Corey examined the wheel. Three spokes were broken, but the steel-wrapped circular frame appeared solid. He could work with that. The real problem was the axle beam that mounted the front wheels. The beam was cracked so badly that the wood had split four-fifths of the way through. It would never hold weight again.
"It looks bad,” Patrick announced. He had absolutely no skill with carpentry or woodworking, but then the break in that beam made the problem pretty obvious. “What can we do?"
Corey scratched his head under his cap. “Well, I can probably fix the wheel well enough to get us to Evanston, but the beam will have to be replaced."
"Well, get on with it,” Mrs. Clifford said. She may not have wanted to share a coach with a boxer, but she clearly had no problem ordering one around. “We've wasted enough time in this desolate place already."
Corey stared at the woman for a moment, wondering how she could look at that split beam and not realize how much trouble they were in. Rather than emphasize the seriousness of their situation, however, he decided to get on with the task of getting them out of it. “Mr. Butler?"
The stage driver continued to stare at his dead animal as if it were the body of his closest friend. A tear tracked its way down his weathered cheek. “Poor Socks, I knew you were too old for this kind of work."
"Would you stop worrying about that dead animal?” Mrs. Clifford shrilled.
Mr. Clifford looked up from his book in surprise, trying to see what was upsetting his wife.
Mrs. Clifford strode over to Butler. “If you only knew how to drive the stage, none of this would have happened! Don't you know who I am?"
Corey hurried over beside them, put a comforting arm around Butler's shoulder, and turned him away both from Mrs. Clifford and the bloody horse. “I'm awfully sorry about your loss, Mr. Butler. Socks was a good horse—pulled with all of his heart."
"I've had him since he was a colt,” Butler said. “I named him after those white markings on his legs. ‘Why those look just like socks,’ I said."
"A mighty fine name,” Corey agreed. “And old or not, that horse could really pull."
"He surely could at that,” Butler agreed.
"He wasn't going to stop for nothing,” Corey continued.
"No sir,” Butler said.
"Now I need you to ask yourself something, Mr. Butler. If Socks wouldn't quit, would he want you to?"
"I..."
"Or would he want you to keep pulling and get this coach into Evanston?"
"I ... he'd want me to keep pulling!"
"Good, because we have womenfolk depending on you!” Two to be precise, one of whom had walked back down the trail where she crouched examining the rock that had broken the stage.
"What do you want me to do?” Butler asked.
"Do?” Mrs. Clifford screamed. Evidently, waiting for Corey to finish encouraging the man had used up all of her remaining patience. “We want you to fix the coach and get us out of here!"
Butler scratched his forehead. “Well, I don't rightly think I can do that,” he said.
"What? But this man,” she pointed at Corey, “said he could fix the wheel and the axle!"
"Fix? Well, why didn't you say so?” Butler said.
Corey had not said he could fix that axle, but rather than get into a shouting match he decided to make the point another way. “Do you have a spare wheel and axle?” he asked.
"Why, no,” Butler admitted. “This isn't the normal stagecoach. We don't have any spares. I was supposed to stay with the regular coach in case there was trouble, but Mrs. Clifford here didn't like riding through their dust, so I hung back and let them get ahead."
He looked around him, studying the terrain. “Truth to tell, I'm not sure this is the trail they took. Haven't seen any sign of them all day."
"Lord preserve us!” Mrs. Clifford wailed. “We're not on the normal run? What will be next? Red Indians swooping in to attack us?"
Corey ignored the outburst. “I don't think that beam can be fixed, but we might make a rough replacement if we find tools and wood. I've got some small woodworking tools we can use to shape some new spokes but no saws for working a larger piece of wood."
"Well, I don't have a saw,” Butler told him, “but I have a good wood axe.” For the first time since shooting the animal he left Socks's side, returned to the coach, and pulled a double-bladed axe from beneath the driver's seat.
