by Jory Sherman
It took him more than a half hour to reach the tree. He could see the man’s back a good thirty feet up. He was sitting in a kind of cradle where the large limbs were thickest. John held his breath and watched the man put the binoculars to his eyes, then let them drop while he wiped his eyes and face with a blue bandanna. The man wore a pistol on his left hip. He was thin and wore dirty clothes. Beneath the tree, near a pair of spruce trees, John saw a crude lean-to, sawed branches on two forked limbs, with spruce boughs for a roof. No telling how long the man had camped there, but he was there for a reason.
The tree had thick limbs roped to it, making a crude ladder that the man could ascend and descend. He had not used hammer and nails, but carried the limbs from someplace out of earshot and painstakingly cross-tied each limb with heavy rope. Crude, but effective, John thought.
He started for the tree, a careful step at a time. He made every footfall soft and solid before he took another step.
When he was within ten yards of the tall pine tree, he stopped.
The man put the binoculars to his eyes, peered through the trees at their camp across the creek.
John grunted, imitating a bear.
He growled, low in his throat.
The man let the binoculars fall from his hands. It dangled there on his chest as he turned and looked down straight at John.
John drew his pistol.
The man appeared to swallow something in his throat. His Adam’s apple stretched the skin on his neck and his eyes went wide as an owl’s.
“Come down out of that tree,” John said, “a step at a time, unless you want to take the shortcut.”
“Sh-shortcut?” the man said.
“Yeah, straight down with your lamp out.”
There was a long silence between the two men.
John cocked his pistol.
The sound was loud and unmistakable. It sounded like a key in an iron lock. Like a key turning on a door into eternity.
11
JOHN STEPPED BEHIND A PINE TREE, SO THAT ONLY PART OF HIS face and one arm with the pistol leveled at the man above him were visible.
“Snake out your pistol real careful, mister, and let it fall to the ground. Use two fingers. Anything else you do, I tick off this hair-trigger and blow your brains to mush.”
“Yessir, d-don’t sh-shoot.”
The man gingerly picked his pistol from his holster, using two fingers on the butt. Then he let the six-gun fall. It hit the ground with a thud.
“Now, climb down out of there,” John said. “Real slow.”
John stepped out from behind the tree, walked over to the tall pine, picked up the man’s pistol, and tucked it into his belt. Then he stepped back and watched the trembling man descend from his high perch.
When his feet touched the ground, the man held on to the last wobbly rung of his makeshift ladder. His hands quivered and his knees touched as his legs trembled.
“Turn around,” John ordered.
The man released his grip on the broken limb and its rope harness, turned slowly to face Savage.
John stepped closer, his pistol leveled at the man’s gut. He saw the stain at the man’s crotch, and the acrid reek of urine assailed his nostrils.
“D-don’t shoot me, mister,” the man pleaded.
John’s nose crinkled up and he took a step backward to avoid the stench. A small puddle formed at the man’s feet, and his face was blanched to a pasty prison pallor as the blood drained from every facial capillary.
“What’s your name?” John asked.
“D-David Cornwall.” He paused, licked his dry lips. “Th-they call me Corny.”
“Who calls you that?”
“Al Krieger, Lem Thatcher, Walt Ferguson, and them. Men I work with.”
“You with that bunch up creek, Krieger and two dimwits?”
“Yessir, we’s prospectin’ up yonder.”
John regarded the man for several moments without speaking. The man was plainly scared. John wondered why Krieger and his bunch had sent a coward to spy on him and Ben and Whit. The man probably had less brains than the three he’d already met. But a dunce with a gun was just as dangerous as a quick-witted man.
“You’ve been watching our camp for a few days, Corny. Now you’re going to see it up close. Start walking toward the creek, and if you run, I’ll drop you before your left foot hits the ground.”
“What’re you gonna do?” Cornwall asked.
