by Jory Sherman
That's when he saw them. The snow hit a natural barrier of trees and brush above the trail and winds had swept much of the drifting snow off the road. Four bodies told him the story. He found Pops first and pried him away from the side of the mountain where he had frozen. A gaping hole in Spinard's forehead was blue around the edges, almost black. Clay went on, finding Joe Van Hoke and Jenks together, shot in their chests. Their eyes were closed, the skin of their faces stretched tight from the constricting cold. Clay was almost afraid to keep going, afraid of finding the body of his friend, Andy O'Keefe.
He staggered down the trail, stunned, the snow drifting down steadily, the wind still calm. He saw Andy, then, just around the bend. He knew it was him, though the man's back was turned to him. He had been hoping against hope that his friend would be alive, that he had managed to escape somehow and hole up as he had. Now, he knew.
He forced himself to look at his friend, to see how he died. It was anything but pretty. Andy's face wore the frozen look of surprise and horror on it. His eyes were open, blank with snow frozen to the pupils.
"Damn, Andy," Clay breathed aloud. "That's no way to go."
He looked at what was left of Andy O'Keefe. The man's face was gouged with ugly purple holes. Matted blood, a deep red, curled along one side of his head. His hand was still outstretched as if to ward off his attacker one more time. The man who had done this was vicious, Clay thought, an animal, a killer who took pleasure in seeing his victims writhe in agony.
Clay stood up, sickened by the sight of what had once been his closest companion and friend. "I'll get him for you, Andy," he swore. "I'll make him pay dearly for this."
He laid Andy by the side of the road and looked back toward the others. The ruts continued up the next slope, still visible where the snow was deepest. So, the coach had gone on. To where? He didn't know, but he knew he had to find out. He had to get to Belleville and get on the trail of the butchers who had done this.
He began walking, staying to the windblown edges of the trail where the snow was less deep. The sky continued to lighten. He munched on jerky to keep his body warmth high. He walked slowly, knowing that tiredness meant sleepiness and sleepiness meant death. In some places, the snow was waist deep. He floundered through these drifts, wishing he had snowshoes, yet not wanting to take the time to build a fire, cut manzanita branches, then bend, weave and bind them into a shape that would allow him to walk over the snow.
There was something ahead of him. He stood still, listening. He went into a crouch, his Hawken at the ready. He cocked it and slunk low ready to jump behind a tree if he was attacked. He moved ahead, slowly.
He nearly leaped for joy when he saw the spare horse he had brought along on the stage. The animal was nibbling under the snow, trying to find nourishment. Clay was able to walk up to him and throw his arm around his neck. "Easy, boy," he soothed. He threw the bridle on and leaped up on his back. "We'll get you fed, old boy," he said. "Just get us over this trail to Belleville."
The horse was wobbly on its legs, confused. Clay knew he wouldn't have lasted long. He wasn't like the Indian ponies that could survive in heavy snows, find the roots of grasses beneath the snow and dig them out. Still, the animal was in surprisingly good shape. He wished he had some grain to feed him.
It was not far to Belleville, but the drifts got deeper as he rode. This part of the trail was flat and sheltered by the stands of trees on either side of the road. There were no landmarks, just the swath of road cutting through heavy timber. He knew he could not be far from Union Flats and after that, very close to Belleville.
He felt badly about losing the gold. But he felt worse about the men. They had been entrusted to his care and he had been caught by surprise. How was he to know that men would go against them in a storm like that? But, of course, they couldn't have known either that the snow would be so heavy, come down so fast. He was sure that this raid had been planned for a long time. A very long time.
Yet, no one was supposed to know about it. So far as he knew, only a handful of people knew about the large amount of gold the stage would be carrying. Garrison Morfit knew. So did Henry Wilson, his family, probably; Pops, himself. Andy hadn't known. So far as anyone really knew, this was just a stage run down the Cushenbery, over the Cajon Pass and into San Bernardino. Maybe the miners with the dust knew. That could be. Although the dust had been stored for some time just so that no one would know when it actually left Holcomb Valley.
