“If he can, and we can mount it on a wagon to accompany the stage or freight wagons, we’ll have one nasty surprise for our outlaw tormentors the next time they hit us.”
“By dang, I’d shore like to be thar when that happens,” Squint growled.
“First things first. Let’s go on to Reno tomorrow and then on back to Carson City. I want to start putting my army together.”
“You ever see a Gatling gun shoot, Marty?” Carson asked.
“Once, in a demonstration at Fort Reno, in Wyoming Territory. It was fearsome.”
“I can’t wait to try it,” Carson bubbled in youthful anticipation.
They settled in for the night on new-mown hay just delivered by a local farmer. Surrounded by the others, Marty relaxed and slept soundly. The next morning as the sun was rising, they rode out of Virginia City for Reno. The route was once again steep and winding until they cleared the mountain, then an easy ride into Reno. After delivering the mail for Reno and picking up the deliveries for Carson City, they hit the road again the next morning. It was a quiet trip. As Carson City came into view, Malcolm sighed and spoke to Carson, who was sitting across from him.
“A successful run. I needed to get that mail delivered. The contract is about the only thing between me and complete ruin.”
Atop the rocking stage, Marty smiled grimly at Squint. “A safe run, my friend. Just the first of many, if things go the way I have them planned.”
“How often do plans go the way ya lay ’em out?” was all Squint had to say.
Chapter 17
Plans Are Made
The trip convinced Marty that he had enough knowledge about the outlaws’ operation to start finalizing his plans to thwart their nefarious game, whatever its purpose.
He walked with Malcolm toward the local café at noontime the next day. “Malcolm, I need fighting men. Do you have any ideas?”
“I have one man in mind: Johnny Harper. He was a captain in Hood’s Mounted Texas Dragoons. Lost his arm at Nashville, and came out here a year ago. Has been clerking at Dwyer’s Dry Goods Store since his claim didn’t pan out. He’s a good man and hasn’t had the best of breaks since he’s arrived. If you can overlook his missing arm, I think he’d be a good man for your little army.”
“I don’t know, Malcolm. Missing an arm?”
“I saw him whale the tar out of a miner half agin his size who’d insulted his wife. He didn’t need two hands then. He’s a stand-up man, fer a fact.”
“Well, it won’t hurt to talk to him, I guess. Lead on.”
Malcolm escorted Marty to the dry goods store and held the door open for him to step through. The interior was somewhat dimmer and a golden ray of sunshine from a transom above the door revealed sparkling motes of dust floating in the air.
The one-armed clerk stood behind a sales counter in the midst of selling some work clothing to a burly miner. Malcolm waited patiently until the sale was complete, then stepped to the counter. “Hello, Johnny. How goes yur day?”
“Why, hello there, Malcolm. Fine, thank you. What can I do for you?”
Marty critically gauged the man. He was slender, medium height, with broad shoulders and a steady gaze. He was dark enough that Marty wondered if there might be Mex blood in him, not that it mattered. His brown eyes were direct and frank, and the man had an appealing habit of looking at you when he spoke.
“Johnny, this is a friend, Marty Keller. I’ve engaged him to help me rid myself of the outlaw gang that’s been plaguing my stage and freight operations. Marty, this is Johnny Harper.”
The handshake of Harper was iron hard. “My pleasure, Mr. Keller. Will you be needing some clothing?”
“No thanks, Johnny. May I call you Johnny?”
“Of course.”
“What I need is a small number of fighting men to act as a reaction force when I go up against the outlaws. Malcolm thinks you might be interested in being one of them.”
Almost subconsciously, Johnny rubbed the stump of this left arm with his right hand, advertising his handicap. “You certain about that, Mr. Keller?”
“Call me Marty. Yes, I am. I was thinking, if you were interested, you would be my second in command and in charge of their training. I’m gonna be pretty busy with other aspects of my plan and I might not have enough time to see to all the details. I was thinking about a salary of two hundred a month and a month’s bonus when the job’s done.”
Harper sighed. “The money sure sounds good. But I can’t quit my job here, Marty. I’ve got a wife to take care of.”
