Silver in the Blood

by George G. Gilman

  "Make it half a minute for each horse," Blue said.

  Fats swallowed hard and went towards the mouth of the gully at a rambling run, his breathing louder than the thud of his boots on the ground.

  "What you plan?" Blue wanted to know.

  Edge finished the coffee and. smacked his lips. "You two ain't new to this racket. You're not good at it, but you ain't amateurs. Doubt if the reward is much more than fifty dollars for the pair of you, but it'll be fifty dollars more than I have right now."

  A new kind of fear showed in Blue's dark eyes and it was strong enough to make him forget about his pain. "I ought to have figured you for a bounty hunter," he said hoarsely.

  Edge shrugged, "You didn't ask for no introduction before you jumped me."

  Hoofbeats rattled along the gully as Fats came on the run leading two black mares. Edge moved into a position where he could keep Blue covered and watch Fats at the same time. The fat man was red-faced and breathing heavily.

  "What you going to do with us?" he gasped.

  Blue spat, but the nonchalance didn't show through the cloak of fear draped over him. "He's taking us in."

  A strangled sound emitted from Fats' throat. "A lawman?"

  "Close enough;" Edge answered. "Saddle my horse, fat boy."

  Fats blinked at Blue and received a nod of assent. He dropped the reins of the two horses and moved across to the fire to pack up Edge's bedroll. Edge stood with one foot on the Springfield, the other on the Colt.

  "We going to let him get away with it?" Fats asked as he slung the saddle across the stallion's back.

  "You know any way to stop him?" Blue retorted.

  "I ain't the brains of our outfit, you know that." Fats' voice had become a complaining whine again.

  "You surprise me," Edge muttered.

  "Course, if he ain't got no money, he's got to be a lawman," Fats said to himself, thinking aloud. "Everyone else around the Comstock is loaded. Should have figured it." Then he shook his head. "Course we didn't know he wasn't lying when he said he didn't have nothing."

  "Bounty hunter," Blue shot at Fats, as Edge moved across to his horse and checked the set of the saddle.

  "Part time," Edge supplied, unfastening the hobble and leading the horse close to the fire. He picked up the Colt and holstered it, then lifted the Springfield and tossed it into the stream. Fats grimaced at the splash it made. "Mount up, fellers."

  He swung the Winchester from one to the other. Fats scrambled to obey. Blue's progress was slower and he limped badly. As he lowered himself into the saddle he groaned.

  "Hey, BIue?" Fats called.

  "Yeah?" The word was spat out.

  "You really made a balls-up of this one, didn't you?" The fat man giggled.

  "Move out," Edge ordered. "And quit baiting your partner. He's feeling a little dicky."

  Chapter Four

  THEY'D been riding for almost two hours, upwards the whole time towards the high peaks. Most of the sky was blotted out by a canopy of threatening cloud which successfully hid the three-quarter moon. But there were enough stars visible to give Edge his bearings, keeping him on a westerly heading towards Mount Davidson across the slope of which the boom town of Virginia City was being built. For most of the time they rode in silence, Fats reduced to brooding taciturnity by Blue's warning that if they ever got to jail, they would probably share the same cell. Edge was aware that the thin man's reticence had a more constructive reason. Thus, on the narrow sections of their route which would allow only one rider at a time to pass, he always ensured that Fats led the way so that Blue was never out of his sight. Edge only broke his own silence to issue an order to go to the left or right or straight ahead.

  They travelled over a barren landscape of rocky hills featured with rushing streams which sometimes became minor rapids or cascading waterfalls. Vegetation was sparse but where it occurred the brush, trees and grass were a rich, deep green from ample irrigation and plentiful sunlight. Always this was on the south-facing slopes. For the far sides were in the path of the biting north wind which skittered down the eastern crags of the mountains with the vicious bite of the Arctic where it was born. In winter it could cover the Sierras with up to twenty-five feet of drifting snow. Edge had only heard of this, because the country was new to him but now, as he felt the sting of the autumn weather through his shirt, he could believe it. Ahead of him the two bushwhackers rode warm and snug in their hooded coats, only their fingertips showing beneath the sleeve cuffs to keep a loose grip on the reins. Edge's unprotected hands were stiff with cold and the brass frame of the Winchester felt like a block of ice against his right palm. He began to wonder whether the wanted bills on the two men made a distinction for dead or alive. Blue's coat looked like a tight but serviceable fit.