Garrison had been careful about that. He had told Clay that no one was to know about this shipment. In light of all the other robberies, Clay had thought it a sound idea.
Well, somebody knew about it. Perez and Leffler knew. The man with them knew.
Was the other man the one he'd tracked near Union Flats the day before the stage left? He could be, but Clay doubted it. No, the man who'd met Perez and Leffler that day wasn't one to take the risks these three men did. He was the planner, the thinker, the schemer.
The trees thinned out and Clay prodded the horse to move a little faster. The drifts got taller and harder to ride through, even so. Belleville came into view. Smoke from chimneys rose white in the still air. Some cabins were nearly buried by drifts. The closer he got, though, he could see that there was plenty of life in motion. He could see men with shovels trying to clear the main street, trying to clear the snow around the windows of their cabins. Voices drifted back to him, but they still seemed far away.
A huge blanket of snow rolled in gentle undulations over Osborne Flats. The hanging tree stood gaunt against the sky, its twisted arms reaching out in all directions, like some anguished creature frozen into a grim monument of violent death.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The first man Clay saw in Belleville was Revard Lunt. "What in the hell are you doing here?" the husky miner asked Clay.
"Hell is right, Lunt. Meet me at Van Dusen's stable and keep your mouth shut." Clay was in no mood for explanations. His horse was about to drop and so was he. The last few yards had been the worst. Now, with the main street partially cleared, he knew he had to get the horse to the stable, feed him and water him if he was to live. Already, the animal was wheezing with what could be the beginnings of pneumonia.
Clay's body felt as if it were being skewered with a hundred knives. Every muscle begged for sleep, for warmth. Exposure was the enemy, and he'd had a sight of it. Lunt ran after him, his heavy body rolling like a buffalo's at chase.
Clay was glad to see that Jimmy had cleared the area in front of the stable doors. He called out and Jimmy opened them for him. "What're you doing here, Mr. Brand?"
"Grain and water this horse and bed him down with blankets," Clay ordered as he slid from the horse's back. "He's done in."
"So're you, from the looks of it," said Jimmy, taking the reins from Clay.
Lunt came puffing in a moment later. "What's the idea?" he asked. "Where's the stage? What happened? Did you get snowed in? Was there any trouble?"
Clay looked at him through sleepy eyes. He was suddenly exhausted. He knew his teeth would chatter if he let them. "Hold on, Revard," he said. "We had trouble. Don't ask too many questions. I need a drink and some fire to warm me."
"But something's happened. The gold! Where is it?"
"Shut up!" Clay ordered, his eyes coming to life. "I'm half dead, man."
"We can go to Octagon House. They got a fire going there. But, damn it, Brand, don't hold back on me. I was responsible for that there dust!" He glowered at Clay.
"And so was I," said Clay wearily, his mouth set tight. "Jimmy, get me another horse ready to ride as soon as the snow lets up. Come on, Revard, let's get that drink and I'll tell you all you want to know."
"Yes, sir, Mr. Brand," said Jimmy. "I've got two in fine shape, kept stabled during the night."
Clay lurched out of the stables and Lunt followed, his jaw straining to ask more questions, his mouth unable to open.
Octagon House was warm and not very busy. There was one man at the bar, thre
e more at tables. All were watching the snow fall and sopping up their sorrows with beer and whiskey. They all had opinions on the weather and Ken McElves was listening as best he could to all of them without venturing any of his own. His big dog, Coco, sat watching the door, his long tongue lolling out, his eyes glazed with a torpor that resulted from a habit the men had gotten into of feeding him surreptitious glasses of whiskey when Ken's back was turned. The dog was positively docile and about to fall over.
Clay sat down at a table and motioned to McElves. Lunt sat down, heaving his bulk into the chair with effort. "Let's have it straight, Brand," he said.
"Bring us a bottle, Ken," Clay said, "and two glasses." He took a deep breath. "You want it straight? All right. Answer some questions yourself first." Clay was tired and his mind whirled with thoughts.