“I don’t want you to. I want to get men who are already working, so there are no questions asked about how they manage to survive. You’ll train them after work and on Sundays. Do you think you could find me eight to ten more good men? Able to ride hard, hold their own in a fight, be a good shot with rifle and pistol, and willing to put their life on the line for a hundred a month plus the bonus when it’s done?”
“That’s what a good miner makes now, and he has to work twelve hours a day, six days a week. Hard, backbreaking work too. How long you think it’ll take to bring this operation to a head?”
“I’m guessing a month, no more than two.”
“I know a lot of men who are scratching around town trying to get enough to grubstake themselves for a winter of prospecting. If I find some, they might not be working.”
Marty nodded. “Malcolm, could they do some stuff around your place, to placate any questions about their source of money?”
“How am I gonna pay ’em?”
“Use some of the money from Hearst. That’ll get ’em by the first month. After that, if it goes any longer, I’ll tap my bank in Texas to stake you.”
“All right, whatever you say.”
“All right, Johnny. Get started. Get the best men you can, and remember no polecats who’ll sell us out at the first opportunity.”
“I meet a lot of men in my business. I already think I have most of what you’ll need. What do you want me to do once I hire ’em?”
“Sunday morning, we’ll meet about ten o’clock. Where’s a good spot, Malcolm? Someplace to shoot and not arouse curiosity?”
Malcolm scratched his chin whiskers for a moment. “Up the Carson Creek Road. About a mile and a half outa town. There’s a steep clay bank that comes right down to the edge of the creek. Be a good place to shoot into.”
Johnny spoke up. “I know the place. The creek’s a good thirty feet wide there. And the ground to the south is open and flat for a couple a’ hundred yards. Be an ideal spot for both rifle and pistol practice.”
“It’s done, then. Have our little army out there then, Johnny. Malcolm and I will be out to look ’em over.”
“What if the men I hire don’t have rifles, or maybe even pistols?”
“Then we’ll outfit them. They can pay us back with their bonus money.”
“I’ll let you know when I’ve completed hiring my men. See you Sunday.”
“I’m going to be out of town awhile, so if I’m not there, just inform Malcolm.”
“Where you goin’, Marty?”
“I want to ride back to where the outlaws attacked the stage. Maybe I’ll learn a little about them. I’ll be back Friday night. In the meantime, I want you to plan on making a stage run Monday. I’ve got an idea for getting to Virginia City without being bothered by the holdup men.”
Marty and Malcolm returned to the freight office. “I’ve got a good feeling about Johnny,” Marty suddenly said. “He’ll give me a well-trained reaction force if I’m any judge of men.”
“I’ve liked him since I met him, over a year ago. When you plan on leavin’ fer yur scoutin’ trip?”
“Just as soon as I can put together some supplies.”
Carson overheard the statement. “Where you going, Marty?”
“I want to check out the land around the stage routes to Virginia City and on to Reno.”
“Marty, I want to go too. Will you allow me to accompany you?”
“Malcolm
, can you spare Carson for a spell?”
“I reckon so. You boys better be careful, though. Don’t get sucked in by the same men you’re after.”
“We’re just gonna poke around. We’ll make special pains not to get involved in anything over our heads.” Marty paused, then looked at Malcolm. “What’s it gonna take in wagons and mules to deliver the pumps to George Hearst from Reno?”
Malcolm thought for a moment. “About eight wagons and sixty-four mules.”
“Do you have that much equipment?”
“Nope. Up in Reno I’ve got four wagons and twenty-six mules.”
“And down here?”
“Two wagons and twelve mules.”
“Then you’re short two wagons and twenty-eight mules. How were you gonna handle that?”
“I sorta planned on makin’ two trips.”
“Never gonna work. We’ll take everything the first haul. Anyone else in Reno have any wagons and mules we might use?”
“Clem Atkinson has several wagons and plenty of mules. But he’s under personal contract to the Stoddard Mining Company. He isn’t allowed to loan or rent me anything.”
Marty nodded his head thoughtfully. “Um, looks like I’ll have to pay him a visit, once we’re ready to make our play.”