  "Hey, mister," Fats said suddenly, reining his mount to a halt.

  Blue bumped into the mount in front and cursed.

  "Company up ahead. Got a fife. Reckon they'll be neighborly and ask us to sit awhile?"

  They were on a low-ridge with other, higher ridges in steps to the north of them, keeping them from being silhouetted against the leaden sky. Edge urged his horse in a wide half-circle and maneuvered himself into a position where he could cover his prisoners and throw a series of sidelong glances in the direction Fats was indicating. Ahead, the ridge broadened and then began to fall away, at first sharply and then more gently, into a grass covered bowl. The orange glow on the far side, darkened at intervals by the murky dark blues of woodsmoke. The mere sight of the warm glow was enough to make Edge feel colder.

  "Long ways to Virginia City," Blue encouraged easily, sensing an avenue of escape that would obviously not be presented while the ride continued. "And it gets colder the higher up the mountain we go."

  "You feeling better?" Edge asked him in a conversational tone.

  "I still got the memory, mister," he snarled.

  Edge's voice stayed even. "Memories are like drinks. They can be freshened."

  Blue sneered, but held his silence. Fats looked longingly at the firelight glow. Edge pondered the problem for a few more moments and then snatched a quick look at his guiding stars to confirm he had made the right decision.

  "Okay you guys," he said, showing his teeth. "Keep moving straight ahead until I tell you to turn. A sound out of any of you and both will realize the cowboy's dream."

  "Uh?" Fats exclaimed.

  "You’ll die with your boots on. Move."

  He waved the Winchester. Fats swallowed hard and urged his horse forward. Blue walked his horse close behind, glaring hatred at .Edge, who resumed his position at the rear. They moved along the ridge for almost a quarter of a mile, until the slope into the bowl of land was easy enough to provide a footing for the horses.

  "Okay, let's go down," Edge ordered, keeping his voice low, wary of the sound-carrying properties of the wind.

  Below the ridge they were in its shelter. The grass was lush and moist and Fats showed his native skill as a horseman, leading them in a zigzagged course to the central depth of the bowl. In a commanding whisper Edge ordered the men to halt and then dismount as he surveyed the gradient up towards the welcoming glow of the fire. It was steeper on this side, grassy to a halfway point and then becoming almost bare rock with a scattering of tough-looking vegetation. He considered the horses were capable of making the climb, but knew their shoes would clatter against the rock higher up.

  "What now, Mr. Big Man with a Winchester?" Blue asked in a harsh whisper, pushing his hands deep inside the pockets of his coat.

  "Your friend's overweight," Edge hissed, and jerked the rifle towards the, slope: "He needs exercise."

  Fats groaned, but remembered to keep it low, then set off up the slope. As if in a gesture of tacit protest, Blue kept his hands in his pockets for the first, easy part of the climb, but as the ascent became more difficult he was forced to take them out. Soon they were in the path of the full blast of the north wind again, the discomfort of its bite having compensati
on in the low howl it made for this covered the noise of their progress across the rock. Not the least of these sounds was the pained breathing of Fats.

  As they neared the top, Edge moved to one side of the others and before they had realized it, he was higher up.

  "Stay!" he called out, aiming the rifle at Blue. It was with relief that Fats turned around and pressed his back against the snow, shaking off his hood so that the wind could rush unobstructed into his sweat-sheend face.

  "What are we, goddamn trained dogs?" Blue spat out as he halted and glared up at Edge, who held him in the rifle sights for a moment more before clambering up the last two yards to the top of the slope.

