Copper

by Krystal M. Anderson

  Return fire rang out from the east. Assuming Ike was getting involved in the shoot-out, Mac shouted for Hal to retrieve his firearm and move that direction to circle behind Ike and Story.

  “What about you?”

  “I’m going to follow Crooked Montgomery and Marcos.”

  Bullets were flying back and forth, the twangy sound of metal striking rock in ricochet increasing the danger. Mac stayed low and kept moving, following the direction Montgomery fled. Trying to find the gold himself, the conniving wolf. Ike Grisham isn’t going to like that one bit… He heard the round ricochet a fraction of a second before he felt it bury itself into his left side, just below his ribs.

  Fiery pain spread its fingers from the point of impact, stealing his breath and causing him to stumble. Gritting his teeth, Mac threw himself onto his back. Trembling fingers sought the wound, tenderly examining what his eyes could not perceive in the dark. Now his breath came in short bursts and he took a large gulp of air when his fingertips touched the metal bullet burrowed just beneath the skin. It’s not deep, I’ll be fine… I’ll be fine…

  Shakily he rose to his feet, a hand pressed over the wound. The searing torment he endured just to use his muscles to stand nearly brought him to his knees. Groaning seemed to help, and Mac tried to focus on putting one foot in front of the other, again and again. I can’t let him get away…he won’t…

  When he’d painstakingly crept beyond the towering presence of Coyote Rock and the sound of the shots ringing off the rock walls indicated he was out of range, he broke out at a lopsided run toward the horses. Three had gathered fitfully near a small stream and were stamping uncertainly as he approached. Did Lester and Marcos already have the other two? It was impossible to decipher tracks in the dark. Deciding to walk downstream and see if they had wandered further, Mac kept his eyes and ears open to any sign of the deserters. It was quiet – the shootout had ceased. Who would still be standing when he returned to camp?

  Hesitantly, as if reluctant to shed light on the dark deeds done that night, the sun began to lighten the black sky to a dull gray. Finding a soft, grassy patch near the stream irresistible, Mac sank to his knees and probed the lesion again. He could keep searching…. Or he could just lie here and rest, which sounded infinitely more appealing…

  Then he heard it: the sharp report of a handgun firing just ahead and to the east. Now he had his man. Mac climbed to his feet stiffly and did a sort of hop-run toward a clump of rocks, grimacing in pain. Cries of agony guided him to an outcropping with an overhang, heavy foliage and grass obscuring much of its opening. Silently he crouched in the brush to listen and, hearing nothing but the jagged breathing of someone just inside, he parted the branches to look through.

  Marcos leaned against the rock wall, his pale face contorted with pain. Blood oozed from a wound in his stomach which he clutched with his arms. A six-shooter lay at his boots, the steel of the barrel glinting from the soil and grass attempting to obscure it. The wound looked bad; much worse than his own, Mac noted bleakly.

  Crooked Montgomery, however, received the worst of all. His lifeless body was lying prone on the rocky ground, characteristic sneer still in place, his glittering eyes staring vacantly at his infamous derringer still clasped in his hand. A crimson pool of blood surrounded his middle, turning the patches of sand beneath him into a sticky mud.

  Mac pushed his way under the overhang and began unbuttoning his shirt. Ripping it into two halves, he folded each in half and wrapped one around Marcos and one around himself. Marcos, saying nothing, followed the movements of Mac’s hands with half-focused eyes. Death had claimed a hardened, lawless soul. Fitting, that it took an outlaw to kill an outlaw like Lester. Mac stared at Crooked Montgomery for a moment, letting the truth of his demise sink in. They’d been after him for months, and now… now he was no more.

  “Where’d you get the gun, Marcos?”

  Shakily, he turned to look at Mac. “I p-pulled it off Montgomery.”

  “Why here? Is this where the gold is buried?”

  The silence stretched long enough that Mac figured Marcos was either losing consciousness or wandering in a stupor of pain or near-death; maybe both. His shirt-bandage was already soaked through, so Mac pulled his bandana off and pressed it to Marcos’s abdomen. Eyes flying open, Marcos gasped and tried to thrash. “We’ve got to slow the bleeding if you’re going to make it home, Marcos. You press hard as you can stand and I’ll help you walk out of here. You ready?”

