by Jory Sherman
“No, Ma,” Whit said. “You shouldn’t worry none at all. I’ll be just fine.”
“You like living down there on the creek, away from home and hearth?”
“Yes’m, I truly do.”
“Well, maybe it’ll make a man of you, Whit. I just don’t want you to get shot or killed.”
“I won’t,” he said, and came over to his mother. “Don’t you worry none, Ma.”
Emma sighed.
“My, I’m forgetting my manners. John, would you and Ben like some coffee? Something to eat? I made a pie last night. Peach.”
Both men shook their heads.
“I’ve got to help my men,” John said. “Make sure those wagons get up here. I’ll have them pull the chuck wagon up to the cabin here and make sure you get vittles and such. Just help yourself. The supply wagons will go where Ben and I want to build our house. And Carlos will put up a bunkhouse for the men. We’ll be well away from you, Emma, so you’ll have your privacy.”
“Why, that’s very considerate of you, John. And I welcome the vittles and what flour and sugar you might spare.”
“There will be plenty,” John said.
The two men touched fingers to their hat brims and walked outside.
Whit followed them.
“You stay with your mother and sister, Whit,” John said. “I won’t need you until tomorrow, maybe.”
“I want to go with you and Ben, John.”
“Best you stay here, Whit. Ben and I have some things to talk over.”
“Are you going after them claim jumpers?”
“Now, sonny, don’t you worry none about what John and I are going to do. Your ma needs to catch up on things besides what happened last night.”
“Ben’s right, Whit. I think your ma needs some comfort.”
“Aw,” Whit said, and Ben gave him a withering look.
“Go on, boy,” Ben said, “and let us be.”
Whit turned and slumped back into the cabin, kicking at dirt clods, like a boy being sent home from school before the final bell.
“He’s a good kid, Ben,” John said, as he grabbed the reins and unwrapped them from the hitch pole.
“He’s a kid, all right, John. I don’t know how good he is.”
“Maybe if you quit riding him, you’d find out.”
“I rode you when you was little more’n his age.”
“Yeah, you did, and there were times when I wanted to bust a barrel stave across your head.”
“Huh? I never knowed that.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know, Ben. Young ones grow up to be men. And Whit’s getting mighty close.”
“That boy’s a gangly whippersnapper with all the sense of a grasshopper and two hands full of thumbs.”
The two mounted their horses and rode across the plain to where the cattle were still emerging from the trees in small clumps of four or five, then spreading out to find others of their kind nibbling on the shoots of grass.
“Patience is a virtue, Ben.”
“Dognabit, John, I’m too old to raise a whelp like Whit Blanchett.”
“Okay. Don’t raise him. Just leave him be. I’ll teach him how to pan for dust.”
“Who taught you, John?”
John laughed. “You said I was born with the gift, Ben.”
“Like hell. I taught you everything you know.”
“Not everything, Ben.”
Ben snorted, and they reached the trail just as one of the drovers was chasing the two milk cows and their calves onto the plain. Guernseys, their udders bulging with milk, their frisky calves bounding stiff-legged onto new ground, their tails wagging like puppies’ tails.
Gasparo appeared ahead of the chuck wagon as it rumbled through the trees, swaying from side to side with its load.
John reined up Gent and pointed Gasparo toward the log cabin. Gasparo nodded and signaled the man on the wagon, a small wizened man with a long beard and a shock of gray hair, holding the reins. His cheek bulged out with a wad of chewing tobacco, and he spit out of the corner of his mouth as he made the turn.
“Where in hell did Carlos get him?” Ben asked.
“I don’t know, but I hope to hell he can cook,” John said.
“He sure can wrangle a chuck wagon, that’s for sure.”
The old man waved a thorny hand at Ben and John as the wagon trundled past with the clanging of pots and skillets and the rattle of wooden spoons and tin cups.
“Name’s Dobbins,” the toothless man yelled. “Ornery Dobbins from Cheyenne.”
“Ornery?” Ben said, when the wagon had passed.
