by Tim Champlin
Every one of 'em was outbound to Cheyenne, and every one of 'em was carryin' a shipment of gold to the railroad."
"Does every stage that leaves out of here going south have gold aboard?" Wiley asked.
"No. Not all of them. That's the thing about it. Wells' Fargo has two stages a week going south, and one north; and Northeastern has three north and one south each week," Bundy replied.
"Hold it a minute," the sheriff said, and ducked inside his small office we were just passing. He was back in a second minus the shotgun.
"Any of the inbound stages been robbed?" I asked.
"Only two. Whoever's doing it knows that there's nothing coming in except passengers and mail. About the only thing they'd get there would be the personal effects and money of the passengers."
"Have any of the southbound stages been robbed that were not carrying treasure?"
"Not any of ours. Northwestern had one hit, but I think they'd put out the news that it had gold aboard."
"Any idea who's doing it?" I asked.
"Well, we've got some theories, and it won't be long before those gunmen are run down," the sheriff answered with an air of mysterious importance.
Bundy chuckled. "Come on now, Ben. You don't have any more idea who's behind this than the rest of us. I'm not saying you're not trying. I wouldn't have your job for anything, but we might as well admit it—we just don't have any leads."
"Humpf!" the sheriff snorted through his mustache without replying, and reached for a twist of tobacco in his vest pocket.
"Oh, by the way, I'm Charles Bundy," the express agent said, thrusting out his hand to us. "And this is our sheriff, Benjamin Pierce."
The sheriff nodded, but didn't offer his hand.
"I'm Matt Tierney, and this is Wiley Jenkins."
"Nice to know you."
"Are these gold shipments common knowledge?" Wiley asked.
"Pretty much so. There's so much gold coming out of the Hills just now that pretty nearly every stage that leaves out going south is likely to be carrying a full strongbox."
"Has the company tried using fake shipments or anything?"
"Oh, sure, we've tried lots of things. We've sent the gold out by wagon in the middle of the night, and they got it; we tried holding the gold until we had enough to melt it into one huge six-hundred-pound ingot, but the robbers showed up with a wagon, just as though they were expecting something heavy, and managed to haul it off. We found the wagon a few days later, burned, and no sign of the gold. We even used a special cast-iron box and bolted it to 'the floor of the coach, but they showed up with some of this new stuff called blasting gelatin—a helluva lot more explosive than black powder—and just blew the floor out of the stage and carried away the box still bolted to part of it. Then we even cast a gigantic gold and silver ingot that weighed over thirteen hundred pounds. Didn't think any gang of robbers could lift that."
"What happened?"
"Well," Bundy shook his head ruefully, "we outfoxed ourselves. The stage hit a big rut, and the jolt, along with all that weight, broke the thoroughbraces and the frame of the coach. We had a tough time just getting it back here so we could smelt it down again. Had to cut it in four pieces to haul it."
I laughed.
"Sounds like, an inside operation," Wiley said.
"We've explored that idea, too, but so far haven't come up with anything. I'm only certain of one thing."
"What's that?"
"That I'm not the one who's behind it."
"Still sounds like an inside job," Wiley insisted.
"The way you two are asking questions, how do we know you're not mixed up in it?" the sheriff said.
"Don't they leave any sort of clues? Aren't the posses able to track them?" I asked Bundy, ignoring Pierce's comment.
"Sometimes it's just a lone bandit, sometimes two, and other times four or five. They seem to know just what's needed to get the job done. They change their locations of the robberies. One time they were even waiting inside the first swing station and had tied up the stock tenders."
"I know. We were in town when that one happened," Wiley said.
"Anyway," Bundy continued, "I've even been on some of the posses. And usually the trail either splits up after a few miles, or it disappears when they ride up into the granite hills, where only an Indian could have a chance of trailing them.'
"What are you going to do?" I asked.
"We've got a few ideas that I can't talk about right now."
"Will you have to stop shipping gold?"