  Both of them grunted and groaned getting out into the open, and Mac grimaced as a fresh wave of torment assailed him, his injured flesh protesting the additional weight from supporting Marcos. It seemed to take hours until they reached camp, and the minute they came within sight, Hal ran to meet them.

  “I take it we got ‘em?” Mac asked in relief.

  “Yes, but Deputy Chalice took a bullet. So have you, I see.” Hal took Mac’s place, bracing himself below Marcos’s shoulder and wrapping an arm around his body. “Did you find Lester?”

  “He’s back in a cluster of rocks on the other side of the stream, down toward the emigrant trail. When we get Marcos situated, I’ll take you down there to retrieve the body and horses.”

  Shock widened the attorney’s eyes to the size of dinner plates. “The body?”

  Looking Hal square in the eye, Mac nodded. “He’s dead, Hal. You’re free of Crooked Montgomery at last.”

  “I can’t wait to hear how you managed it. No offense, but you look terrible, Mac.”

  He tried to grin but it felt distorted. “I need water.”

  “And a shirt,” Hal added under his breath, leading them to the fire.

  Finding a place in the shade, Mac sat and drank from a canteen. The cool water soothed his dry throat and eased his gnawing hunger pains. Dalton was cooking breakfast over the fire, some powder biscuits and bacon, Chalice and a disgruntled Ike looking tiredly on. Story was sprawled on his bedroll asleep, his wrists and ankles tied and secured to a thick tree trunk. Having had nothing but jerked venison, dried apples, and hardtack for the past four days, the hot, simple fare seemed like a banquet. Mac’s mouth watered anxiously.

  Someone had collected Bonanza and Red, and – to take his mind off the sizzling bacon – Mac stalked gingerly to the flashy paint to pat his soft nose. “At least you don’t look any worse for the wear. Let’s take that tack off, shall we?” With deft fingers he loosened the cinch and lifted the saddle and pack clear, returning to remove the bridle. “I’ll bet that feels better, doesn’t it?” Mac did the same with Bonanza, tethered the pair to a tree near some sweet green grass, and came back to his pack to find a spare shirt. Using some of the boiling water over the fire, Mac dabbed at the hole in his side, freed the bullet with clenched teeth, then wrapped it up with fresh bandages from his pack.

  Breakfast had never tasted so good. Mac ate his share before hand-feeding Ike and Story, who both had limited use of their hands. Dalton asked him a few questions between draws from his quirley, offering a single nod by way of praise. “Next time, Walley, it’d be nice if you didn’t need saving in the first place.”

  “What happened here?” Mac began, fatigue pressing on him now that his belly was full.

  Deputy Chalice, cradling his right arm in a temporary sling, said, “The sheriff and I were firing from the rocks just up the hill but weren’t making much progress once Story had taken cover. Then Hal came ‘round from the back with Ike, weaponless, marching in front of him. Story was easy to persuade after that.”

  “It was Mac’s idea,” Hal interjected.

  “Well, it worked.”

  “What now?”

  The sheriff looked from face to face. “Considering the pace we’ve been keeping, I think it’d do us all some good to rest for the day. We’ll need to bury Nettle and Montgomery, of course, then we’ll leave at dawn tomorrow morning.”

  “We bringing Ike and Story to Silver City?”

  “Nah, let’s take ‘em to Corinne. It’ll be much e
asier talking with the special agent face to face, and it’s closer. Let their sheriff worry about ‘em. Walley, do you think you can ride guard with me?”

  “With rest.”

  “That leaves Hal to ride to Rock Creek with Chalice and Marcos. You’ll have to ride a slow pace with those injuries, boys. I’m expecting it’ll take a week to get back.” To Mac, he said, “How ‘bout you saddle up one of the horses and take me to Crooked Montgomery. Horner, you stay and guard Grisham and Story while they dig two graves for their compadres.”

  Beads of sweat ran tracks from his temples as Mac and Dalton pushed through the bushes near the overhang. “Sheriff, is Marcos going to be tried for killing Montgomery?”

