[b][h3]Central City[/h3]
June 28th, 1876[/b]

Bob Stockton always came back home by steamboat. He was wealthy enough now to afford a private coach or his own car on the train. But coming in by river was how he'd first arrived here nearly fifty years ago. Central City was a far cry from the little frontier town he remembered all those years ago. It was so new back then that several of the log cabins in town were built with green wood.

Stockton stood on the deck of the steamboat, cigar firm in his mouth, and watched the city appear around the river bend. The city in front of him now was a vast metropolis with buildings as high as six stories stretched out across its expanse. A thick layer of smog rose above those buildings. To some that was a sign of urban sprawl and decay and pollution, but to Bob it was the price for progress. Industry and the wealth that came for it led to more expansion and growth. That was what America was all about.

"Senator Stockton."

Stockton turned around and saw a Marshall Holm standing on the deck with notepad and pencil at the ready. Like Stockton, Holm was on the way back home to Central City after spending the winter and spring in Washington. Also like Stockton, Holm and his paper worked for the Combination. Stockton scowled and blew smoke from his mouth. 

"I told you, Marshall, I'm not talking about the convention until it gets--"

Holm cut him off as he shoved a piece of paper into his hands.

"This was sent to me over the wire when we stopped to refuel in Jeff City. Words coming out of the frontier. There's been a big battle out near someplace called Little Big Horn. You're chairman of the Senate's Committee of Indian Affairs, Senator, and I wonder if you'd like to comment."

Stockton read the bulletin. His face grew redder and redder the more he read. When he was done, he ripped the paper in two and tossed the scraps out of his hands.

"Fucking Custer!"

Stockton spat his cigar stub out of his mouth and watched it fly overboard into the water. These next few weeks were crucial to furthering Stockton's political goals, there was no room for error. And now some goddamn long-haired moron had fucked him over! How hard was it to kill a bunch of Indians? They were almost as easy to kill as the fucking buffalo. As the chairman of that Senate committee he stood to come under fire for lack of oversight on Custer's activities.  

"My statement is this, Marshall: This does nothing but delay the inevitable. Like when the unruly child tries to ward off punishment from their father. They do nothing but ensure the punishment will be twofold. The committee on Indian Affairs will do whatever it takes to see that 7th Cavalry and Colonel Custer are avenged, and their murderers are brought to justice toot sweet. America will not forget the brave sacrifice of the 7th and the cowardice of the savage."  

"Dynamite stuff, Senator."

Holm hurried away while Stockton brooded over the news. The plan that he and A.J. laid out for the coming convention did not include Stockton having to defend the actions of the now deceased George Custer. If he wanted to emerge from the convention as the party's compromise candidate, a man who could carry the party standard and win the White House, he needed to be as far from controversy as possible. The task was still feasible, the convention taking place here in Central City meant that A.J. had the power to put anyone he wanted on the ticket, but they would have to play things very carefully from here on out.

"Five minutes," one of the sailors announced from the steamboat's top deck. "We'll be in Central City in five minutes."

Stockton found another cigar in his coat pocket and lit it up. His original plan was to go home and rest, but that was now amended in light of the recent news. He had to head into the city and find A.J. as soon as possible. If he knew A.J. like he thought he did, after thirty-six years as partners in law and politics Bob knew him pretty damn well, then he would have already heard the news and would be ready with a plan for how to proceed forward.