Corey looked around him for a tree that might serve their purpose. He frankly doubted that without a saw he could turn a tree into even a rough beam suited to their needs—he certainly couldn't do it quickly. As it turned out, shaving a tree wasn't even an option. Most of the Wyoming territory Corey had seen was sparsely forested at best. This particular part was even more barren than most. What few trees there were growing on the side of the mountain were twisted and knot ridden. No straight limbs long and thick enough to serve were in sight.
Miss Parson was picking her way back down the trail. At first sight, Corey thought her face was tight with concern, but as she drew closer he saw that he was mistaken. “How does it look?” she asked.
Corey shook his head. “Not good, the axle beam is cracked through."
Miss Parson took a moment to assess the surrounding terrain and quickly came to Corey's conclusion that nothing in the immediate vicinity would help them. “How far is it to the nearest town?” she asked Mr. Butler.
The weathered old man stuck a finger in his ear and dug at the wax while he considered the question. “Well, it must be at least ten or twelve more miles to Evanston."
"That would be a good run for you, Corey,” Patrick said, his manner jovial despite their predicament. “It would get you back in shape real fast. But isn't there anything closer?"
Butler's finger finally found what it was digging for, and he flicked something dark onto the trail. “Well, I can't rightly say that there isn't. Towns spring up and die all the time out here."
Mrs. Clifford was working herself up for another explosion when her husband spoke, pulling his nose momentarily out of his book. His voice was quiet and unassuming. “Excuse me, gentlemen, I don't want to intrude, but I feel that it must be pointed out that my wife can't walk ten miles—especially not in this heat."
He took a white handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the beads of sweat on his forehead, then continued speaking. “I wouldn't take it on myself to tell Miss Parson what she can or can't do, but she also is a lady and cannot be expected to walk a great distance."
Mrs. Clifford harrumphed at her husband's genteel categorization of the lady gambler, but Miss Parson seemed to appreciate it. “Thank you for your consideration, Mr. Clifford,” she said, “but I quite assure you that I will be able to walk as far as need be to get us out of here."
Mrs. Clifford harrumphed again, then her face boiled even hotter when she noticed the smile her husband was sharing with Miss Parson. As she began to turn her temper on him, Miss Parson broadened her comments to include the whole group.
"Perhaps such a long walk won't be necessary. No more than a mile or so back down the trail I noticed a broken sign pointing farther up the mountain. The letters D and I were clearly visible."
"That would be Digby,” Butler told them. “It's an old mining town. They thought they had a rich strike, but it petered out fairly quick. There's nothing but ghosts inhabiting it now."
"Ghosts?” Dr. Fulton asked. He was so nervous to begin with that it was difficult for Corey to determine if the question expressed skepticism or fear.
"Always ghosts in a town like that,” Butler assured him. For the first time since the accident, some actual vitality was returning to his features. “Mining accidents, fights over ore, all kinds of reasons a town like Digby would be haunted."
"Do we have to listen to this superstitious nonsense?” Mrs. Clifford asked.
"It's not nonsense!” Butler protested.
"Oh really!” Mrs. Clifford threw up her hands in exasperation. “Why are we wasting our tim
e on this? If the town is deserted, then it's no use to us anyway."
As Butler prepared to defend his ghosts again, Corey once again intervened. “Actually, that might not be true, Mrs. Clifford."
The scholar's wife looked too nonplussed to be contradicted.
Corey continued. “While it would certainly be best to find a town with a carpenter to do the work and a serviceable hotel to sleep in while he does it, an abandoned mining town should have what we really need—lumber. There will be buildings we can raid, and if there's an underground mine, there will be timber shoring up the tunnels. It's worth taking a look if it's not too far away."
"And just what will we eat in this ghost town?” Mrs. Clifford wanted to know.
"Eating could be a problem,” Corey conceded. “We won't know how big a problem until we go see."
"I cannot believe we are even talking about this,” Mrs. Clifford shouted.
"Just what are you proposing we do instead?” Miss Parson asked. “Your husband has already told us that you cannot walk to Evanston. Would you like to try riding one of Mr. Butler's other horses? It's quite difficult to ride bareback in a dress."