John smiled.
“Looks like he stole one of your names, Ben. I’d get after him for that.”
Corny rode into sight ahead of one of the supply wagons. He waved to Ben and John.
“Looks like you got a new hand,” Ben said.
“If the boot fits, I’m going to wear it,” John said, and pointed out a direction for the supply wagon to take. He and Ben turned their horses and led the way across the wide valley that burned like green fire in the afternoon sun.
18
HARRY SHORT WAS STILL LIMPING, FAVORING HIS SWOLLEN KNEE. Al Krieger’s hand was nearly back to normal. Most of the swelling had gone down, and there was only a purple bruise to remind him of John Savage’s shot. He led the way down the game trail leading to the Savage mining claim. The trail was pocked with hoof marks where he and the others had ridden the night before.
As they neared the bend in the trail, Krieger held up his hand to halt Short.
“What’s the matter?” Short whispered.
“Somethin’ ain’t right here.”
Short limped up to stand beside Krieger.
“That just can’t be,” Short said.
The two men stared at the string of cans dangling above the path. They were strung together by strong twine between an aspen tree and a scrub pine growing out of the foot of the bluff.
“It can’t be, but it damned sure is,” Krieger whispered. A brief twinge of pain in his right hand made his spine stiffen. He muttered an unintelligible curse under his breath. It was plain to see that someone had repaired the alarm after the four of them had ridden through the Savage camp.
“Didn’t we kill ’em all?” Short said, his voice pitched so low it was almost like a hiss of air.
“Maybe there was more’n two men workin’ that claim. You see another bedroll?”
“I only saw the two. By the fire.”
“Shit,” Krieger said in a whisper.
The ensuing silence rippled with the gurgling flow of the creek off to their right. A light breeze flowed through the trees, rustling the aspen leaves, twisting them until some glowed green, while their undersides flickered with a pale white light. A jay screeched from a pine branch, and a chipmunk squealed a high-pitched whistle directed at the bird.
“Think we ought to go have a look-see?” Short asked.
“If we want to get our heads blown off, yeah,” Krieger said.
“It’s awful quiet. I don’t hear no diggin’ or sloshin’.”
“They probably know we’re here.”
Krieger walked up to the strung twine, careful not to touch or disturb the dangling cans. He stepped along the length of the string from tree to tree. He bent over, studied the ground.
There were horse tracks, but the boot prints covered some of those. It was plain to see that men had repaired the alarm after Krieger and his men had ridden through the mining camp.
“I count four sets of boot tracks here,” he said when he was finished.
“I thought they was only two on this claim,” Short said.
“There was that kid. Whit something.”
“That makes three.”
“Four boot tracks,” Krieger said. “I counted ’em twice.”
“Are you thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’, Al?”
Krieger didn’t answer. He just stared at Short with narrowed eyes as if mulling the question over in his
mind. His face was like stone. No expression at all. Just hard.
Short looked up at the bluff, and into the trees. He stared at the string of tin cans, the sag of the yellowish twine, felt the tug of the breeze at his hat brim. A quail piped in the distance, a lonesome sound in the unearthly silence.
“They’re bein’ mighty quiet, Al.”
“Yeah, like they’re expectin’ us. I’m wonderin’ now if we killed Corny. And, if we did, maybe they found him.
“Or maybe we didn’t kill Corny, neither. Shortie, I don’t like none of this. The way it’s shapin’ up, I think we made a hell of a mistake.”
“Hell, it was dark, Al.”
“I think we ought to check. Make sure.”
“How?”
“You want to walk up to their camp and make sure? I’ll cover you.”
Short looked as if Krieger had punched him in the gut. He shook his head.
“I ain’t goin’ no further’n this, Al. You want to check, you go.”
“All right. I’ll look around that campfire they had burnin’, and then we’ll go find where Corny had that lean-to, see if he’s lyin’ bloody and dead under all them limbs.”
“Watch your step, Al.”
Krieger stepped over the twine, careful not to rattle any of the cans. He disappeared around a bend in the bluff.