“I don’t know yet, Corny. We might eat you for supper. Now get moving. I hope you’re through pissing because I don’t want you stinking up our camp.”
Corny started walking toward the creek, his binoculars dangling from his neck, bouncing off his lower chest with every step. He waded across the creek as Whit and Ben stood on the other side watching him as if he were something that had escaped from a zoo.
Sunlight glinted off the diamond-studded creek, and as the two men splashed across, tiny rainbows shimmered in the mist and droplets. Ben and Whit both saw the stain at Corny’s crotch and knew it was not from creek water.
“You got yourself a pants pisser, John,” Ben said as the men sloshed ashore. “I hope like hell you didn’t scare anything else out of him.”
John pulled Corny’s pistol out of his waistband, handed it to Ben, butt first.
“See if it’s loaded, then sit this spying sonofabitch down and keep him covered.”
Ben took the pistol, put the hammer on half cock, and spun the cylinder.
“He’s got five in the barn, John.”
“I wonder if he’s ever pulled the trigger,” John said.
Ben herded Corny over to a log used as a bench, and made him sit down. He held the pistol a few inches from his face.
“You even look like a jackrabbit, son, and I’ll put one of these .45s in your breadbasket.”
“Whit, get his binoculars,” John said, holstering his pistol.
“He smells like piss,” Whit said.
“Know him?”
“He’s one of the men up at that other mining camp. But he never beat me like Krieger did.”
John walked over to Corny, looked down at the pathetic figure sitting there, still shivering. He felt sorry for the man, but what he had done was nigh unforgivable. The man had been spying on them, and he was a member of that bunch of claim jumpers. He might be stupid, but he was also dangerous.
“Who put you up to spying on us?” John asked.
“Lem Thatcher’s the boss, I reckon. He told Krieger to tell me to come and spy on you boys, then, when they come for me, to tell ’em was you gettin’ gold outen the crick and how much I figured you got.”
“How long were you sitting up in that tree?”
“Four days, I reckon.”
“Well, four days, or five, or six?”
“Took me a day near’bouts to rig that ladder and I couldn’t make no noise. Al told me to be quiet and not get caught.”
“So, how much gold do you figure we pulled out of the creek and ground in those four days?”
“I-I couldn’t hardly tell. I mean, I couldn’t see nothin’ at night and not much during the day.”
“So, what were you going to tell Thatcher and Krieger?”
Corny squirmed on the log, blinked his eyes three or four times, and tried not to look Savage in the eye.
“Look at me, Corny,” John said. “What were you going to tell your thieving friends?”
“I-I reckon I was a-goin’ to tell ’em I didn’t know.”
“That isn’t what you were going to say.”
“Pretty much.”
“No, you were going to say we panned gold dust out of the creek and got gold from the rocker, weren’t you?”
“I reckon you got some. More’n we been gettin’.” He drew in a breath and stopped shivering. “Seems to me that’s how it was.”
“And what do you think Thatcher would do about it?”
Corny shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said.
“No, you know.
They were going to jump us again, weren’t they?”
Ben and Whit stood by, rapt over John’s questioning. Ben held the pistol steady, but he seemed to have lost all desire to shoot the sniveling man in front of him who seemed about to cry or scream. Whit had a vacant look on his face, as if he were looking at some small animal caught in a steel trap.
Corny seemed to be wrestling with himself. He did not answer right away, but looked back up the creek as if expecting his companions to appear at any moment and start shooting. His hands trembled as he brought them to his face and covered it, as if he was shamed by being captured.
“You’d better start talking, Corny,” John said, “or I’ll tell Ben to put you out of your misery. I want to know what Thatcher and Krieger plan to do with the information you were going to give them.”
Corny let his hands drop away from his face. The crown of his hat glowed tawny from the sun. A chipmunk skittered among the rocks and pebbles on the other side of the creek, its bristled tail quivering as if electrified, its tiny hands turning over stones as it looked for worms or grubs. A Steller’s jay flickered, a streak of blue light, through the pines on the other side, squawking at another chipmunk squatting atop a rock at the edge of the trees.
