She pulled the curtains together with a sigh. It wasn’t like Mac had left out of a desire to separate himself from his family; compared to what he was likely doing at this very moment, her day was like one spent on holiday. Joan ignored the quiet voice fighting to be heard in the back of her mind, the one whispering that she would be widowed yet again by the time the week was done. She’d simply do what she always did when she was on the brink of sinking into a quagmire of self-pity: look outside herself.
Her fingers knew from countless experience how to get the fire in the oven going. “Chunhua!” she called. “Would you like to help me bake some cookies?”
The little girl appeared in the doorway, a smile rounding her cheeks. “Yes.”
“I’d like to deliver a batch to Florence at the hotel and Lin at the laundry. Maybe we’ll stop by the Horner home up the street and meet Mrs. Clara Horner. She’s going to have a baby soon, and with her husband away, she might like some company. Besides, the boys will be mucking stalls with Michael for a while.”
“We give them some, too,” Chunhua nodded.
“The boys love cookies,” Joan agreed. She measured everything and let Chunhua pour it in the big mixing bowl while she stirred. The sweet scent of cookies spread through the house, settling the worry in Joan’s heart and mind.
One batch sat cooling on the counter, then another, and by the time the third joined them, Jesse and Noah burst into the kitchen.
“Mmm, mama, that smells delicious!”
“Mind your boots, boys! I don’t want manure tracked through the house. After you clean yourselves you can come in and get a cookie, alright?”
“Yes, mama,” Jesse obeyed, pulling Noah along with him.
After they’d had their share, Joan wrapped four piles of cookies in clean cloths and stacked them in a basket. “Ready. Shall we make our deliveries?”
Chunhua clasped her outstretched hand. “Where are we going, mama?” Noah asked.
“Let’s make the Idaho Hotel first.”
Florence was easy enough to find as she was speaking with the stage clerk at the ticket counter in the lobby. “Mrs. Yates, we have cookies for you!” Jesse called, skipping a greeting completely.
The older woman spun and pushed her spectacles up on her nose. “My, what a surprise! Come to visit me, have you?”
“Yes, and we made cookies,” Jesse repeated.
“Where is Mac?”
“He left a few days ago with the posse,” Joan said, offering the bundle on top. “How have you been?”
“I’m getting along, thank you,” Florence clipped. “It’s strange how much more time I have now that George is gone. I hadn’t realized the extent of care he’d needed there at the end.”
“Would you like to come to supper on Sunday evening? The children and I would love to have you join us.”
Florence pursed her lips.
“Yes, do come,” Jesse pleaded. “You tell the best stories.”
A small smile spread across her face. “Very well.”
They arranged a time and said their good-bye’s, Florence looking thoughtfully at the wrapped cookies as they left.
They stopped only briefly at the Chinese Laundry to give Lin her bundle, then skipped to the Horner residence just up the hill from their own home on Morning Star. When a dark-haired woman with a protruding belly answered their knock, Joan stepped forward.
“Hello, Mrs. Horner, I’m Joan Walley and these are my children, Jesse, Noah, and Chunhua. We wanted to stop by and bring you some cookies.”
“We made them today,” Jesse offered with a smile.
Clara accepted the bundle with watery eyes. “Thank you very much! Would you like to come in?”
“For a moment,” Joan accepted, pinning the boys with a warning look to behave themselves.
“I’m afraid I don’t have anything to offer you,” Clara fretted. A pile of twisted handkerchiefs sat beside her on the sofa and dark smudges circled below her eyes.
“Tell me, when is your little one expected?”
Clara placed a hand over her stomach tenderly. “Not for several months.”
“Do you have any baby supplies yet?”
“I’ve just begun a blanket,” the young woman said, lifting a few crocheted lines from a basket at her feet.
“It will be beautiful,” Joan complimented, smiling when a bit of color jumped to Clara’s cheeks. They spoke of the school fundraiser before conversation turned to the posse and Clara’s growing worry for her husband.
“I can’t help but fret knowing my uncle is involved. He’s such a wicked man…”
Joan reached forward and clasped Clara’s hand with her own. “I can understand that. But you have to think of your baby; worrying won’t change things.”