  With the horses looking like oversized ants at the bottom of the bowl and up to twenty feet separating him from the bushwhackers, Edge felt confident enough to make a lengthy survey of the terrain ahead. He saw a wide, flat area of weather-cleaned rock which ended on the far side at the foot of a sheer cliff. There were two dark patches, almost circular, at a widely spaced interval at the bottom of the cliff which Edge thought might have been caves but were probably mine adits. The fire was at a central point between the tunnel openings, maybe in front of another hole in the rock. This was all about, two hundred feet away across the mountain shelving and the fire blazed brightly enough to show clearly where four horses were tethered to a projection from the cliff face. But there were no human forms in sight. Edge took time to look both right and left and note that in one direction the shelf narrowed away to nothing, while in the other it broadened into a minor plateau. Then he glanced back at Fats and Blue and saw that neither had changed his position.

  "Nice view, Mr. Big Man with a Winchester?" Blue asked with heavy sarcasm.

  "Ain't exactly Smoky Mountains standard," Edge answered. "But if you wanted that you should have stayed barefoot in the hills. Come on up."

  "He knocking Tennessee" Blue?" Fats whined.

  "He's a Yankee ain't he," Blue answered, and took over the lead to reach the top of the hill. He studied the scene spread, out before him. "Four horses, uh? If their owners ain't friendly, that'll make six of us you have to handle."

  He smiled at this, pleased.

  "That's a mine," Fats put in with enthusiasm. "Honest to goodness miners, mister. They'll be happy to have us sit around that big old fire."

  To Fats the prospect of immediate comfort was more important that the threat of prison bars in the future.

  Blue snorted. "This part of the mountains ain't been worked since sixty-three. Took five hundred men four years to find out these parts ain't in the Comstock Lode."

  "Maybe these guys don't believe it," Fats insisted.

  The wind was getting colder and increasing in force. They hadn't crossed a trail since the trek had begun and the stars which had guided Edge thus far were fast disappearing behind scudding clouds. "Let's go see," he said.

  Fats clambered eagerly over the crest of the hill and Edge quickly worked the action of the Winchester. The sharp metallic sound froze the fat man to a halt. "Holy cow," he said, the words sounding almost painful as they squeezed from his constricted throat.

  "How'd he get to live so long?" Edge asked Blue as both men eased themselves to their feet.

  The stupid got a protecting angel all their own," the thin man replied with a shrug.

  "Seeing he's so anxious, he can go first," Edge said. "But take it easy, Fats. Like you were out for a Sunday afternoon stroll on the banks of the Tennessee. And walk straight towards the fire. That way they're less likely to spot you and blow your head off."

  "They're miners, I tell you," Fats said, but his tone lacked conviction.

  He moved off with circumspect slowness and Blue fell in behind him, close and stooping slightly to use the obese body of his partner for cover. Edge held back for a few paces and stayed wide of the pair, Winchester at the ready.

  "Sure wish I was armed," Fats whispered when they were halfway across to the fire.

  "You got knives," Edge said.

  "How'd you know...?" It was Fats who voiced the surprise, and Blue turned his head to give Edge a startled look.

  Edge grinned at him. "Man out in this country needs a knife as much as air to breathe. I hoped you'd make a try. That would have given me an excuse to kill you."

  They were close enough now for their voices to be heard on the far side of the blazing fire, but the words had drawn no reaction. Puzzled, Edge went wider still from the course taken by Fats and Blue, and then saw the reason. The fire had in fact been built at the mouth of a third mine entrance. But he was still puzzled, for the smoke from the burning tunnel supports was borne by the wind directly into the adit. The interior should have been a choking smoke chamber. He snatched a glance at the four horses and saw they were unsaddled. There was no pile of saddles, bedrolls or weapons nearby.

  "Man, this is heaven," Fats said.

  Edge looked across at the two men and saw they were crouched in front of the fire, leaning close, palms extended towards its warmth. He moved close to the fire himself, welcoming the heat. But he allowed himself to enjoy it for only a few moments before jerking his rifle, indicating the two should head towards the adit.

  "We'll suffocate in there," Blue complained when he saw the column of thick black smoke pouring into the mine entrance.

  Edge reached across the front of his body with his left hand and hooked the Colt from its holster. He moved towards Blue, who looked at him with a fresh wave of fear emanating from his deep set eyes.

  "Turn around," Edge hissed.

  "Mister…" Blue gasped.