“They ain’t getting’ much gold from our claims,” Corny said. “Thatcher said . . . he . . . said the spring runoff done carried most of it downstream, down here, I reckon. Crick’s all burrowed out up thataway, and the rapids where the creek drops off has done carried all the gold down here.”
“That’s damned right,” Ben said. “That’s why we staked our claims at this spot. Creek widens here and them rapids is like one big sluice box, washin’ the gold right down here into our pans.”
John shot Ben a dark look.
“Lem Thatcher’s pretty smart about such things. But last fall, when we all staked our claims, we saw a lot of color. We went down to the flat for the winter, down to Cherry Creek and Larimer Street. When we come back, it looked like all the gold had done washed down and got took away by them rapids.”
“Gold can make a man crazy,” John said. “A little color doesn’t mean you’re close to the mother lode.”
Corny nodded, as if he was either in agreement with John or understood the wisdom of his observation.
“So, Thatcher aims to jump our claim,” John said.
“I don’t know. Honest.”
“Honest, my ass,” Ben said.
John shot him another reproachful look.
“Thatcher didn’t send you to spy on us because he was just curious,” John said. “He wanted to know if we were seeing color and filling our pokes.”
“Yeah, I reckon,” Corny said.
“Well, what were you going to tell him, Corny?” John drew his pistol, cocked it. He put it within inches of Corny’s nose. “Be careful how you answer, because if I think you’re lying, I just have to barely touch this trigger and you’re wolf meat.”
A beaded line of sweat broke out on Corny’s forehead. He licked dry lips. His knees began to knock together. He tried to swallow, but his throat was as dry as his lips.
“I was goin’ to tell Lem you was getting’ gold out of the crick and from the sand,” Corny said. “You got a good rich strike here, I figure.”
John eased the hammer back to half cock and slid his pistol back into his holster. He turned his back on Corny and walked back and forth along the creek. Whit watched him and Ben kept his eyes on Corny. He knew John was thinking. Maybe pondering what to do with their prisoner.
John kicked a stone into the creek. It landed with a splash and the chipmunk scurried back into the trees. The jay flapped away like a blue rag blown by the wind.
He walked back over to Corny, stood next to Ben.
“Whit, you get back to work,” John said.
“What’re you gonna do with him, Mr. Savage?” Whit said.
“Just stay on that rocker, son.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ben looked at John.
“You got a big decision to make, Johnny. One I’m glad I don’t have to.”
“It’s not a big decision at all, Ben. Krieger and Thatcher opened the ball by sending this poor sonofabitch to spy on us. Blood’s going to be spilled. It’s damned sure not going to be mine.”
“You aimin’ to spill this Corny feller’s blood?” Ben asked.
The rattle of the rocker filled the silence before John answered. Whit worked the box with unusual vigor. They could all hear the rustle of dry sand and the whisper of dust.
Corny made a small squealing sound in his throat. He looked at John with wide eyes brimming with the fresh tears of desperation.
John smiled at Corny. It was a dry mirthless smile that sent a chill up Corny’s spine.
“Someone coming for you tonight, Corny?” John asked.
Corny nodded, unable to speak.
“Do you know who it will be?”
Corny shook his head.
“Then, we’ll both find out, won’t we?”
“You goin’ to k-kill me, mister?” Corny’s voice was a rasp out of his throat, brittle as the rustle of dry corn husks.
“I never shot an unarmed man in my life,” John said. “But somebody’s going to die tonight. Your friends opened the ball and now somebody’s going to have the first dance.”
A light breeze wafted down from the bluffs and stirred the ripples on the sun-shot stream. Golden colors seemed to mingle with the silver of the waters and, from the other side of the creek, the pine boughs swayed and the needles rubbed together like a drummer’s brushes on a snare.