“He’s a decent fellow, Marty. It’s just that his hands are tied.”
Marty gave Malcolm an enigmatic grin. “That’s how I’ll leave him then, once the time is right.”
Marty and Carson rode out of town by way of the Carson Creek Road. Once they passed the spot where Johnny had spoken about for the Sunday target practice, Marty cut across the landscape until they were headed north on the Virginia City Road. Riding easily, they surveyed the countryside carefully, discussing any locations they thought potentially useful as an ambush site by the outlaws, until they reached the infamous Stagecoach Graveyard Pass.
There, Marty led the way into the trees, to where the outlaws had obviously hidden themselves prior to springing their ambush. He swung down from Pacer’s back and led his horse while he searched for a way to enter and exit the area. “I doubt if they rode over the top of the mountain, do you, Carson?”
“It’d be a fearsome climb if they did,” Carson answered. “If they had to run away in a hurry, they’d be in a world of trouble.”
Marty scuffed at the pine needles covering the ground. “We need some tracks to follow. What do you think? Did they go north, toward Virginia City, or south, back toward Carson City?”
Carson rubbed the back of his neck. “Danged if I can tell.”
“Well, think about it. What is your gut reaction?”
Carson paused, then pointed toward the north. “I’d guess north. If they came from the south, they’d have a hard climb up to here. It’s easier riding to the north, isn’t it? Seems like it to me.”
“A good guess,” Marty agreed. “Let’s continue on to the north, over the top of the pass, and see what we find.”
The two men had not ridden a half mile when they ran into the stream that cut across the roadway. It was the very one the outlaws had used to hide their trail after the last holdup. “Let’s see if this stream leads anywhere,” Marty said. “Keep your eyes open for any sign that men on horseback have come this way.” They urged their horses into the sparkling water and rode toward the top of the mountain, still far above them.
After only a few hundred feet, the stream flowed past the side of a large flat expanse of hard stone providing a natural exit from the cold water. Numerous scars on the dark chirt was visible testimony that many horses’ hooves had scraped their way across the flintlike stone. Marty slowly led the way across the dark rock to a well-worn path that followed the contour of the hill around to the back or east side of the mountain. Signs of heavy use by mounted men were everywhere. Horse droppings littered the trail, and tree branches that overhung the path were broken or rubbed free of pine needles.
“I’d guess this is the way they got to the back side of the mountain, wouldn’t you?” Marty asked his companion.
“Absolutely,” Carson agreed.
They came upon a clearing where they could view the countryside to the east. Numerous farms and ranches were scattered in the valley below, and a road was visible, running north to south at the base of the mountain.
“Look out there,” Marty said, sweeping his hand across the scene from their vantage point. “At least a dozen places where outlaws could be waiting, within thirty minutes of a perfect ambush site. What would it take to get them the word that a stage or freight convoy was on the way to Virginia City?”
Carson squinted his eyes. “Maybe a lookout? Watching the trail.”
Marty shook his head. “I don’t think so. That would mean men just sitting in one place for long periods of time. Someone would be bound to notice. Perhaps a lookout in the town? He could blend in with the other men just loafing or between jobs in the mines. A couple of strong horses—what is it, twenty miles to both Virginia City and Carson City from here? And most of the attacks have been between Virginia City and Carson City. A couple between Reno and Virginia City, but none in the opposite direction, and only one between Carson City and Virginia City. Why?”
“Someone wants to keep Virginia City from being supplied, but doesn’t care about what goes the other way?”
“Perhaps. And perhaps because they can’t get information to the gang in time, I don’t know. But I’d bet that if we could follow our outlaws, they’d ride down there to one of those ranches, as sure as I’m sitting here right now. Come on, let’s head on down and visit a few of the ones closest to the road down there. See if we run across anything interesting.”
At the base of the mountain, they turned right and rode toward a nearby entrance gate. It led to a functional-looking ranch about a mile off the road. The ranch, called the Lazy L, had its main cluster of buildings centered on a small stream that ran toward the east. The owner, Horace Livingston, was nearly sixty and no stranger to hard times and harder work. He was quite friendly and invited Marty and Carson to share the noon meal. Marty instinctively liked the old rancher and after eating told him some of the reason for his visit.
