Bozeman Trail (1863–1868)

The mud of Independence clings to your boots, a heavy, dark reminder of the thousands who have come before. Sunlight beats down on the bustling outfitter’s yard where wagons creak under the weight of iron stoves, barrels of salted pork, and crates of mining picks. Every merchant here promises the best gear, but the frantic energy in the air feels more like desperation than preparation. You have enough coin left to secure your final supplies, but the prices are rising with every passing hour as more wagons pull into the muddy square. A wiry man with grease-stained hands leans against your wagon wheel, eyeing your remaining funds. He claims he can trade you an extra wheel and a sturdy spare axle for a pittance, but his eyes dart toward the crowded tent of a known swindler across the way. He whispers that the road ahead is treacherous and that your current load is far too light for the mountains waiting at the end of the trail. Just as you reach for your pouch to finalize the trade, a commotion erupts near the supply gate. A team of oxen has spooked, smashing into a stack of barrels and sending crates sliding toward your own wagon. The man beside you dives for cover, leaving your sup…