"Shoot," said Revard.
"Did you know there was dust on that stage?"
"I did."
"Did the owners know?"
"I don't think so. Why? What happened to the stage?"
"We got ambushed on the way up to Baldwin."
Lunt let out a whistle.
"Keep it quiet right now, Revard."
"Okay. Okay."
"Do you know two men named Nat Leffler and Jingo Perez ? They call Nat the Sidewinder. Jingo's a Californio wearing big-roweled spurs."
Lunt shook his head. Ken brought the bottle and the glasses. Lunt poured while Clay laid out the money for the bottle. McElves took the money and left the two men who talked in whispers.
"These two men and one other grabbed the stage and shot four men. One of them was my friend."
Lunt's face contorted in a mixture of rage and surprise. Clay told him the whole thing. Lunt's face blew up like an adder's as he listened. "The miners will go crazy," Lunt said.
"I know."
"What're you going to do?"
"I'm going to find the men who did it and kill them."
"What about the gold?"
"I'll find that, too."
Lunt sat there for a long moment without saying anything. He poured himself a healthy drink and downed it, his face coloring only slightly. "You'd better," he said. "They've lynched a lot of people here. Some of them were guilty."
"Keep them out of my hair for a while. If you can." Clay stood up, looking down at the head of the Miners' Association. Lunt's eyes glazed over. His hands began to tremble.
Clay had one thing to do first, before he did any other. He walked back to the stables and told Jimmy to bring him a horse. He saddled it himself, trying to work out in his mind what he was going to say. He couldn't wait for the snow to stop, nor for his body to thaw out completely. This was something that had to be done. It wouldn't be easy.
He rode out on a fresh horse, warmed by the drink, a steady calm coming over him as he confirmed his own convictions. He dreaded the trip, but he had faced worse things. Death wasn't an easy thing to explain or understand. In some ways, the death of a friend was tougher to go with than the death of a relative. He had some experience with both situations.
He heard a commotion behind him before he'd gotten out of town. He stopped and turned to look. Three men were floundering through the snow on horseback. He could hear them shouting. Behind them, other men, on foot, were running and waving their arms.
Clay started to ride back toward them. He made out the figures. Two of them at least. Lunt and Morfit. Well, now the fat was in the fire! Maybe he should have gone to Garrison first, but he had been worried about Kathleen and she had been his primary concern. Well, there was nothing to do but face Garrison and get it over with. Damn that Lunt!
"Hold it right there, Brand," Garrison said.
Clay stared, unbelieving. Two rifles were aimed at his belly. The other man was Henry Wilson. Lunt, so far as he could see, was not armed. "What's the idea, Garrison?" Clay snapped.
"You've got some explaining to do, Brand," Wilson said.
"At gunpoint, Henry?"
Wilson's barrel wavered, but Garrison held his bead steady on Clay's midsection. The other people Clay had seen came running up.
"What happened to our gold?"
"Did he rob us hisself ?"
"You gonna shoot the varmint?" These from the crowd milling around the men on horseback.
"Shut up!" Garrison ordered. "Now, let's get to the bottom of this. Clay, mind telling us where you were going just now?"
Clay looked at Garrison with cold eyes. He didn't like the way this was shaping up. "You mean Lunt hasn't told you that, too? He told you everything else. We were ambushed yesterday and everyone was killed—everyone except me."
"I've been wondering about that," Lunt put in. "How come you wanted me to keep quiet and then you started getting out of town?"
"I asked where you were headed just now, Brand." Morfit said in a loud voice. He knew he had the upper hand and seemed to be enjoying the crowd that had gathered to see justice done.
"I was going to see Kathleen O'Keefe. Her father was killed."
"Get his gun, Henry. Don't move, Brand. You're going back into town with us."
"You're looking mighty like a vigilante outfit, Garrison," Clay told him while Wilson took his pistol from his holster. "You think I stole your gold?"
"Yeah, he did!" someone in the crowd yelled.