The sun was falling away in the sky and the night would be upon them soon. John looked up at the bluffs, the dark cavern of the mine, and the blue sky beyond, with white clouds drifting toward them like islands of cotton.
“Fetch some rope, Ben,” John said. “Tie Corny’s hands behind his back. Real tight.”
Ben nodded and headed for the supply tent.
Corny pissed his pants again.
12
JOHN LED CORNY TO HIS SMALL LEAN-TO. THE SUN WAS SETTING, but there was still enough light for him to see clearly and assess his surroundings. The lean-to was a dozen yards or so from the laddered pine, and all around there was plenty of cover, with juniper, spruce, and fir trees scattered among the pines and the few stands of aspen near the creek.
“You sit or lie down there, Corny,” John said. “And once I walk away, you keep your mouth shut. Don’t talk to me. Don’t ask questions. Just wait for whoever’s coming to get you. Got that?”
“Yes, sir. I won’t say nothin’.”
“If someone calls out your name, you answer, that’s all. If you try to warn the man, I’ll shoot you dead.”
“I won’t say nothin’.”
“Just call out the man’s name if you recognize it and guide him to where you are. Simple enough?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll just holler to let him know where I am.”
“And say his name out loud.”
“I can do that.”
“You’d better.”
“It’ll be plumb dark when somebody comes to get me.”
John gave Corny a withering look and started walking away to find a hiding place.
“I can see in the dark,” John said.
He found a pair of junipers within ten yards of the lean-to. They were close enough together that he could fit between them when he sat down. One of the junipers looked as if it had been blasted with a cannonball. He recognized the ripped bark and broken limbs as coming from an elk rubbing the velvet from its antlers or practicing goring a rival bull. He sat down and scooted between the two trees, satisfied that his silhouette would not be visible in the darkness to come.
There was a blaze of color in the sky that lingered for some time, and then the clouds turned to ash and blackened before disappearing in the velvet sky, which soon blossomed with billions of stars. Corny made no sound, except when he changed position to relieve the strain on his buttocks. John could see hi
s shape beneath the lean-to, a much darker blob than the surrounding shadows.
For a time, John could hear sounds from his camp, and he tried to picture what Ben and Whit were doing. He heard the crack of wood breaking as Whit chopped up kindling, the clank of a gold pan, the whickers of the horses a few hundred yards from where he sat, the tink of an empty can, the ping of a skillet on stone, and scraps of conversation, the words unintelligible.
He heard sounds he could not identify, and then it was quiet. He could hear Corny breathing, snuffling, squirming around as he tried to make himself more comfortable. He listened for the sounds that might reveal Corny working on his bonds, but there was nothing like the scraping or rubbing of rope against flesh.
The silence became immense as the mountains filled with deep shadows.
John felt every pine needle, every grain of dirt, press into his buttocks. Then, after a time, the flesh went numb. He heard a mule deer creep through the woods some distance away, the footfalls too light and cautious for an elk. A twig snapped and his senses jumped in alarm. Deer, he thought, or just the change in temperature as it fell. He fought off drowsiness and turned his head every few minutes to scan his surroundings for any alien sound. His nerves began to vibrate like a struck tuning fork as he strained to hear approaching footsteps. Whoever came for Corny would be almost blind from the darkness. He would make his way slowly and stop often to listen. John wondered if Corny had blazed the trail he took to get to the pine where he had sat looking across the creek at Savage’s camp. He thought of the questions he should have asked, the trail he should have checked. He mentally kicked himself for not probing deeper into Corny’s actions when he came to this spot.
He heard sounds from his own camp, rocks clanging together, the whispers of Whit and Ben. He craned his neck to see through the trees, and saw a glimmer of flame. He heard the plunk of logs and the fire grew higher and brighter. He knew what they were doing. They were making up the fake beds, using rocks under blankets to resemble two sleeping people. They were building up the fire so that it would last the night and illuminate the deceptive bedrolls.
