For a moment, Jesse peered at her, his sluggish mind trying to keep up. “The horses have been stolen? By who? Is it morning?”
“No Jesse, it’s still night. Now, this part’s important: Don’t stop to talk to anyone along the way. You just ride Juniper like a grown cowboy and keep to yourself until you see Deputy Chalice, you hear? Then you come right back.”
“Yes, mama.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed and began pulling on some stockings and boots while Joan lit a lamp for him to take and shoved her feet into her own boots. Noah slept on, oblivious.
Hand in hand, Jesse and Joan ran to the barn and lonely Juniper still calling and stomping. “Wait here while I check to make sure there’s no one else.” He nodded and she slipped courageously inside. Her heart was pounding fiercely, but the barn was empty. Jesse grabbed Juniper’s tack and they tried their best to saddle him properly, but Joan was not confident. When the saddle slid to the side the minute Jesse put his foot in the stirrup, he pointed to the long strap she’d left hanging below the pony’s belly.
“You’re supposed to tighten the cinch, ma.”
“Oh, right…” She had no idea what to fasten it to, but finding a long leather strap tethered to a ring on the saddle, she tied it clumsily to the belly strap until she was fairly certain it would hold. “That’s going to have to do, Jesse. Climb up.”
Her heart swelled with pride at the self-assured way her son held the reins. “Be careful. See you soon.”
She watched as Jesse pressed the pony across the creek before she turned and ran to the Horner’s home. It took several rounds of pounding before a disheveled Mr. Horner answered. “What’s happened?”
“Indians, at the livery. They stole all the horses.”
The attorney wasted no time fetching his boots and gun. Clara must have been somewhere behind him, because he called over his shoulder, “I’ll be back soon. Indians!”
“Have you alerted the deputy?”
“Jesse is riding there now.” His large strides carried him quickly so that Joan had to run a little to keep up.
“How many are there?”
“I saw three, each leading a string of horses from the backs of their own.”
“Did you see where they were headed?”
“Yes, toward the Morning Star mine.”
She hadn’t noticed before, but there were two animals left behind in the corral. Mr. Horner’s mule, Bonanza, was one of them; the other was a burro.
“Another reason I’m thankful to own this thick-headed mule,” he muttered. “Nobody wants him.”
Joan lit the lamp in the barn and watched apprehensively as Hal saddled Bonanza, who pinned his ears over having his rest interrupted. Hal swatted his nose when the mule nipped his arm, cursing under his breath.
This is taking too long. By the time Mr. Horner and the deputy get moving, the Indians could be a mile away…
A shudder ran through her as she thought about Mac arriving home, injured, to find Chunhua gone and his livelihood taken from him. Anger, determination, and fear caused her mid-section to swirl uncomfortably, until she thought of something she could do to help.
“I’m going to step into the house and collect some foodstuffs for you to take; don’t leave without them.”
Quick as you please, Joan wrapped half a loaf of bread, six potatoes, and a few cans of beans in a kerchief and twisted a knot on top, racing out the door as two riders loped up the road and stopped in front of the barn, her boy on his gray pony among them. She ran to Jesse and threw her arms around him, relieved to see him safe and sound. The deputy and Phillip Tanzin, the mining man Mac had spoken to when they were out for supper at The Slippery Spoon, both dismounted.
“What happened, Mrs. Walley?”
“Three Indians on horseback each led a string of livery horses up toward the Morning Star about twenty minutes ago. You will follow them?”
His voice sounded weary when the deputy replied, “Yes, ma’am. Come daylight, their tracks should be easy enough to follow. They’ll be slower than us, moving that many animals.”
She hoped so. “Thank you, all of you. Good luck.”
Mr. Horner raised a hand as he fell in behind the other two, and she and Jesse watched forlornly until the cool, black night swallowed them up.
