by Pat Murphy
“And you remember seeing two men ride up the trail. Was Jasper Davis one of those men?”
Sarah nodded. It was strange, but she could think of Jasper Davis now without shivering. She could think of him without being afraid. “Jasper Davis,” she said, relishing saying the name without shivering. “Jasper Davis and another man. A short man with dark hair.”
“They rode away and only one came back,” Max said.
“I am not afraid anymore,” Sarah said. She was smiling brilliantly, a smile of joy and savagery. The firelight glittered in her eyes. She took the knife from the sheath at her side. “Now, I can kill Jasper Davis.”
23 THE DEAD MAN
“Supposing is good, but finding out is better.”
—Mark Twain
MAX STARED AT THE GIRL, at the knife in her hand. For as long as Max had known her, Sarah had carried a wooden-handled hunting knife at her side, with a six-inch steel blade that she kept honed to razor sharpness on the granite stones by the river.
“This isn’t your knife,” he said.
“The sheriff took her knife away when he put her in jail,” Helen said.
“Could I take a look at that?” Max asked.
Sarah stared at him, and he could see the savage glint in her eyes. “Just for a minute, Sarah,” he said gently. “I’ll give it right back.” Her face relaxed then. She wet her lips, then offered him the knife. Max turned it over in his hands. This was no a simple hunting blade. Twelve inches long, tapering to a saber point. A knife fighter’s blade, patterned after the bowie knife. On the handle, inlaid in silver, was a running wolf with onyx eyes. A matching wolf was etched in the metal of the blade.
“Where did you find this knife?” Max asked.
“On the dead man.”
“What dead man would that be?”
Sarah gestured up the hill.
Max studied the blade again. He recognized it, of course. He had only seen the knife itself once, more than a decade before. But he remembered it from the wanted poster that had grown tattered and faded on Mrs. Selby’s wall. It was Arno’s knife, the one that had disappeared with him after the stagecoach robbery.
“Can you show me where he is?” Max asked.
Max followed Sarah up the hill. Audrey had argued that he should wait until morning, but he had insisted that he go with Sarah right away. He would not be able to sleep without knowing what waited for him up the hill.
The half-moon was rising over the mountains, casting a silvery light that illuminated the narrow trail. The trail was the one he had taken with Jasper Davis so many years before, a track that wound through the brush. Max remembered calling for Sarah until he was hoarse, shouting to the little lost girl and hoping she would hear.
Now he followed that same girl, grown to be a young woman. She paused at a patch of level ground near the top of the hill, beneath an ancient pine tree. There the trail forked. The main branch continued over the hill, heading toward the town that had once been called Humbug and was now known by the more respectable name of North Bloomfield. An even narrower and fainter track wound downward through the bushes, around to the other side of Grizzly Hill.
Max remembered when he had been here with Jasper. Max had rested under the pine. Jasper had offered to look down the faint track. When he returned, he said that he found nothing.
Sarah turned onto the faint trail, and Max followed her on a winding course to a rocky ledge that overlooked the valley. An animal den had been dug into the side of the hill, a narrow cave. In the moonlight, its opening was a patch of darkness. “Over here,” Sarah said.
She stood in a hollow beside a clump of bushes. In the tangle of manzanita bushes were the bones of a man, long dead. Scraps of clothing clung to the bones; a leather belt and crossed bandoleers had survived the ravages of time. A few tufts of black hair still clung to the grinning skull, though the flesh had been picked away by jays and other scavenging birds. The grinning mouth revealed a gold tooth, glittering in the moonlight.
“So that’s what happened to Arno,” Max said. He frowned at Sarah. “How did he die?”
She shrugged. “He has been dead as long as I can remember.” She had never troubled herself about the dead man. He could not harm her, and so she ignored him. It was only when she needed a knife that she had remembered that he wore one, and had come to claim it.
“Since your parents’ death?”
Sarah nodded.
“Why would he come here?” he muttered to himself.
“He helped carry the box,” she said. “His smell was on it.”
“The box?”