  “Most likely. Why?”

  “He said he pulled the six shooter from Crooked Montgomery and fired. Why would he do that unless he thought Montgomery was ready to kill him?”

  Dalton looked thoughtful. “Maybe he didn’t want to expose his cache.”

  This time, Mac noticed something he hadn’t noticed before. Crooked Montgomery was still there, his body beginning to bloat in the heat, but there, against the rock wall, was a pair of shovels.

  “Or maybe he already did. You think the gold is buried here? I asked Marcos but he didn’t respond.”

  “One way to find out,” Dalton said through a puff of smoke from his ever-present quirley. Stepping over the dead outlaw, the sheriff picked up a shovel and began digging in the center. Mac joined him reluctantly, unsure if he had enough life left in him to dig a hole. Dalton would expect the help, however, so he pressed through the pain until the tremors wracking his mid-section were too strong to ignore. Thankfully, nearly three feet down, the dull thud of the shovel making contact with something hard resonated through the rocky hollow. Mac sank to his knees and swiped his damp brow with his shirt sleeve.

  Dalton maneuvered the shovel around the object until a large, flat stone was exposed. “Help me move it,” he grunted. That stone had to have been at least four hundred pounds, and Mac looked at it dubiously before bracing himself at one end, ready to push. They heaved and strained, tugging the rock to the surface, the effort causing fresh blood to pulse from the bullet hole. Mac looked into the pit with a sharp intake of breath.

  Gleaming gold bars, all twelve of them, were stacked three deep on what looked to be a hefty stone foundation. A thrill shot up and down his spine. “We’ve found it,” he breathed hoarsely.

  The gold reflected in Dalton’s deep brown eyes as he stared at the loot. He hopped down into the hole and picked up a single, smooth bar. “Let’s cover it back up,” he ordered, motioning for Mac to take his side of the flat rock.

  “Cover it up? Aren’t we going to return it?”

  Dalton shot him a patronizing look. “We’re by no means outfitted to take twelve-hundred pounds of gold with us, Walley. I’ll bring this one in as proof we found it, and the special agent can bring a wagon along to retrieve it.”

  Nodding, Mac did as the sheriff asked, scolding himself to keep his mouth shut until he was thinking clearly again. By the time they hauled Crooked Montgomery’s body into camp, Mac looked upon the saddle and its removal as though it were as difficult as disassembling Coyote Rock and reassembling it one mile to the south.

  He was barely aware when Hal said, “You look pale, Mac. Why don’t you go lie down – I’ll help the sheriff finish up and wake you when it’s your turn to keep guard.”

  Stumbling to a green patch barely long enough to accommodate his length, Mac sank to his back and slept.

  Fifteen

  G ill Mabry arrived one minute after Joan had put the first of the pound cakes she was baking for the school fundraiser in the oven, and he wasn’t alone.

  “Mr. Mabry, Mr. Tracy, good day to you both.”

  Pete removed his hat, his gaze jumping to the kitchen where the faint scent of baked sweetness was wafting from.

  “Hello, Mrs. Walley. I hope we didn’t catch you at a bad time. Do you think your husband might be free to leave the livery for a few minutes?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Mabry, but Mac isn’t in town. He rode out with a posse over a week ago.”

  “Oh? Chasing Indians this time? I hear there are some Paiute camped just south of here, along the creek.”

  This news made her pause. Could Mac and the others have been stopped, or worse, by the Indians? If they had, surely she would have heard something by now. “No, actually. News of the Grisham Gang sent them east, to the City of Rocks.”

  “Now that’s a place I’d love to see,” Mr. Mabry chuckled. “Rocks are my livelihood! I hope they return soon, anyway.”

  “Thank you, so do I. Now what have you come to discuss?”

  “Mr. Tracy and I are here to update you as to the status of the mine, as I’ve performed a more thorough analysis of the minerals there.”

  “Then please, take a seat. I will help in any way I can. Just give me a moment to account for the children.”

  “Certainly.”

  Joan stepped to the window and called to Jesse. “Son, could you please take Chunhua and Noah to the livery to help Michael? I’ll be along to collect you very soon.”