The look of shock and horror on Mrs. Clifford's face eloquently testified to her thoughts on that notion.
"Then what do you suggest we do?"
Mrs. Clifford found her voice again. “Why, we should stay with the stagecoach and wait for help."
Patrick slapped his thigh, clearly enjoying the opportunity to make Mrs. Clifford look foolish. “Weren't you listening earlier? Butler already told us that it could be days before the stage people notice we're missing."
Miss Parson supported this argument. “And as you have already pointed out, we have no food with us. I also do not see any water in the immediate vicinity. We cannot simply wait for help that may not be coming."
Dr. Fulton was staring back down the trail the way they had come, clutching his medical bag against his chest. “I don't think waiting is a good idea either."
"Well, naturally we would have to send someone for help,” Mrs. Clifford retorted. “Any idiot can see that."
"It's not a good idea to send a man out alone on these trails,” Butler commented. “Accidents happen. If I twisted an ankle, you'd all be waiting here with no help coming, and I might die."
"Then take someone with you!” Mrs. Clifford commanded. “Mr. Callaghan looks fit enough."
"Mr. Callaghan is injured,” Miss Parson quietly informed them, “although I'm quite certain he will bravely volunteer to make the journey anyway."
Corey smiled. “I don't know how brave it makes me, but of course I'll go, if that's what we decide to do."
"Of course it's what you're going to do!” Mrs. Clifford said.
"And Mr. O'Sullivan and I will go as well,” Miss Parson said.
Patrick looked surprised, but he did not contradict Miss Parson.
"You will not!” Mrs. Clifford snapped. “You'll only slow the men down."
"We will,” Miss Parson insisted, “because Mr. O'Sullivan and I are far too intelligent to agree to remain here without supplies or anyone experienced in traveling these parts to stay with us. We would rather take our chances with Mr. Butler and Mr. Callaghan on the road."
"I'll not be talked back to by a two-bit—"
"Actually, Mrs. Clifford,” Dr. Fulton interrupted, turning away from the back trail to rejoin the conversation. “I'll be traveling with Mr. Butler and Mr. Callaghan as well—if you'll have me, sirs. I barely know how to make a fire, much less take care of myself in the wilderness. I'd feel more comfortable sticking with men who clearly do."
"No one is leaving!” Mrs. Clifford shouted. “We can't leave! How will we carry my clothes and my husband's books?"
A portion of Mrs. Clifford's objections were beginning to make sense to Corey. “Well, no one is going to Evanston at least, it really is too far away for all of us to walk there in this heat. But we are going to have to go somewhere if we hope to fix the stagecoach. Mr. Butler, what do you think about Digby?"
"It might have what we're looking for,” he agreed. “No way to know except to look."
"How far do you think it is?” Mr. Clifford asked, looking anxiously at his wife.
Butler scratched his head. “A mile or two, if I remember correctly, once we turn onto the trail."
"Well, we might as well get on with it,” Corey suggested, “while it's still daylight. We're going to need to bring both the wheel and the axle beam if I'm going to work on them. I'm also going to need my woodworking tools, the axe, any other tools Mr. Butler has, and that pail for watering the horses. Dr. Fulton, please bring your bag just in case someone gets hurt. I think everything else should stay on the coach."
"But my clothes?” Mrs. Clifford shouted. “We have to bring my clothes!"
Corey didn't respond to that. He fully expected to be the man carrying the axle beam because, as far as he could tell, they didn't have any harness that would let them turn the surviving horses into pack animals. Patrick would carry the wheel, Dr. Fulton the axe and his bag, and Miss Parson his tools. That didn't leave a lot of people for carrying clothes.
"Don't you ignore me!” Mrs. Clifford screamed.
"Mabel,” Mr. Clifford said quietly, “they are just books and clothes. I'm certain they'll be right here when we get back again. Yelling at Mr. Callaghan because you are frightened is uncharitable."
"I am not frightened!"