She nodded in the direction of the den. When Max frowned, she returned to the rock ledge, lay on her belly, and slid headfirst into the opening. Then she wiggled backward, dragging the box out behind her.
A wooden box, bound with steel bands. In the light of the full moon, Max could read the name of the stage company emblazoned on the side.
“I came here with Wauna,” Sarah said. “This is where her pups died.”
Max nodded, looking down at the box. “People thought that Arno had robbed the stage with a partner. I guess they were right.” He stared at the box, piecing together a story. “Suppose Jasper and Arno were partners. They held up the stage, then Jasper killed his partner and hid the loot. But your parents had seen the two men ride up here. He killed them so they wouldn’t talk.”
Sarah did not seem to be listening. She and Beka were both gazing into the darkness, staring up the hill.
“And now we have some evidence to support your story,” Max said. “Now it’s not just your word against his. Now…”
He did not finish his sentence. Beka growled. Sarah turned and pushed him toward the edge of the ledge. He staggered, his feet sliding on the sand that dusted the smooth rock, and fell into the bushes, joining Arno’s bones in the hollow. At that moment. he heard the crack of a rifle from the slope above him.
“Sarah!”
He was tangled in the bones and the bushes. The tough manzanita branches scratched his arms and legs and snagged his cloth ing. He heard Sarah’s feet on the rock above him, then she leapt down beside him, breathing hard.
“Jasper Davis,” she said. “I can smell him.”
“Are you all right?” Max asked, reaching out to touch the girl in the darkness. His hand brushed her arm and came away sticky with blood. “You’re bleeding.”
“My arm,” she murmured. He could not see her face in the shadows, but her voice was tight with pain.
Jasper watched from high on the slope. The girl had pushed Max out of the way, but he thought that he had hit her. Hard to tell. The moon was bright, but they were far away. He reloaded, watching for movement in the darkness below.
“You might as well come out, Max,” Jasper called down the hill. “I’ll get you anyway. Might as well make it quick.”
Max said nothing. Too bad. Jasper had been hoping the man might beg for mercy and give his position away.
“I have to kill the girl.” Jasper continued talking as he moved slowly down the hill, picking a path through the brush. He kept his eyes on the ledge below him, watching for any movement. He was ready to fire again. “I have no choice.”
He thought he saw one of the bushes below the ledge move, and he casually fired a shot. He listened for a cry of pain, but heard nothing. No luck.
He continued his conversation as he reloaded. “You should have told me you found the girl, Max. I would have taken care of her long ago. Now you know too much. I can’t let you go around telling what you know. I’ve got a position to maintain. You should understand that.”
He would kill both Max and the girl. As sheriff, he would discover them here in the hills. He would investigate the crime and find that they had killed each other. That would be easy. And of course he’d have to kill the women down in the valley. It would be quick—a knife to the throat. He’d use the girl’s knife. Those were more murders he would blame on the girl. He had warned people that she was dangerous
. They should have listened.
“You got in the way, Max. That’s all. You should have left well enough alone. I’m rich, and I’m respectable, and that’s how I plan to stay. I don’t want anyone stirring up old bones.”
Still no movement. They were lying low, hiding. He grinned in the darkness. He’d find them. Soon, all the loose ends would be tied up.
The moon was bright. The girl was injured and he knew that Max wouldn’t shoot him. Even if the softhearted fool happened to have his gun with him, he was a lousy shot.
“Come on, Max,” he called. “Talk to me, and I’ll make it easy on you. Maybe you and I can work out a deal.”
It would be such a pleasure to kill the girl. So unfair that she had escaped him for all these years. And he wouldn’t mind killing Max either.
Jasper stood on the ledge now, beside the strongbox. It had been a fine hiding place. No one would venture into a wolf den—except a wolf. No one would have found it—if not for the girl.
He stared down into the bushes, watching for movement. He was patient. He could wait.