"Someone stole it, Brand," said Morfit. "And you're the only one alive who knows what happened to it. Hurry it up, we'll talk in town."
"You're making a mistake, Garrison. Jumping to conclusions. I had nothing to do with robbing that stage."
"We'll see about that, Brand. Just keep moving straight ahead."
Clay's mind raced with thoughts. They suspected him of either robbing the stage or being an accomplice. They had caught him leaving town. It looked bad, he admitted. He should have gone straight to Garrison and told him what had happened. His first obligation was to his employer. All he'd thought about was Kathleen, however. The death of her father was a heavy pack on his mind. He thought he'd bring her into town where she could be with sympathetic folk, then there would be time enough, after she was settled, to tell Garrison and Henry Wilson the story of the holdup.
They took him to the stables first. Men crowded in trying to get at Clay, but Lunt and Wilson kept them outside.
"So, you want to tell us what happened?" Garrison asked, his rifle still pointed at Clay.
Clay told him the same story he'd told Lunt. Everyone in earshot listened.
"You should have come to me first, Clay," said Garrison.
"I know. I was thinking of Kathleen O'Keefe. Andy was my best friend."
"Kathleen's at Henry's place," Garrison said.
"What?"
"I brought her in after you left when the storm started. I was worried."
"Then. . . ."
"She's all right. She doesn't know about this business."
"I'd like to be the one to tell her," he said.
"More likely you'll be swinging at the end of a rope," shouted a hot-headed miner named Willie Bill.
"He stole all our dust," yelled another one they called Gumbo.
"String him up!" cried Willie Bill.
"Now, not so fast!" Garrison boomed. "There'll be no lynching. The Miners' Association and the vigilantes have got to do this—legally. First, we'd better organize a party to go out and see what happened on the trail, pick up the bodies of the men who were murdered. Then, we'll see if there's reason to hold a trial for Clay Brand. In the meantime, Brand, you're fired."
Clay looked at Garrison, then at the crowd. They had become a mob, with Morfit as their unofficial leader. Firing him like this would add to their suspicions.
"Tie him up, boys. We'll hold him in the lockup shed until we get to the bottom of this." Garrison stepped back after he said this and men swarmed over Clay with leather thongs. They took his knife away, stripped him of his possibles bag.
The lock-up shed served as the jail and was across from Octagon House, part of an early cabin built by one of the miners. It had
windows that were barred with steel straps. There was room for only one or two people inside. It could be guarded from across the street, since there were no windows in the rear, only solid heavy logs.
The angry crowd of miners and townspeople pushed Clay ahead of them. He was thrown into the lock-up cabin and it was padlocked. He heard their mutterings for a long time after he was alone. The leather thongs cut into his wrists. He was tired and hungry.
Garrison could have prevented this, he thought. Instead, he had instigated the miners to hold him as though he were actually guilty of robbing the stage. He had fanned the flames of blind revenge when the facts weren't all in. Why? Garrison Morfit, he decided, was either protecting himself from blame or else he knew more about this than he admitted.
He thought of Kathleen O'Keefe and wondered how she would take the news of Andy's death. It should have been his place to tell her. Garrison would take care of that. He had even brought her to the Wilsons. Could it be that Garrison was the man she had been seeing? He didn't like to think of that. But it was there. The thought laid in his mind like a fused bomb. The fuse was lit and racing toward the powder. Did Morfit have the flint?
He wondered if there was a way to break out of the lock-up. He struggled with his bonds and felt them burn his wrists. Whoever had tied him up had first moistened the thongs. They shrank into his flesh like knives, tightening their grip on him like a noose around his neck.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The snow began to let up late in the afternoon. Ken McElves came over and brought a sack of food. Two men were with him that Clay didn't know. Vigilantes, he figured. They held guns on him while Ken untied him so that he could eat. "It looks bad for you, Clay," Ken said.
"Yeah, I know."
"They're saying you engineered the whole thing. That you hid the gold and made up the story about the road agents."