Seventeen
I t was during the quiet moments when she was alone that Joan found most difficult to abide, moments like this one, when the sun was lifting the dark curtain of night and stretching its rays to wake the sleepy mountain town. She missed Chunhua terribly and wondered whether it would be acceptable to seek her out so soon. And wouldn’t it be wonderful to have Mac home, to live as a husband and wife ought, to see him at the livery caring for the horses. Doing her best to picture his tall, strong frame standing in the doorway, a lazy smile on his lips, Joan stifled a yawn, kneaded the day’s bread, then set it to rise atop the warm oven.
Patience, she chided herself. All will turn out for good in the end, just as the good Lord promises.
She’d watched and waited the day after the Indian encounter, hoping to see Mr. Horner and the others ride up with the stolen horses stretched out between them. Michael, looking befuddled, had come to the house at sunup, his face paling when she told him of the theft that had transpired during the night. He’d nodded gravely when she suggested he stay at the barn that day to help any customers, as usual. “Besides,” she’d reasoned, “that burro and Juniper still need tending. Juniper was quite the hero last night, carrying Jesse gallantly to the jailhouse; maybe you could reward him with some sweet oats. I’m sure the others will be along later.”
But they hadn’t. Her hope that her husband’s livelihood would return unharmed diminished with each passing hour until all she could wish for was that the men might escape the band of Indians and come home to their families.
So she checked in on Clara, who put on a brave smile, and thanked her for relinquishing her husband so soon after he’d returned.
“I am sorry to have sent him away.”
“It was out of your control,” Clara conceded, though Joan didn’t miss the worry etched into the beautiful young woman’s face. “I just don’t understand why the Indians came into town at all. I haven’t been here long, but Florence and Eliza were telling me that there haven’t been problems in Silver City with the Bannock or Paiute Indians since the late sixties, though anyone who reads the newspaper knows the surrounding settlements and lone travelers through the sparsely populated canyons and roads report incidents rather often. Mr. Hill, you know, he’s the editor of The Avalanche, was wounded in an Indian raid in sixty-five. Said those Paiute wouldn’t leave the area, despite their dwindling numbers, even when Major Marshall brought troops from Fort Boise to squelch their attacks. What made them desperate enough to come now? And for horses?”
“I’m not sure, but I suppose we should be thankful they didn’t kill anyone. Better to take the animals than that.”
Joan bid her new friend good-bye and fixed some lunch for herself and the boys, stopping herself sadly when her hands automatically put together a fourth plate for Chunhua. Her heart squeezed when Noah patted her arm. “Don’t worry, mama, I miss her, too. But I’m sure she’s real happy to be with her pa. I hope our pa comes home soon.”
“Me, too,” she whispered past the lump in her throat. “Thank you, Noah. I love you, son.”
Later, while the boys cooled off in the creek, Joan sat on the bank and worked on her latest sewing project. It was not uncommon for men on horseback to ride past, but when one of them stopped and dismounted, she rose to her feet anxiously, hoping to see Mac, Mr. Horner, or even Michael. Instead, Mr. Mabry strode toward her, his usual smile in place.
“Mrs. Walley, how are you this fine day?”
“Well, I’m afraid things have been a disaster lately, but I’m as good as can be expected.”
“Ah, yes, I heard about the Indian raid. How terrible for you! Has the deputy been successful in bringing them back?”
“I see. Well, I have some news that might lift your spirits, Mrs. Walley. As it happens, the ore I sampled at the mine was a valid indicator of a rich copper deposit. I’ve just come from the mill and processing plant where the first load of Crescent copper has been refined. This here,” he held out a stack of crisp bills wrapped in string, “is your payout, Mrs. Walley. Your husband asked that I deliver the earnings directly to your hands.”
Copper, from the Crescent! She grinned, immense relief flooding over her that the decision she’d made without Mac’s guiding opinion had been a prosperous one.
“Your crew still needs to be paid, of course, but there will be plenty left.”
“Do I pay the crew and split the rest between myself and Pete, then?”
Mr. Mabry stepped closer and slowly shook his head. “No, you will keep it. Seems Pete was a real Bunko artist. He threw up the sponge at camp and no one has seen hide nor hair of him since.”