“You’re right,” she nodded. “All we can do is keep praying for our husbands, can’t we?”
“Yes. And you’ve family here in Silver City?”
“My cousin Charlie and his fiancé, Virginia, are nearby.”
“Good. You’re always welcome to come to us, should you need anything.” Rising with her near-empty basket, Joan stepped to the door.
“Thank you, Joan. I’m very glad you came by. It was nice to meet you, Jesse, Noah, and Chun-wah.”
They stopped in to check on Michael - and give him some cookies - before making their way back home. As Joan made supper that evening, she soaked in the warm feeling of gratitude for her own life that serving others always brought. It was exactly what I needed.
~~~~~
Dust, dust, dust. It was in his clothes, his eyes, his hair. His back and rear end were stiff and aching from three days of being jostled in the saddle with few breaks. Red was as fit as they came, and Mac was proud of the strength and endurance his Paint exhibited, but the horse couldn’t hold this pace indefinitely. Truth be told, neither could he. His relief was palpable when Sheriff Dalton began to slow his black Mustang, which was foaming with perspiration.
Red’s sides were heaving as they maintained a steady walk. “We’re about a half-days’ ride from the City of Rocks, boys. Let’s break tonight and make camp; we’ll need all the rest we can get before we confront the Grisham Gang.”
Too exhausted to comment, Mac wiped at his face with his bandana and gave Red a pat on the shoulder. They might’ve reached the City of Rocks even now had it not been for the little run-in with some Paiutes about fifty miles south of Silver City. Close to twenty Paiute bucks had been camped near the creek, and Mac could only imagine what might have happened had Deputy Chalice not caught sight of their scout. Knocking the Indian over the head, Dalton dragged him under some scrub brush to be found by his tribe-mates once they were good and clear of the encampment.
They’d skirted wide to avoid being found, but not wide enough, evidently, for half a mile beyond the Indians their wild cries could be heard just behind the posse. Urging Red faster like the devil himself was chasing them, Mac sat low and pulled his rifle from the scabbard attached to his saddle. A glance behind revealed a dozen Paiute riding hard, attempting to overtake the posse, and they got close enough to fire a few arrows. Much too close for Mac’s liking, but they pressed harder and faster. Hal’s mule, Bonanza, wasn’t bred for speed, but miraculously, he’d kept up. Ten miles at a full gallop was about enough to kill the horses, but Mac figured it was worth it when the Paiute turned back.
Eating their meals in the saddle and stopping for brief naps on the hard ground, they’d managed to cover about two-hundred miles in three days, and soon enough, he’d see the Silent City himself. That night as they ate another cold meal, Deputy Chalice told the others about the landscape, as he and the sheriff were the only two who had been before. Mac stared at the twinkling stars overhead, wondering how Joan and the children were getting along. Was she lying under the quilt right now, dreaming of him? Or perhaps she was knitting a sweater for one of the boys on the sofa, something soft and warm for winter. The sheriff divided the watch and Mac was asleep before he could remember c
limbing into his bedroll.
By the time the sky was beginning to lighten, Mac had hot coffee ready to drink with their hardtack and dried apples, as he’d had the last watch. The crisp dawn air worked as a good slap in the face when coming out of one’s bedroll, but Mac preferred that to the stifling warm temperature the day was sure to later bring.
“Morning,” he greeted Hal as soon as he’d sat up, rubbing at his face.
“I guess this is the day,” he mumbled groggily, “the day we’ll rid the territory of the Grisham Gang for good.”
“Let’s just be careful doing it,” Mac replied, taking a swallow from his tin trail cup.
“We’re dead west of the City of Rocks,” Sheriff Dalton drawled. “We should be there by mid-afternoon, and that’s when the real fun starts. Soon as we see Bread Loaves, we’ll start looking for their tracks.”
“Bread Loaves?”
“Rocks. You’ll know ‘em when you see ‘em.”
They spoke little as the ground grew harder, the scraggly sagebrush thinning to make way for yellow grasses and stands of aspen and pinyon pine that dotted the valleys. It was obvious they’d arrived when the hills opened to miles of stone strewn throughout the valley, much like buildings of various size and shape constructed in a disorderly manner. At the crest of the hill, the posse pulled to a stop.