"Never. Wells Fargo has a reputation to protect. And, that certificate on my office wall tells the world I'm their official representative here." There was no mistaking the set of the young man's jaw. I had no doubt he would engage the robbers in hand-to-hand combat if he got the chance.
"I'm talking about them as though they were all one group," he continued in a softer tone that reflected his bewilderment. "I have no idea who 'they' are. They may not be all one gang. It may be several individuals, or groups of individuals operating independently." He waved his arm in a sweeping gesture. "Hell, these hills are full of the meanest, orneriest scum you've ever seen. They just naturally migrate to these boom towns before the law gets really established. They've probably been run out of half the camps in California, Nevada, and Montana."
"Yeah. I've seen some of them," I said. "They must sleep all day and raise hell all night. A lot of them look like they'd cut your throat for a ten-cent piece."
At this point we reached the restaurant Bundy and Pierce had been heading for. I thanked the agent for the information, and Wiley and I clomped on down the walk to our favorite dining room at the Grand Central Hotel. We stuffed ourselves with another good meal.
"Sure puts bacon and beans in the shade, along with pony meat," Wiley remarked, picking his teeth as we strolled outside. "Wouldn't mind eating like that from now on."
"If that gold pans out like I hope it will, you can afford to buy a lot of good meals—even at these prices."
"You think we'll have trouble getting it to Cheyenne?"
I shrugged. "We won't have to worry about that for a while, until we accumulate enough to make it worthwhile."
"That shouldn't be long, judging from the dust we were washing out the other day."
"Well, Mother Nature can be mighty fickle sometimes. We'd better play it pretty close to the vest and not go making any big plans until we see what happens. But if we have enough to ship to Cheyenne, we'll get it there one way or another, if we have to haul it ourselves."
"It might be worth our while to volunteer to help that 'friendly' sheriff and the posse," Wiley suggested.
I eyed him sideways. "You've sure changed since I met you last spring," I ventured, hoping he wouldn't take offense. "You were only interested in looking out for yourself then. Never wanted to get involved, in any causes."
"Still don't," he answered shortly, staring straight ahead. "Just thinkin' about protecting our own interests. I'm not fond enough of hard labor to sweat days or weeks shoveling and sluicing to let some damned masked coward with a gun walk off with it all for free."
"Well, at least you said 'our' interests. Maybe there's hope for that selfish heart of yours yet." I grinned at him.
His handsome, boyish face relaxed into a slight smile. "You know, I wouldn't let anyone but you or Cathy or Curt say that to me and get away with it. But maybe I have changed a little this summer, with all that's happened to me."
It was about the closest I'd heard him come to letting down his constant defense.
"What time is it?" he asked, abruptly changing the subject.
"Don't rightly know. Sure miss my watch. Have to see if I can find a watchmaker in town." I looked around at the gathering darkness. The street along the bottom of the deep gulch was partially lighted by the yellow lamplight spilling from the open saloon doors, dance halls, and gambling dens up and down Main Street. "I'd guess about eight. Why?"
"Thought I might have a drink or tw
o and try my luck at a little poker or faro. Maybe even try a little roulette."
I'm sure he couldn't see my raised eyebrows in the darkness. "You know the house has all the odds, even in a straight game?"
"Yeh, but that only gives me more incentive to beat 'em."
"As I recall, you were a little short on cash from 'bucking the tiger' when we first met in Cheyenne. And that was the reason you gave for signing on with the Third as a mule packer."
"That was part of the reason," he acknowledged, stopping on the sidewalk to rake a wooden match against the building and light a slim cigar. When he had it going well, he tossed the match into the street, and all I could see of him was the glowing end of his smoke. "Besides," he continued, "when were you appointed my guardian?"
I had feared he'd take it that way. "Okay, okay. I'm not trying to tell you what to do. Just don't get drunk and start bragging about our claim or where it is. I'd like to get it pretty well worked out, or find out if it leads to something big before a whole damn stampede comes thundering out there."
"Don't worry."
"You bet I'll worry, but there's nothing I can do about it. I'm going to have a beer and go back to the hotel. I haven't slept in a real bed since last May, and I plan to get in a lot of rest tonight. Don't wake me up when you come in."