Short felt his skin crawl with invisible lice. He didn’t like to think of what they had done to Corny, but that was Thatcher’s idea, and his order. Thatcher thought too much sometimes. So did Ferguson. But now he wondered if they had not thought enough. Those cans were hanging back up across their path and it wasn’t no ghost what put ’em there.
Krieger returned in a few minutes, walking natural, making noise with his boots.
“Well, are they dead?” Short asked as Krieger stepped over the twine. He didn’t rattle any cans, but he wasn’t as careful as he had been.
“Not a speck of blood, and they was two piles of rocks where we thought them two was sleepin’ and a horse blanket shot full of holes.”
“Christ,” Short breathed.
“Let’s cross the creek and find that shot-up lean-to of Corny’s.”
“Jesus, Al, ain’t it enough that we didn’t kill Savage and that Russell feller?”
“Follow me, Harry,” Krieger said.
The two men waded across the creek and entered the woods. They found the lean-to, or what was left of it. Krieger lifted a spruce bough and examined the ground. Short stood by, nervously looking all around, his rifle held across his chest with both hands.
“Any blood?” Short asked. “You see any blood under there?”
“Nary a drop.”
“So, we didn’t kill Corny, neither,” Short said, his voice quivering with a nameless fear.
“Harry,” Krieger whispered, “I think we ought to hightail it back to camp and tell Thatcher. Somethin’ ain’t right here.”
“Maybe Pete found out something up past them bluffs. Ferguson wanted him to find out what all the yellin’ and cattle bawlin’ was about.”
“Yeah, he reckons Savage might have run some cattle up on that tabletop. I only saw it once, but it was a lot of grassland.”
“Well, Ferguson wants to know everything, and he doesn’t know shit, you ask me.”
“Walt’s a smart man. So is Thatcher.”
“He picked a poor spot to prospect.”
“That should have been a good place to dig for gold,” Krieger said.
“Yeah, but it wasn’t.”
“Let’s go back. This place is too damned spooky for me.”
“Thatcher won’t like it none.”
“Then, let him go on the scout. This place gives me the pure willies. Same as that empty camp.”
“Me, too,” Short said, hefting the heavy Henry rifle and shifting it to his other hand.
Krieger turned around, swinging the barrel of his rifle against a low-hanging pine branch. The sound made both men jump.
19
THATCHER WAS IN A BAD MOOD. AFTER KRIEGER AND SHORT HAD left camp on their mission, he slipped on a slimy rock in the creek and fell in. He twisted his ankle and was soaking wet when he crawled out. His hat floated downstream.
“Grab my hat, Walt. I paid a sawbuck for that Stetson.”
Ferguson ran down to where the hat floated and waded in, but the hat bounced off a rock and skittered away on the current and drifted out of sight.
“Missed it,” Ferguson said.
Thatcher unlaced his boot and pulled off his sock. He began massaging his ankle as Ferguson walked back, his pants soaked, his boots waterlogged. They squished with every step.
“I got another one, somewhere,” Thatcher said.
“Twist your ankle?”
“No, I just like to rub my foot every six months or so. What the hell do you think?”
“Don’t get short with me, Lem. You’re the one who thought he could walk on water.”
“You’re not only a poor hat fetcher, Walt, you got a smart mouth.”
“Better’n havin’ a dumb one like Corny.”
“The less you mention Corny’s name, the better off we’ll all be,” Thatcher said, wincing as he put his foot down. His ankle was turning red and was beginning to swell.
Ferguson tightened down on his emotions, keeping them under his hat so he would not vent his anger at Thatcher, an anger that had been building for some time. It was Thatcher who had picked out this place as a likely claim, and he was no geologist. He was just a greedy man with gold fever, as far as Ferguson could tell. This stretch of creek had looked promising because it was shallow, and they had panned a little dust in those days before they filed their claim. But, as they had found out, it was a poor place to pan or dig for gold. The spring runoff had depleted most of the dust that had lain in the creek bottom for untold years. They had dug out roots along the banks and found no nuggets and only a smattering of dust. The placers were not producing anything but black sand and the men were bickering privately, among themselves.