Mac looked on in wonder, a mild wind toying with his hat and bandana. There before them were the Bread Loaves, and off to the north, Finger Rock. Though he couldn’t see them from here, Mac imagined he could see the double monoliths of Twin Sisters to the distant south.
The City of Rocks.
It was more than he’d imagined it to be. Growing dismay at the challenge of their task dampened the grandeur of the scene. These rocks and hills are riddled with caves and hiding places. How will we manage to find the gang or the treasure?
Sheriff Dalton and Deputy Chalice sat pointing and discussing the plan.
“Well, if outlawing is in any part of my future, I’ll keep this place in mind. It’s perfect,” Hal observed.
“You’re too poor a shot to turn to outlawing,” Mac ribbed.
With a grim set to his jaw, Hal said, “We’ll find ‘em, and all their plans will come a cropper. I can hardly wait for it.”
“Let’s stop here for a short rest and meal, then this is what we’re going to do…” Dalton began, lighting the quirley between his lips.
Many hours later, Mac stalked cautiously through the brush about halfway up a bordering hill, Hal tracking parallel thirty yards up. Fatigue settled heavily on his body, and his mind was losing the fight to succumb. They’d left Red and Bonanza at the base of the hill half a mile back, opting to cover the west side of the Silent City on foot. It was nearly dusk, that fleeting time of evening when the heavens belonged to neither the sun or the moon, but hovered in the colorful in-between. Half the day was spent searching for the gang with nothing to show for it. Mac kicked a rock in frustration. Grisham, Montgomery, and the others could be halfway to the railroad head in Kelton for all they knew, as the only other human they encountered was a single rider galloping down the road near the Kelton stage station.
He was about to call to Hal when a flash of light drew his eye to the center of the valley, tucked just inside a tower of rock surrounded with pinyon and quaking aspen. His heart pounded in anticipation as he crouched behind a rock and peered at its source. It was too far away to see much, but one thing was certain: whoever was down there was planning to stay overnight, for a large campfire sent a plume of smoke rising to the emerging stars.
Judging by the sounds of sliding rocks and earth behind him, Hal had seen it, too. “It’s them, I just know it,” he asserted with a firm set of his whiskered jaw. “Let’s rendezvous at Bread Loaves and figure out what to do.”
“On the way, I think we should get a bit closer to confirm this really is the Grisham Gang. It would be a shame to jump into some poor traveler’s camp with guns blazing.”
So they set off, working their way down from the rolling hills and into the Silent City below, careful to move from brush to rock in an effort to stay hidden. Spying a cluster of rock jutting thirty feet up from the ground, Hal and Mac crouched low and rushed toward it, pressing themselves into a crevice from which they could spy on the camp without being seen.
It was the gang, alright. Ike sat on a log near the fire chewing something greasy they’d cooked, while ‘Curly’ Joe Nettle held a pistol at a dark-haired fellow Mac assumed was Marcos Blanco. Crooked Montgomery was drinking from his flask, his glossy eyes glaring at Marcos. That only left one man, Stan Story, who was probably the lookout. Their horses were tethered near a patch of sweet grass about two hundred feet away, but outside of the typical travel essentials like a frying pan, bedroll, and tack lying around, the only items that might indicate the band had been treasure hunting was a dirt-crusted shovel and pick leaning against a rock. They haven’t found the gold yet. Mac’s elation over the fact was short-lived, however. He froze at the horrific sound of a hammer cocking uncomfortably near.
Fourteen
S tan Story sneered down at them, the double-barrel of his shotgun pointed at Hal’s head. “Thought you’d spy on us, did you? Put your hands up where I can see ‘em.” Mac and Hal stared at one another, then Hal inched his way out from the crevice.
Story’s unkempt beard was littered with filth, his rotting teeth the only physical feature more putrid. “Easy now; you wouldn’t want my trigger finger to give in to the impulse to squeeze. One wrong move and I’ll stop resisting.”