“He… ran away? But why?”
The consultant’s smile broadened. “I think you scared him off, Mrs. Walley. He reckoned you were going to find out sooner or later that he swindled you and hauled off before the law had anything to say about it.”
“Have you been managing things at the mine, then?”
“Nah, the boys we hired know what they’re doing. You’ll probably want to hire a foreman, though, to keep things running smoothly.”
“I’ll leave it in your capable hands, Mr. Mabry. Thank you very much for such excellent work. The Crescent was a lost cause without you!”
She paid him from the earnings he’d brought her, thanked him again, and he left.
The crisp paper bills brought a grateful smile to her lips. Thank you, Lord, for this tender mercy. She called the boys out of the water and wrapped them up in linen towels for the short walk back to the house, then put the money in the hiding place alongside Mac’s stash, anticipating the moment when he found it. Now all she could do was hope for his speedy return.
~~~~~
Rest. There was never enough rest.
Mac gave Red his head as he plodded up the hill, knowing the trail horse would do just fine picking the easiest route on his own. The bullet hole in his abdomen wasn’t paining him overly much, but he knew it was taking its toll. His stamina was greatly diminished, and no matter how long they stopped to set up camp and sleep, he awoke feeling as though he’d been dragged through the brush behind Red all day rather than riding astride the Paint.
Mac rubbed the horse’s shoulder affectionately. “A few more miles, boy, and I’ll rub you down and give you a whole bucket of sweet oats. You need it, too; you’ve grown lean from all the ground we’ve covered.”
It was a liberating thought, knowing they were free from the threat of the Grisham Gang for good. Before they’d buried the men at the City of Rocks, Dalton had severed the heads of Curly Joe and Crooked Montgomery and put them in a gunny sack, delivering them with their mates to the lawmen in Corinne. The Wells Fargo’s special agent, a man by the name of Dimms, had been astonished to discover they’d not only brought in the irksome outlaws, but they’d found Marcos Blanco’s cache of gold. They’d been given a day to rest in an actual bed at the hotel before they were off again, this time to retrieve the twelve-hundred dollars in gold bars with Dimms and two others employed by the Express company, all of whom praised the sheriff profusely. Yes sir, Sheriff Dalton would be remembered in these parts for many years to come, and he’d earned it, too. Mac was honored to ride with him.
It’d been an uneventful trip after that, just he and Dalton making tracks through the desert sand. Because of the Paiute band they’d run into just south of Silver City, both decided it would be a wise move to circle wide and come in through the mountains to the north; two men on horseback were hardly enough to intimidate nearly two dozen bucks.
Daylight was waning but they were close enough that it wouldn’t make sense to stop and set up camp. Mac wanted to press on, to see his little family. What was supposed to be a one-week trip had turned into three. The desire to hold Joan close, kiss her soft lips, and whisper his affections lent an urgency to his limbs, which Red must have sensed, because his ears pricked forward and he lifted his head.
But no, it wasn’t the horse’s eagerness to sleep in his own stall at the livery. A shrill whinny, then another, carried through the rock and trees to the remainder of the posse. Horses, up here? And they’re upset about something. It didn’t add up. Mac raised a fist to Dalton, signaling to stop and listen, and hoped there was just enough light for the older man to see it.
He suddenly felt uneasy. This is War Eagle Mountain, which means Silver City is nestled in the valley on the other side…. It’s possible we’re near a mining camp; there are over two-hundred in these mountains, after all. But he’d been up this way often enough that he knew it was unlikely.
Dalton pointed to a thick patch of trees and grass where he and Mac dismounted and tethered their weary horses. Quiet as possible, they crept away from the peak of War Eagle and edged near the sounds of stomping hooves and snorts, but as they grew closer, other sounds joined them. Voices.
The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and when Mac and Dalton laid flat on their stomachs to peer through a bush into a small, rocky clearing, Mac’s gut clenched painfully.