Corey stepped past Mrs. Clifford toward the coach, where Miss Parson gently grasped his arm. “Mr. Callaghan,” she whispered, “may I have a quiet word with you?"
Corey looked down into her face and was surprised to see how serious her expression was. “Patrick, will you and Mr. Butler start unloading all the luggage? We're going to have to prop the stage up on rocks to remove that axle, and that will be much easier if we dump the extra weight."
He walked with Miss Parson away from the others. “What else is wrong?"
"I don't think this accident was accidental,” Miss Parson told him.
"What?"
"There is a large, sharp boulder set right around the bend in the trail where a coach or wagon would have to hit it. I think someone put it there to cripple a passing coach."
"You think someone wanted to wreck us?"
"Oh, I doubt it was our coach in particular, but I think someone wanted to stop a coach or wagon, and we had better consider the possibility that that same someone is watching us right now, waiting for us to leave the coach."
Corey looked around, noting the rugged terrain and scrub vegetation on the hill above and below them. It was certainly possible that someone was watching them unseen.
"You think it's Indians?"
Miss Parson shrugged. “Could be anyone or no one, but I think we had better be prepared for the possibility."
"Or no one? Could the rock have just rolled down the hill onto the trail?"
Miss Parson grimaced as she considered the possibility. “It's possible, of course, but I really don't think so. I think someone propped it up at the bend in the trail, but I don't know how long ago they did it or if they are around now."
Corey looked around again. There was no sign of anyone except Butler and his six passengers. He walked away from Miss Parson toward the coach. “Mr. Butler, we're obviously going to want you to bring your shotgun along as well. We might get a chance at some game on the trail."
* * * *
It was roughly two hours before sunset when the seven travelers were finally ready to leave. Mrs. Clifford was still loudly complaining even though her husband had volunteered to carry one of her bags of clothing. Most everyone else had decided to carry some clothes as well.
For Corey it began with a gentlemanly offer to bring Miss Parson's light carpetbag in addition to the heavy axle. He was annoyed with Mrs. Clifford and felt strongly that Miss Parson should not be treated less well. The lady gambler didn't see it that way. When Corey refused to return the bag, she decided to add his own duffle to the tools
she was already carrying. Patrick hefted the wheel, the axe, and his own light duffle. Dr. Fulton added his valise to his medical bag. And finally, Butler carried the shotgun, the pail, and the reins to his surviving horses. Only Mrs. Clifford carried nothing but her person.
As they started down the trail, Corey paused to examine the rock that had broken their axle. It was a roughly rectangular stone, longer than it was thick or wide. To hit the stagecoach it must have been sitting on one end, and it was difficult to see how it could have naturally ended up in that position. Even now, after the passing of the coach, it was lying flat on its side, far less dangerous an obstruction than it must have been when they had run into it. He couldn't help wondering if a stranger or three was even now planning to come out of cover to rifle through the belongings they had left with the stage.
Dr. Fulton was becoming visibly more nervous. “Is it very far?"
"Just a mile or so to the side trail,” Butler assured him.
The ground above and below the trail was rugged in these parts—by no means impassable by man or horse, but far more difficult going than the route taken by the stagecoach. Old wagon ruts were still visible in places, suggesting that traffic still occasionally passed this way. Doubtless it had been far busier when the mines at Digby were in operation.
Corey was feeling the stitch in his side and the soreness in his neck before he was a hundred yards past the bend in the road. He'd been in a hard fight at Fort Bridger that reaggravated injuries he'd received four or five weeks earlier.
Patrick was shouldering the wheel and the axe without complaint—a sure sign that he found the burden difficult. Miss Parson was walking along gamely, giving no appearance at all of effort. Butler also moved spryly, but then, he really wasn't carrying any burdens. Dr. Fulton seemed more and more concerned with the wilderness than his load, as if he expected the Sioux or a grizzly to suddenly appear out of the rocks. And Mr. Clifford was walking slowly but steadily. Mrs. Clifford, walking with nothing in her hands, expressed the most difficulty, praying in not-so-quiet tones for the Lord to help her with her burdens.
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