagons topped the rise behind them. The waking sky turned the white canvas wagon tops the color of roses, as they shuddered and wobbled their way down the slope of a small ridge, on to the flat plains below. The clink of trace chains mingled with the blowing of horses and mules, the rumble and groans of the wagons, the calls of the drivers and cracking of whips.

"They shore do make a powerful lot of noise." Pat complained.

"Why Pat, that's there's music to my ears." Gene told him, as they once again ambled along, side by side.

"Then you need to see a doctor, gene, 'cause your ears is getting' clean outta' tune." his saddle pal retorted.

You know what that 'noise' as you call it, really is?" Gene said with a grin.

"An all-fired racket?" Pat asked, sarcastically.

"No, that there is the symphony of westward progress." Gene told his friend. "These folks are someday going to shape this country into one big land, stretching from east to west, a land full of promises for the future and hope for tomorrow. We're just passin' through right now, but one day, this here territory will be a state, you mark my words, Pat. The noise of those wagons my friend," Gene told him, jerking a thumb towards the oncoming wagon train, "are the sounds of a new country, coming alive right before our eyes."

Gene had signed on a scout for the train, which was lead by a tall, lean old minister from Vermont. He was bringing some of his flock west, to settle a new town in the southwestern part of the Colorado Territory. Seeing that the wagons were having no trouble getting off the ridge, Gene spurred his horse forward to scout out water for that night's camp.

"How far do ya' reckon it is to the next water hole?" Pat asked.

Though it was early summer, it had been dry out on that part of the plains, and some of the water holes were already beginning to dry up.

"Oh, I'm thinking maybe, ten, twelve miles, if we're lucky." Gene answered. "If we're not lucky, we'll either have a dry camp tonight, or if we make good time, we'll push on through to to Sage Creek. It's five miles further on down the trail, but it's got some of the best water around."

"This shore is mighty purty country, Gene." Pat observed.

"Good country for ranching, not far from here." Gene told him. "In fact, Sage Creek is just the sort of place I was thinkin' of settling down in, some day. Good grass, plenty of water, a small rancher could do pretty well for himself."

"Sounds like a powerful lot of work, to me, Gene. I'd think you'd be better off, headin' into the hills to prospect for gold." Pat said, looking at the encroaching mountain peaks wistfully.

"No Pat, that's the only gold I ever want." Gene told him, pointing to the morning sun, which had now cleared the mountain range, and was flooding the prairie with it's golden light.

"Huh," Gene's friend told him, "try buyin' a steak dinner with that. They'd think you was plumb loco." Gene laughed and they spurred their horses, loping on ahead of the wagons.

By late afternoon, Gene and Pat had discovered that the water hole they'd intended to use had was nearly dry. It was no more than a large mud puddle. They headed back to the wagon train. As they approached, they were shrouded by a cloud of dust, thrown up by the ponderous wagons and their straining teams. Pat sneezed, ineffectually waving away the dust with his hand.

On the seat of the lead wagon was the Reverend Phineas Tilson, with his daughter, Betsy, beside him. Like Gene, she was in her late thirties. Betsy was blond haired, slender and wore a powder blue pioneer dress, with a matching poke bonnet. She was a widow, her husband having been killed in a steam boiler explosion, five years before. Like her father, Betsy was headed west to seek a new life for herself.

Gene held up his hand and called for a halt. Reverend Tilson pulled up his team of mules, and frowned deeply. There was still several hours of sunlight left, and he didn't see a reason to stop right then. Tilson was an impatient man, a man who liked getting his own way, and brooked no dissent. Sitting tall and stiff in his black frock coat, glaring at Gene with his steely grey eyes from under the black, flat-crowned hat he wore, Tilson shook his head at the delay.

"What're we stopping for, Autry?" He demanded. "We should keep these wagons moving! We've got a few good hours of daylight left."

Gene reined Champion around until he was close to Tilson on the wagon seat. He paused to smile and tip his hat to Betsy.

"Howdy, Miss Tilson." He said to her, amiably.

Reverend Tilson's frown deepened. The last thing he wanted for his daughter, he thought to himself, was some itinerant cowhand courting her. He may have hired Autry to help guide the wagon train, but the reverend Tilson, despite his calling, had only respect for men whom had steady employment, a healthy bank account, and homes to go to every night.

And, if truth be told, if they had very big homes and bank accounts, that put a man even higher in the good reverend's esteem. He had no respect for any man who went meandering about the prairie, with six-shooters on his hip, strumming a guitar. Tilson certainly didn't want someone like Autry making eyes at his daughter.

"I asked you why we're stopping, Autry!" Tilson demanded angrily, impolitely pointing at the cowboy with the long stock whip he held in one hand. The tip almost touched Champion's nose, but his trust in Gene was complete, and the horse didn't even flinch.