Patrick Murphy had been on his way to Selby Flat to see the wild girl when he met up with Cassidy Orton. The young man had told him some cock-and-bull story about Jasper Davis and the unsolved murders up on Grizzly Hill. “Max asked me to get you,” the young man had said. “He said you could help us.”
Patrick had shrugged and decided to go along with the young man. He didn’t know what Max might be up to, but it seemed likely to be amusing, if nothing else. From their first encounter, Patrick had found Max amusing.
Of course, Max wasn’t in camp when Patrick got there. He had headed into the hills following the girl on some kind of wild-goose chase. Something about a dead man, something about a knife. Patrick had left Cassidy Orton by the fire, chatting with a pretty girl named Helen. Orton’s motive for participating in this mad scheme was certainly clear.
On foot, Patrick followed the trail the women had pointed out to him. He was up on the main trail when he heard the crack of a rifle shot. He made his way through the brush toward the sound. In a clear patch, he looked down on the ledge where Jasper Davis stood. In the bright moonlight, he recognized the sheriff.
“Rallo, Jasper,” he called. “Didn’t expect to find you up here. Where’s Max?”
The sheriff jerked his head, staring up the hill at Patrick. “Look out behind you,” he shouted.
As Patrick turned to confront the unknown danger, he heard another voice. “Look out, Patrick!” That was Max’s voice, coming from down below. Patrick turned back just in time to see Jasper lifting his rifle. At that moment, Max popped up over the ledge and threw something round and white at the sheriff. The object struck Jasper in the shoulder, spoiling his aim. Max was on him then.
The fight was over quickly. Max wasn’t a fighter. He was a talented artist, an interesting writer, a thoughtful friend—but he wasn’t a fighter. As Patrick hurried down the slope, he heard Max swear as Jasper punched him, cursed him, and then ran.
Max sat by the campfire, answering Patrick’s questions while Gitana tended to Sarah’s wounded arm. She cleaned the wound, ascertained that the bullet had passed through the arm without breaking the bone, and bandaged Sarah with strips of cloth torn from her petticoat. Max’s eye ached where Jasper had punched him.
“You’re just lucky that’s all you got,” Patrick told Max. “Lucky he was in such a hurry to get away that he didn’t pull his knife.” Patrick shook his head. “Never did much like the man,” Patrick said. “There was always something a little peculiar about him.”
Max nodded wearily, accepting Patrick’s need to revise history.
“Not much point in tracking him tonight,” Patrick continued. “It’d be too easy for him to set up an ambush and lay for us. Tomorrow, I’ll head to Nevada City and gather up a posse. Then I’ll head out after Jasper.”
“Won’t he be far away by then?” Helen asked.
Patrick shrugged. “I reckon that’s possible.”
“You’re saying that he might get away?” Audrey asked.
“I reckon he might. And I’m the first to say that’s a pity. I’ll get that posse together first thing.”
Sarah spoke then. “I will get him,” she said. She was standing. “What was that?” Patrick stared up at her, frowning.
“He will not get away.” She smiled, a brilliant smile that brought tears to Max’s eyes. Even with her face smeared with dirt, she was beautiful. “I will kill him. I’m not afraid.”
“Now, young lady,” Patrick began. He sounded like an indulgent father, humoring a child. “You just relax and let us handle this problem.”
But he was talking to himself. Sarah and Beka had vanished into the darkness.
Sarah followed Jasper. Beka picked up his trail at the rocky ledge and followed his scent to another game trail. That led to the spot where he had tethered his horse. From there, the trail was easy to follow.
Stopping for a moment, she lifted her head and howled, a wailing cry that echoed through the hills. Beka joined in, her deep voice joining Sarah’s.
There—an answering howl, far off in the hills. She howled again. We are hunting, her howl said. Come to me! We are hunting. Again, an answering howl. The pack had heard; the wolves were coming.
Though her arm ached and her body throbbed with injuries sustained over the past few days, she smiled as she ran. The scent of Jasper Davis no longer filled her with unreasoning terror. She knew that somehow, justice—the wolf version of justice—would be served. She smiled, baring her teeth, happy to be on the hunt.