CHAPTER 8
"You're not saying much this morning," I chided Wiley as we rode out of Deadwood the next morning. He was, astride the mule with our big tent rolled up and tied behind him. The rest of our supplies were packed on the horse with me. It was a warm day, and sultry, with no wind, and we were letting the animals walk along slowly.
Wiley gave me a pained look and didn't reply.
I chuckled. "Ah well, nothing in life is free."
He still said nothing, and I knew his hangover was fairly severe. It was too bad he wasn't in any condition to enjoy the morning. Even though the weather was coming on to be uncomfortably warm, we rode in shadow much of the time, the scent of pine was fresh, and birds cheered the day.
"Did you lose all your dust?"
"I didn't lose it; I spent it."
"On roulette?"
"Didn't do much gambling. Came out a little on the short end of that, but I had a little more to drink than I intended."
"I figured that." I knew how bad he must be feeling, with a bad head and queasy stomach, so I didn't rub it in. But he seemed to have brightened up somewhat.
"Met a girl."
"Oh, ho! That's where your money went."
"Yeh, most of it," he admitted absently, his face showing a faraway look.
"Nice, huh?"
"Beautiful."
"Well, tell me about her."
"She works in Burnett's place. About five-foot-two, short, dark hair, nice smile, and a great figure. I'd bet she's not over twenty. She's from Cincinnati."
"She doesn't double as one of Myra's girls, does she?" As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew I'd said the wrong thing. He started to reply, bit back the words, started again, and finally choked out a "No," and let it go at that.
I looked ahead and pretended not to notice. "Sounds like a doll. You going to see her again?"
"First chance I get."
He fell silent once more, and I gladly let the subject drop as thoughts of my own girlfriend in Chicago swept into my mind. A tall, blonde secretary in my old newspaper office. What had she been doing all summer? Had she been seeing someone? She probably wouldn't even know yet that I wasn't coming back. Or at least not back to work there. Would she even care when she found out? Unlikely. She'd probably forgotten all about me already in search of more promising prospects. It was not a flattering thought, but I had to be realistic. I think I had impressed her as a confirmed bachelor—in my early thirties, with a good job, and yet showing no signs of settling down. But nobody married young in Ireland, and this custom of taking one's time had been impressed on me from childhood. I let out an audible sigh and turned my mind to things at hand.
"What day is this, anyway?" I asked.
Wiley gave me a puzzled look. "You know, I really don't have any idea of the day of the week or the day of the month."
"I've completely lost track, too. I'm pretty sure we're still in September, but that's all I'm sure of. I know we've been mighty busy, but it's a shame when Sunday's just like every other day of the week."
"Why? You miss your day of rest? You can rest any time you want to now."
"Almost like we're not civilized anymore," I answered.
"How can you honor the Lord's day when you don't even know when it is?"
"Every day is the Lord's day, whether anybody wants to admit it or not," he said with a reflective insight that surprised me. I started to ask him what he meant, but instead just said, "I didn't know you were a religious man."
"Not as much as I should be, I guess," he replied, "but I had a pretty strict upbringing. And I've been rebelling against it ever since I left home."
"Nobody out here to tell you what to do."
"I know, but old habits die hard," he said. He looked up at me, running his fingers through his wavy brown hair. He had slung his hat by its lanyard over the saddle pommel. "I suppose you're Catholic, being from southern Ireland and all."
"Born and bred," I replied. "But I haven't seen hide nor brick of a priest or a church since I left Chicago."
"We haven't seen much of anything but soldiers, horses, and Indians for months—until we reached Deadwood. And if Deadwood has a church of any kind, I sure haven't spotted it."
"It's a little tough to spot a church from inside the Golden Eagle," I murmured.
For the first time that morning, he grinned. "Don't make me laugh," he begged, "it jars my head."
"Getting back to women," I said, "maybe it's time you latched onto a good girl, got married, and settled down."
"I don't notice you rushing into the arms of marital bliss," he retorted. "And you're a lot older than I am."