  “Yes, mama,” Jesse replied, waving the younger two along with a bounce to his step. She watched them walk across the street, inserted a broom straw into the center of the pound cake in the oven, and joined the miners in the sitting room with a tray of sliced bread and butter.

  “Mm, your cooking sure beats all, Mrs. Walley.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Mabry.”

  It was impressive - or abhorrent, depending on how you looked at it - how quickly the young man wolfed down a slice. “I took some ore samples at various depths of the Crescent. The upper levels, as Mr. Tracy here so emphatically asserted, contain very little of anything but basalt or granite. I can see that the silver vein dips deeper, below the fourth level, though excavating a new level is quite costly. You’ll need capital should you choose to pursue this, but I do think the silver ore rich enough that the costs could be recouped in as little as six months. It is on the west side of the third level, however, where I believe you should focus your efforts. White quartz fills the wall, and if you excavate it, there are sure to be some silver sulphides in addition to the copper.”

  “And there is value to the copper?”

  “Sure. I’d expect about twenty cents per pound, and that can be amalgamated and smelted at any of the mills nearby.”

  “Twenty cents!” Pete scoffed, his face growing crimson. “Mrs. Walley, a pound of gold is worth over three-hundred dollars, and it’s the same work to dig it out!”

  “But we’ve already reached the deposit, is that right, Mr. Mabry?”

  “Correct, and I believe that to be stretching the truth a little, Pete. Gold typically runs in veins, not deposits, and is therefore much more tedious to mine.”

  “Did you know the Crescent held copper, Mr. Tracy?”

  “Yes, and so did Harris, but we left it there because it’s not worth the payout. Trust me, Joan.”

  “How can I when you’ve made to swindle me right from the beginning, Pete?” It was time to voice her suspicion. Joan jumped to her feet and lifted her chin. “It probably wasn’t requisite that I marry in the first place, was it?”

  Both men avoided her gaze, Pete out of guilt, Mr. Mabry out of discomfort. It was answer enough. How could she have been so naïve? She should have marched straight to Mr. Horner’s office and asked a few questions before accepting that what Pete told her was truth. Embarrassment brought heat creeping up to her cheeks and ears. What must these men think of her? What would Mac think, if he knew? Would he wish to annul the marriage?

  Fear shrouded her heart and mind but she buried it under a mask of anger. “Mr. Tracy, I’d like to see the contract you and Harris wrote up, as well as the deed for the Crescent.”

  “Why?”

  Her nostrils flared. “I’m taking them to an attorney to determine what our working relationship is, exactly. In the meantime, why don’
t you start working the copper deposit? I don’t have the funds to add a fifth level to the mine, and I’m guessing you don’t, either. This way, at least we’ll get something.”

  The irritation at being found out by a woman was evident on Pete’s face, but he reluctantly agreed to Joan’s demands.

  She led them to the door, thanking Mr. Mabry for his report. “Now if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have another pound of flour to sift.”

  ~~~~~

  “Mama, can I please play marbles with the other boys?”

  Joan balanced a cake in each hand, carefully avoiding children running excitedly in the school yard. “Yes, Jesse. Stay where I can see you, please.”

  “Okay!” he shouted, bounding away. Noah and Chunhua, wanting to watch, followed.

  Several mismatched tables had been hefted outside to make a long row near the steps of the white schoolhouse. Joan directed her feet straight to them, and just in time, too; her arm muscles were beginning to burn. Vera Schrep and Gertie Highman were both there, spreading clean checkered table cloths over each table.

  “Mrs. Walley, how nice to see you today!” Gertie grinned, her plump cheeks pinking up in the warm afternoon sun. “My, those pound cakes look divine!” She took one from Joan and placed it on the end table, commenting on the texture of the cake and the eye-catching display of glaze dripped over top. “It probably took you all day to bake them. Thank you very much for working so hard to help raise the funds desperately needed to furnish the school.”

  To Joan’s disappointment, Vera followed.

  “They look edible,” she sniffed, but Joan smothered a satisfied smile at the way her gaze lingered appreciatively on the cakes.