  Edge's eyes were slits of blue iridescence, demanding compliance. Two rows of gleaming white teeth threatened the reward of disobedience. Blue turned around. Edge placed his right forearm around the man's throat, and locked the hold with the length of the Winchester pressed between his chest and Blue's back. He jammed the muzzle of the Colt hard into the prisoner's left hip.

  "Like with the horses, Fats," Edge said. "You do anything to let them know we're here before I'm ready and this guy gets a non-fatal wound. If that's a two-dollar word, it means he won't die. But he'll hurt for a long time. Move."

  More spittle trickled down the obstacle course of the fat man's chins as he took a deep breath and inched into the smoky entrance. Blue and Edge also drew in lungfuls of fresh air before they moved into the smoke trap.

  But it wasn't that at all. It was like a nebulous grey-black curtain hung across the mouth of the mine entrance for just inside there was a wide crack in the ceiling of the tunnel. And by some freak of natural air currents trickling through the mountain, the smoke was sucked up into this vent and carried off to an outlet. The air beyond the entrance was warm and almost clean: not entirely fresh for the oily smell of kerosene tainted it.

  "Two-and-a-half grand, fellers," a man said. "Mason Wilder's two-and-a-half big ones lighter." A burst of laughter travelled down the tunnel after the words. Fats began to tremble with fear as he stared ahead to where a faint glow of light filtered around a bend.

  "Terrific, Miller," a second voice said with high excitement. "Your pa will be proud of you."

  Edge kept his grip on Blue and urged him forward. Fats fell into step beside them. The tunnel bent only slightly, then widened to twice its initial size. There was an upended crate in the center with a kerosene lamp and an untidy pile of bills on it. Four men sat on bedrolls and saddles around the crate, enjoying their situation. Edge thought there was something familiar about one of them. But he didn't waste time trying to pin it down. Instead, his eyes studied each of them, seeing the holstered sidearms and the two rifles resting casually against a bedroll. He sensed rather than heard Blue's sudden intake of breath.

  "Divvy up like always." This was the man Edge thought he should recognize. "I get double what you boys have?"

  Edge saw that the question was rhetorical. The man glanced at each of his companions and smiled easily as he received a reluctant nod of assent.

  "Sure, Miller," one of them agreed.
"You planned it."

  The man named Miller reached out a grubby hand to pick up the money.

  "You men ought to get unionized," Edge said suddenly.

  At the sound of the voice the four whirled towards the mine entrance, three reaching for their holsters, the leader diving for a rifle. As Fats went to the floor, whimpering, Edge shoved Blue away from him. The Colt bucked in his hand, spitting orange flame as it pumped bullets towards the startled quartet. One man screamed and clawed at a blossoming of blood in the center of his stomach. A second got off a shot but it only chipped rock out of the ceiling as the revolver spun from a hand from which two fingers hung by blood-soaked tendons. Miller fired the single-shot Sharps and Hankins Army rifle and Edge heard Blue scream. The Colt clicked empty and Edge crouched, throwing the rifle to his shoulder. Miller was drawing his revolver. The fourth man was aiming. Edge fired, pumped, fired. The fourth man grew a hole, like a third eye, in the center of his forehead and fell in front of Miller. The gang leader fired at point blank range into the side of the dead men's face. Miller flipped over backwards, twitching in his death throes as the heavy caliber bullet buried itself in his heart. The man with the injured hand pushed his arms high in the air. Two fingers on his left hand hung limply in front of his palm, dripping blood down the, inside of his coat sleeve. The smoke of gunfire drifted across the wide tunnel with the texture of a summer mist. But it smelled of death.

  Edge came out of his crouch, looking to left and right, seeing Fats stretched out full length, face pressed against the ground with his arms hugged over his head and Blue rolled up in a ball with a patch of blood staining the left shoulder or his coat. Edge was disappointed. It was a good coat.

  "You can look now, Fats," he, muttered. "Your guardian angel came good again."

  "Christ, mister," the man with the injured hand croaked as he looked around at his dead companions. "You killed them."

  "Yeah," Edge answered. "I'm worried about the population gettin' too crowded around here."

  He advanced towards the crate as Fats scrambled to his feet and helped to haul Blue upright.