Back at the campfire, Max tried to explain the situation to Patrick, who shook his head in disbelief. “Armed only with a lariat, a bow and arrow, and a knife, she brought down a grizzly,” Max told Patrick.
Helen did her best to comfort Audrey. “I’m sure she’ll be all right,” Helen said. “I saw her fight a cougar that was attacking Cassidy. She’s amazing.”
At last, worn-out from worry and emotion, Audrey made her bed beneath one of the oak trees. Miss Paxon and Helen spread their blankets nearby. Max and Cassidy found a spot a discreet distance away, giving the ladies their privacy.
Patrick Murphy made his bed by the fire. For a time, he could hear the women murmuring as they prepared their beds. Then they fell silent. He pulled off his boots, made a pillow out of his coat, and pulled a wool blanket up under his chin. He was staring up at the stars, listening to frogs sing in the meadow by the creek when he heard soft footsteps.
“Mr. Murphy,” Helen whispered.
Startled, he turned to look at her. “Miss Harris?” he said. “I wanted to ask you a question,” she whispered.
“I see. And you waited until now to do it?”
She bit her lip and sat down on a boulder near his head. “Well, I couldn’t ask earlier. You see, it’s about Max. You knew Max in Chicago, didn’t you?”
“That’s right. Max and I go way back.”
She wet her lips. “I wonder… was Max some kind of criminal?” Patrick laughed softly. “You could say that.”
“He’s such a gentle man,” Helen murmured. “I can’t imagine him as a desperado. What did he do?”
Patrick grinned. “He was an artist.”
“There’s nothing illegal about that.” Her soft voice was puzzled. “Is there?”
“That depends on what you decide to draw. If you draw landscapes or portraits, there’s nothing illegal about it. But if you draw banknotes, that’s a different story.”
In the light of the setting moon, he could see her frowning. “Why would anyone draw a banknote?”
Patrick’s smile grew broader. “Few portraits are worth as much as a portrait of a hundred-dollar banknote.”
“Counterfeiting,” Helen gasped.
Patrick nodded, still smiling. There, by the campfire, while crickets sang beneath the oaks and Sarah stalked a killer, Patrick filled Helen in on a bit of Chicago history. Counterfeiting had been and still was a flourishing busines
s in the town. Each bank issued its own currency; there was no national currency. Since each bank had its own designs, people found it difficult to distinguish counterfeits among the many varieties of legitimate bills. “At one point, we figured that about a third of the bills circulating in Chicago were counterfeit,” he told her.
“What about Max?”
Patrick shrugged. “Well, it seems that he fell in love with a lady from a rich family in Boston. He wanted to get married, and so he decided to draw some money. A very small-time operator. He concentrated on large bills—hundreds for the most part—and did a lovely job on them. Passed bills very successfully for a few years.”
“Then what happened?”
“Well, he was an artist. In fact, that’s what did him in. He couldn’t help but improve on the bills as he drew them. One bill had an eagle that looked like it was stuffed and mounted. On Max’s bill, the bird looked like it was ready to take flight. Tiny improvements. That’s what tipped us off. Otherwise, the bills were perfect.”
“You caught him?”
Patrick nodded again. “Caught him and shipped him off to jail. Didn’t see him again until I arrived in California. Since gold is the currency in these parts, I wasn’t worried about his artistic tendencies. He’s a likable cuss, and he seemed to be leading an honest life.”
Helen nodded. “I see. Thank you, Mr. Murphy.”
“You’re welcome, Miss Harris.”
She left then, padding off as quietly as she had come. Patrick smiled staring up at the stars. It was always interesting around Max, he thought. Then he closed his eyes.
24 POWER AND MERCY
“Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear—not absence of fear.”
—Mark Twain
JASPER RODE THAT NIGHT, spurring his tired horse up the ridge of hills that divided the South Fork from the Middle Fork of the Yuba River, following trails that were little better than rabbit tracks. Once, he heard wolves howling in the distance, and he spurred his horse harder.