When they were both free of their hiding spot, Story demanded they throw down their weapons then pressed them toward the camp with his shotgun. Mac looked from side to side, taking note of anything and everything that could be used to their advantage should the sheriff and deputy make a move to free them. The crackling fire licking pine logs did little to cover up the stench of Ike Grisham, who didn’t seem the least surprised to see them. Up close, he looked older than Mac had thought him to be. Deep creases fringed his eyes and fanned out at the edges, nearly connecting to the lines framing his mouth slick with drippings.
“There you are, sheriff. I was beginning to wonder when you’d come sniffing after us.”
Mac didn’t bother correcting him.
“Took ya much longer than I thought it would. What held you up? Indians?” The knowing gleam in his eye caused Mac’s gut to roil. Did the Grisham Gang have ties with the Paiute?
“You’ll be disappointed to see there’s no gold here… but we’re working awful hard to remedy that, ain’t we, Curly Joe?” Marcos looked up sullenly. Did the thief forsake his ways in prison, or is he just trying to protect that cache so he can come back and dig it up himself? Judging from the blood trickling down Blanco’s temple, Curly Joe’s patience was wearing thin.
“Tie ‘em up, Story. We’ll hang on to ‘em overnight and see what happens.”
Forcing them to the flattened dirt where Marcos sat, Story kicked them both to the ground and removed a length of rope from his saddle bags. “You two get comfortable and watch ol’ Coyote Rock howl at the moon tonight. Curly Joe and Ike’ll keep a real good eye on ya.” Story chuckled and left the camp, disappearing behind the rock he’d found them hiding in.
Coyote Rock. It did resemble a coyote with its snout in the air, howling. Jesse and Noah would have loved to see it. A pang of homesickness hit him like a donkey kick to the stomach, and he wondered for the hundredth time how they were getting along. Joan, stalwart as ever, probably had a handle on the children, the house, the mine, and his livery, too. That woman was one of a kind and he wished he could be with her now, enjoying her cooking and kisses; especially her kisses. He wasn’t sure how he and Hal were going to get out of this predicament, but they were still alive and he wasn’t ready to give up.
Boy, was he exhausted, enough that he thought he might be able to sleep despite the three outlaws curling their lips at him. Mac stretched himself out on the ground as best he coul
d, sharing a meaningful glance with Hal, who nodded. With Hal on watch, sleep sank its claws into his consciousness and dragged him down to oblivion.
When he jerked awake several hours later, his neck and shoulders aching from the hard ground, he sat up and peered at the moon and stars twinkling above them. The fire was still going, but Crooked Montgomery hat taken Curly Joe’s place guarding the prisoners. If the hatred radiating from his stare meant anything, he hadn’t forgotten the fact that he and Hal had formed half of the posse that captured him last winter when Crooked Montgomery kidnapped Clara, nor was he leaning toward forgiveness any time soon. Mac wouldn’t put it past the outlaw to kill them for revenge while Ike was out.
Seeing him awake, Hal leaned back to rest like everyone else in the camp seemed to be doing. No, that wasn’t right, for Ike, who must have been out on watch, was missing. Mac studied Marcos while he slept, wondering at the chances he’d help if a scuffle broke out. Having an extra pair of hands might just be enough to tip the scales, and since the gang had him under constant scrutiny, they obviously didn’t trust him.
Thoughts shifting to Dalton and Chalice, Mac twisted to look over his shoulder beyond the brush and rocks to the hills beyond. By now, it was likely the lawmen knew he and Hal had been captured; a fire this size would be visible at least a mile away, beckoning them to the camp like a beacon. If they planned to act, they’d do it before the sun rose. All he and Hal could do was wait, ready to jump to action at the slightest sign.
They didn’t have to wait long. An hour before dawn, a shrill whinny followed by the scrambling of hooves over rock brought Curly Joe and Story to their feet, cursing angrily. Lester didn’t so much as glance toward the runaway animals, his sinister eyes peering into the darkness beyond camp as he jerked Marcos along by the collar of his shirt to cover at the edge of the clearing. Before Curly Joe advanced twenty feet toward the horses, a shot rang out from the west, bringing him howling to his knees. Story took cover as Mac and Hal clambered through the brush.
Copper Page 8