"There's not enough water here for all of the stock and us too, and I wanted to see if you wanted a dry camp tonight, or would like to try and push on to Sage Creek, Reverend." Gene replied politely, despite the man's rudeness.

"Of course we want to push on!" The reverend said, peremptorily. "What I can't understand is why you even bothered to stop at all, if there wasn't enough water."

"Dad, maybe Gene had a reason." His daughter said, laying a gentle hand on her father's arm.

"I'm glad you're so sure of what you want to do," Gene replied thoughtfully, resting his left hand on the saddle horn, and pushing his hat back on his head, "but what about the others? There's ten families in this train, some of them with kids and babies, don't you think they should have a say in whether we go on or not? I'm sure some of them must be tired after a long day in the wagons."

"I'm in charge of this train, and everyone here knows it. What I say, goes, and I say we push on until dark, Autry." The reverend said, and then, as if to make his point clear, he snapped the reins and cracked his whip over the backs of his four sturdy mules, and continued on up the trail.

Pat watched Reverend Tilson's wagon creak it's way northward. He looked at Gene and shrugged.

"Are you gonna' tell 'em, or am I?" he said, grinning.

"I'll go, Pat." Gene said, trying to keep a straight face, but not quite managing it. As he turned to jog Champion after Tilson's wagon, he said over his shoulder, "You get the rest of 'em turned and headed in the right direction. I'll go and tell the reverend he's going the wrong way."

Night was drawing in when the wagons came to a stop beside Sage Creek. An hour after dusk saw fires lit and cooking smells wafted through the air as the women went about making dinner for their tired, hungry families. Gene sat beside a campfire, tuning his guitar. Pat had made a dinner of beans and rice, bacon and frying pan bread.

"Thanks for helping me with the dishes, Gene." Pat told him, setting down at the fire with a contented sigh. "You know, someday, I reckon someone would make a fortune if they could invent a machine that does the dishes for you."

"And puts them away, too?" Gene laughed, strumming his guitar. He lifted his voice in a song, which floated over the camp like a lullaby.

"When the sun sets over the mountains," he sang, "and the coyotes begin to call, I'll dream of seeing my sweetheart, after the round-up is done in the fall...."

Without warning, there came a sudden drumbeat of many hooves. Out of the black of the night charged a band of a dozen horsemen, lead by a tall, broad-shouldered, mustached man on a black appaloosa with a mottled white blanket of spots over it's rump. Gene put down his guitar and stood, frowning.

"What do you mean, riding into a camp like that? There's women and kids here, you could hurt someone." he told the man on the appaloosa.

The man on the horse looked down at Gene with disdain, his face cold and stern in the reflection of the firelight. He wore a black hat and a red shirt, worn leather batwing chaps covered his legs, and his black boots sported cruel looking big-roweled spurs.

"This here ain't no social call." The man told Gene. "We're here to tell you to pack up your wagons and get."

"What's going on here?" Demanded Reverend Tilson, coming up to the horsemen. The people of the wagon train had gathered around behind him, some of their faces anxious, others merely curious.

"Relax reverend, I'll handle this." Gene told him, keeping his right hand near his gun.

"Reverend?" the man on the appaloosa snorted, looking over his shoulder at his men, "D'ya hear that, boys? We got us a preacher man."

"As far as I know, this is all still free range land, you've got no call to tell anyone to leave it." Gene told the stranger.

"Mister, this land ain't free, it's mine, and I can, and am, telling you all to leave. Now." He said, glaring at Gene.

"I hadn't heard of anyone ranching this part of the range, and I know the government hasn't opened it up to homesteading yet. But even if you are claiming this land as your own, you've no right to order these people to leave. They're not doing any harm, we're just passin' through." Gene told him, trying to reason with the man. But something told him this man wouldn't be open to reason. Still, he had to try.

"Doesn't matter, mister." the man said, his saddle leather creaking as he shifted to look down at Genne. "It's mine because I say it's mine. And furthermore, if you all want to go on any further, you're gonna' have to pay a toll to cross my land...or, you can turn around and go home."

"What? Now, see here..." the reverend spluttered.

"Oh, so that's your angle, is it?" Gene sighed.

"What's he mean?" The reverend asked Gene.

"What this feller means is," Pat answered, "that either you let these galoots rob you of every penny you have, or you turn around and go home."

"I couldn't of said it better myself, Pat." Gene agreed.

"We'll do no such thing!" the reverend shouted, waving a fist angrily at the leader of the band of outlaws...for that is just what they were.

"Oh, I think you will." Said the outlaw leader. With that, he drew a gun and pointed it Reverend Tilson's chest.