Handsome, very well dressed forty-two-year-old Bradley Rodgers stepped down from the train in Montrose, Colorado. He smiled while looking out at a bustling, busy town. Standing on that railroad dock with luggage in his left hand, he said to himself, “Bradley, my boy, you should have showed up here well before now. You’d already be rich. William Crowder sure must have something up his sleeve to cut me in.”