Indians, alright, the same Paiute band they narrowly escaped from. They were rushing around, loading up pack horses and stringing animals and supplies together. Most were bare-chested and wore leather fringed trousers and moccasins, some displaying colorful necklaces of wooden beads, bits of bone, and feathers. But that’s not what made his blood run cold. No.
There, on a rope tied to a thick tree trunk, was Ringo, the colt Mac had been working with, and behind him, his two beautiful Nez Perce horses meant to start his own herd. In the trees beyond, he could hear other horses and felt sure it was more of his livery stock. Had they taken Joan and the children, too? Was Michael safe? He couldn’t see behind Ringo and the others, but a quick glance around camp revealed no sign of women or children.
The shock at seeing his animals soon gave way to rage. They’ve stolen my horses – my livelihood! I’ve advocated for the Bannock and Paiute for years, believing them to take only what was needed, and they’re stealing from me!
His nostrils flared and he made to rise but Dalton pressed him back down with a hand to his back. Eyes narrowed as if to say, ‘Don’t make any fool moves’, he pressed his first finger to his lips. Mac forced the air in and out of his lungs, willing himself to calm down. We’re severely outnumbered… Think, think…
The white man who was led into the clearing just then, shouting wildly, was either very brave or had a head full of sand.
“I want to speak to someone in charge. Your elder or chief! These horses belong to a friend of mine, and I aim to take them back!”
Mac stifled a groan. Hal kicked out wildly as the bucks held his arms to his sides, then three more Indians rushed to restrain him, practically dragging him to a tall, lean Paiute man with gray hair threaded through his thick black braid.
“Your friend made a deal with us. He said we could take his horses in exchange for safe passage for him and his men through our lands.”
Hal paused, processing this, then countered, “You were fooled. Your tribe stole those horses from the livery stable in the city, and Mac Walley, the man who owns them, will do all he can to get them back.”
“How do we know you are not lying?” The Chief asked, his nostrils flared. “What one white man says is different than the other. Who tells truth?”
“Do you know who the man was, the one who promised these horses to you? I have reason to believe it was Ike Grisham, leader of a band of outlaws. He is a man without honor.”
So Grisham had put the Paiute up to this, had created another hopeless situation for him to untangle. Even so, it was clear Hal had not earned any trust when the Chief shouted something in his native to
ngue and the men restraining him began to bind his ankles together.
There was no way Hal could get loose, but when he paused just long enough to look toward the horses before resuming his fight even more fervently than before, Mac finally understood.
Deputy Chalice was deftly unfastening the horses’ ropes, his body mostly hidden behind the trunk of the tree. Hal was the diversion - it was a miracle he hadn’t been introduced to a sleek arrowhead already.
When their brothers began to shout, the Paiutes holding Hal must have realized the same thing. The deputy pulled the horses to a trot but he wasn’t moving nearly fast enough to succeed in getting them away from the Paiutes, who were shouting and jumping onto their own horses bareback. He and Hal needed help!
Dalton jumped from their position and, to Mac’s dismay, began firing his Colt into the fray. Three Indians dropped to the ground before they realized what was happening and scattered to the fringe for cover. Reluctantly, Mac pulled his own firearm from his belt and moved into the clearing for Hal, Dalton covering his back. Mac made quick work of the ropes with his knife, and he and Hal darted back into the brush.
“I am Sheriff Dalton, the lawman in Silver City,” Dalton hollered toward the brave who seemed to be in charge. “We only want our men and our horses! Let us go and we will leave in peace!”
The silence was long enough Mac thought they didn’t understand, but then, “What is peace when three of our brothers are dead?”
“We will take what is ours, or we will fight,” Dalton pressed.
“Go,” came the wary reply.
They split up then, Dalton backtracking to fetch Red and his own horse while Hal and Mac rushed to help the deputy and, to Mac’s utter surprise, Phillip Tanzin, who was stringing up horses in the deepening night further back.
All of them, Mac groaned. They’d taken every single animal I own, and then some. Gratitude for the help of his friends and the sheer magnitude of his luck threatened to overwhelm him. But it couldn’t have been luck, could it, Lord? Thank you…
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