"Curt's about my age," I defended lamely, "and he's still single."
"He's been in the army or college ever since he was in his late teens. Probably hasn't had much chance to meet any good women."
"Looks like he's interested in your sister, Cathy."
"She's pretty independent. But I hope he doesn't lead her on and then drop her."
"He's been stuck on her for quite a while. If I know Curt, he wouldn't do that unless he had some serious intentions."
"Curt Wilder's one helluva nice fella. Wouldn't mind at all having him for a brother-in-law. He and I see eye-to-eye on this business of war. Never would've thought it when I first met him."
"Well, if this gold claim keeps on producing, none of us will have to worry about how we'll make a living for a while."
We fell silent for a few minutes as my mind conjured up what life might be like with unlimited golden wealth. I guessed Wiley was probably thinking the same thing. But then maybe he was just savoring the silence and nursing his hangover, trying to keep the motion of the walking mule from making him sick.
"You know, that kid was in the saloon again last night," he said unexpectedly.
"What kid?" I asked, not following his jump in thought.
"What's his name—K.J.? Yeh, that's it. Boy, he's a good little tap dancer. You should have seen him with that piano player. They put on a real show. They had the whole place stomping and yelling for more."
"Did you find out any more about him or where he came from?"
"Well, Jenny told me—"
"Who's Jenny?"
"Oh, I thought I told you. She's the girl I met. Anyway, she told me those initials stand for Kenneth Joseph."
"No last name?"
"She didn't know it. Nobody seems to. She said he stays with an old lady named Hayes, just like he told us.
It seems this Missus Hayes is an old widow who sells vegetables and fruit and takes in homeless kids and derelicts—and also acts as a mother and place of refuge for any of the prostitutes in town. She also has a reputation a
s a sometime nurse and weather predictor. What she lacks in earnings from her produce stand, she makes up for in contributions from grateful people she helps."
"Sounds like she's all things to all people."
"Jenny says the old lady has an open door, a soft shoulder, and a big ear, not to mention heart."
"Think I'll look her up next time I'm in town; she sounds like a person worth knowing."
"Me, too."
"By the way, what's Jenny's last name?"
"Johnson."
"I like that name—Jennifer Johnson."
"You'd like it even more if you saw who's wearing it."
"I'll get you to introduce me next time we're in town."
In less than an hour more of easy riding, we were back with Curt and Cathy. They had found only slight traces of gold while we'd been gone, so we helped them load up our gear, and Wiley, his hangover beginning to wear off, rigged two good packs, one for the mule and one for the horse.
"Want to say good-bye to our unsociable neighbors up the creek?" I asked Curt as we prepared to lead our loaded animals away. The prospectors were still hard at it in the edge of the trees.
"No, thanks."
"Then, Thunder Valley, here we come."
In order not to invite curiosity about our eventual destination, we led our animals out of the valley the same way we had first come in and made a wide detour of three or four miles around. It was extremely rugged terrain, and we had to backtrack several times to find a way up and over the steep ridges. Wiley and I nearly lost our bearings, and probably would have if it hadn't been for the sun, but finally we led the group to Thunder Valley. It was coming on to late afternoon, and the sun had long since dropped over the ridge, throwing this cool, green valley into shadow. It was a welcome relief from the heat of the day and our exertions of walking and climbing.
We selected a level spot near the head of the canyon to pitch our big tent. There was plenty of wood and grass nearby, and the stream that hid the gold also provided cold, clear water.
In the days that followed, we cut and trimmed logs and built a foundation about two feet high around the tent. We set up our iron stove and ran the pipe out the small hole in the side. The stove served not only for cooking, but also provided warmth, for a sharp autumn chill was beginning to settle over the valley during the nights. The tent was roomy enough to rope off and hang blankets to give Cathy some privacy when required. We occasionally roamed a few miles from Thunder Valley to bring down a small deer to augment our larder and provide some variety of fresh meat to relieve the monotony of bacon, beans, flapjacks, and dried fruit. The stream in the valley was not large enough to contain any fish.