“There’s only about six other ranches along what we call the Ranch Road that you might want to visit,” Horace replied. “After that, you run on to the Peavine Ranch. It has land all the way to the other side of Virginnie City. Old man Morse has been around here fer nigh onto thirty years now. I doubt if he’s harborin’ any outlaws on his place.”
“Mr. Livingston, if you had to guess, would any of the ranches along the road be a good candidate?”
“I hate to speak bad of anyone, Marty. But since I’m gonna say you held my feet to the fire, the only one that comes to mind is the V bar B. It’s under new ownership and the man ain’t friendly a’tall, which is plumb foolish iffen you wanna survive as a rancher in these times. But I could be all wrong, so’s I don’t want you to jump to the wrong conclusion based on my say-so.”
“Well, I guess it won’t hurt for Carson and me to ride up and see if there’s anything amiss. We’ll stop at all the ranches until we reach the Peavine Ranch, I reckon. Come on, Carson, we’d best get started if we plan to make it to all six before the sun goes down. Please keep our conversation private, Mr. Livingston, if you would.”
“Certainly. Now how ’bout some hot coffee afore you boys hit the road?”
Marty and Carson rode down the road toward the ranch house for the V bar B. “We’ll say we’re looking for some work to earn a grubstake, Carson. I imagine everyone along here has heard that story before.”
The ranch buildings were run-down and badly in need of ordinary maintenance. Marty and Carson stopped at the front steps to the main house, and waited for an invitation to get off their mounts. Several men stepped out of the bunkhouse and watched them with hard eyes. “An unfriendly looking lot, aren’t they?” Carson whispered softy.
“Doesn’t seem to be much work going on, does there?” Marty replied. He paused as he
caught movement out of the corner of his eye.
A man swung open the front door and walked over to the edge of the porch. “Whaddya two saddle bums want?”
Chapter 18
Suspicion
“Howdy.” Marty took off his hat. “Mighty warm today, ain’t it? Are you the ramrod or owner of this here spread?” Marty slurred his natural Southern drawl to imply his ordinariness.
“I’m the owner. Whaddya want?”
“Name’s Mike and this here is Chris. We’re lookin’ to make a little to build up a grubstake. You got any work fer a few weeks?”
“Nope. Ain’t interested in bankrollin’ none a’ you tenderfoots who think you can find the next bonanza. Hit the trail.”
“Sorry to hear that, Mr. . . . ?”
The man sighed in exasperation. “I’m Vernon Barton. I own this ranch and I don’t need no help. Make tracks.”
“All right if we water our horses, Mr. Barton?”
“Yeah, I reckon. Then don’t let the front gate slap ya in the ass on yur way out.” He called out to one of the men lounging beside the bunkhouse wall, watching the interplay. “Joaquin, let these two saddle bums water their horses and then escort ’em to the road.”
“Sí, Jefe.” The Mexican pushed away from the wall and walked toward Marty and Carson. “You heer Señor Barton. Water your hosses and then move on. Comprende?”
“Yeah, we’re goin’. Don’t get your long johns bunched.”
“That fellow was certainly an unpleasant sort, wasn’t he?” Carson stiffly remarked as they rode down the road away from the ranch turnoff.
“That he was. Unfortunately, it doesn’t prove that he’s behind all the holdups.”
“Well, my daddy used to say, ‘Where there’s fire, there’s smoke,’ or something like that.”
“Let’s reserve judgment until we’ve visited the rest of the ranches along our route.” Marty chucked his spurs lightly into Pacer’s side. “Get going, Pacer. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover before dark.”
By the end of the second day, Marty and Carson had interviewed themselves all the way to Virginia City and beyond. The owner of the Peavine Ranch, a crusty old Southern gentleman named Noah Peabody, told them about the same story as Livingston. “I don’t know what I can do to help ya, Marty, but whatever it is, you jus’ call on me. Nevada’s had enough of lawlessness.”
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