To himself, Ferguson thought, “I hope your ankle swells up and busts open like a muskmelon.”
To Thatcher, he said: “Al and Harry ought to have been back by now. They didn’t take no food with ’em and it’s way past noon.”
“Hell, in these damned mountains, it’s almost sundown,” Thatcher said, and pulled on a wet sock. The cool cloth felt good on his ankle, but he was not ready for the soggy boot yet. He crawled to the edge of the creek and stuck his sore foot into the stream. Ferguson picked up a pan and squatted by the creek, dug the edge into the water, and scooped up sand and water. He began to shake and tilt the pan until the muddy water was swirling. Every so often, he sloshed water out until there was only a small amount swirling around, shifting the sands, spilling out extra gravel.
“I hear ’em comin’,” Thatcher said.
Ferguson couldn’t hear from the noise of his panning. He stopped swirling the water and listened. He turned to face the south, set down the pan, and put his hand on the butt of his .44 Remington. A jay screamed in the aspens, squawked at the approaching men.
“Is that them?” Thatcher asked. He was not packing iron, and the cool water took the heat out of his ankle.
“I can’t tell. But someone’s sure comin’ and makin’ a lot of noise.”
“Hello, the camp,” Krieger called as he hove into view, brushing through aspen branches. Behind him came Short, his tanned face scrunched into a scowl. His rifle rested on his right shoulder. He was carrying something in his left hand. Something wet and dripping.
“Yeah, Al,” Thatcher yelled back, “you better have some good tidings for me.”
“I got tidings, all right, Lem. But they ain’t good.”
Thatcher jerked his socked foot out of the water and scooted his butt farther up on the bank.
“This your hat, Lem?” Short said, holding up the soggy felt hat. “Found it down the creek a ways.”
“Toss it to me, Harry,” Thatcher said. He caught it
with both hands, rolled it up, and wrung it out. Then he unfolded the soggy mass and put it on his head. Krieger stared down at him as he put the butt of his Henry on the ground next to his leg. Harry glared up at him.
“You want to hear it all, Lem?” Krieger said, stuffing a wad of tobacco in his mouth.
“Spill it, Al. You might as well keep on ruinin’ my day.”
“Sorry about your hat, Lem,” Harry said, a sheepish look on his face. “What’s wrong with your foot?”
“You tryin’ to change the subject, Harry?”
“Nope, I just noticed you was soakin’ that foot in the creek and you ain’t got a boot on it.”
“Well, what did you notice at the Savage diggings? You gonna tell me, Al, or do I have to pry it out of you with a crowbar?”
Krieger told them about the two sets of rocks where they thought bedrolls were, the lack of blood on the ground, and the camp being deserted.
“And that ain’t all,” Short said as he leaned his rifle against a rock.
Krieger chewed the chunk of tobacco and spit a stream of brown juice onto a bare rock.
“We checked that lean-to of Corny’s,” Krieger said. “It was flattened like a griddle cake.”
“And?” Thatcher urged.
“And no blood, no Corny, no nothin’,” Krieger said.
“Shit fire,” Thatcher said.
“Sorry, Boss,” Krieger said. “Looks like Savage outfoxed us.”
“I’m glad you said ‘us,’ Al,” Thatcher said, a sarcastic snarl to his tone. “We was all buffaloed.”
“Yeah.”
Ferguson walked over.
“No sign of Savage or Corny?” he said, looking at Krieger.
Krieger shook his head. “I saw four sets of boot tracks coverin’ up our horse tracks. Three big ones and a smaller one.”
“A smaller one?” Thatcher said, wincing as he moved his injured foot.
“Maybe that kid’s with ’em. That Blanchett boy what we whupped.”
“So, there’s four of them now, instead of two,” Ferguson said. He threw the words in Thatcher’s face with a look of disgust. “That sure cuts down the odds some, Al.”
