The years had not been kind to the building. Wind, rain, and animals had all made their presence felt. But for a night or two it was shelter from the outdoors, and Corey felt comfortable inviting the others in to join them.
* * * *
"I can't believe you intend to bring those animals inside with us,” Mrs. Clifford complained.
Butler was not dissuaded by her protest. “These are valuable horses."
"It's too late and dark to fix up a stable for them,” Corey explained, “and we can't afford to let anything happen to them. If we're able to fix the stagecoach, we'll need the horses to pull us to the next station."
"If?” Mrs. Clifford asked. “I thought you said you could fix the stage."
Corey spread his hands. “I'll do my best."
"But I—"
Mrs. Clifford stopped in the entrance to the Nugget, staring in horror at the turned-over tables and the carpet of leaves and other detritus. “This cannot be happening! You cannot expect a woman such as myself to sleep in this room!"
"Mrs. Clifford,” Miss Parson asked, “what else do you expect the men to do? The stagecoach is broken and we are in the middle of the Wyoming wilderness. We have no help and so must fend for ourselves. Why make everyone feel worse by complaining? Put up with it because you have to and do everything in your power to help Mr. Callaghan fix the axle and wheel."
"But this is horrible!” Mrs. Clifford wailed.
Her husband put down their suitcase, stepped up beside her, and with a comforting arm around her waist guided her over near the fire.
"It's pretty bad,” Patrick agreed as he picked up the Cliffords’ bag. “But my Corey will get us out of this."
Butler looked up suddenly as if a new idea had just come to him. “Wait a minute, I'm the stage driver. I'll get us out of this."
"Oh, please be silent, you worthless old man!” Mrs. Clifford said. “It's your fault we're in this predicament."
* * * *
It was a mostly sleepless night for everyone. The old saloon creaked and croaked even before the wind picked up near dawn, and it exuded a musty, rotten odor that spoke of dead things in the walls and under the floorboards.
Whenever Corey opened his eyes he seemed to find someone staring at him. Mostly it was Mrs. Clifford or Dr. Fulton, but everyone seemed to engage in the pastime at some point in the endless evening. Butler was the worst of them. Corey had thought they were getting on well together, but he didn't like the way the old man peered at him from his chair across the room.
Mr. Clifford spent the night by the fireplace reading one of his books and only occasionally seemed to remember that they were in an abandoned town in the middle of nowhere. Patrick tossed restlessly to and fro, and Miss Parson sat propped over one of the small tables like she'd fallen asleep playing cards.
Around midnight, Corey rose and added wood to the fire, rekindling the blaze. Wyoming nights were cold, and the fire made the room much cheerier and more comfortable. He did the same around two o'clock and finally drifted off to sleep around three.
* * * *
"Who's there?” Mrs. Clifford shouted.
Corey leapt from sleep to groggy consciousness in the same motion that brought him springing to his feet.
"Out there!” Mrs. Clifford shouted, pointing with her finger. “Out the window!"
Corey whirled from facing Mrs. Clifford to facing the outdoors, staring through the broken glass into the dark Digby street.
"I don't—"
"It was a man!” Mrs. Clifford said, her voice trembling on the edge of hysteria.
Corey darted across the hall to get a better look. Everything outside of this room was darkness and deeper darkness. There was nothing even vaguely manlike visible.
"I saw him!” Mrs. Clifford insisted, “staring in the window at us while we were sleeping."
"I don't see him now,” Corey announced.
"There, there, Mabel,” Mr. Clifford said. “I'm sure you were just dreaming."
"I was not dreaming!” Mrs. Clifford retorted. “A man was watching us while we slept. Why don't one of you men go out there to find him?"
"Now Mabel,” her husband began again.
"As the Lord is my witness,” Mrs. Clifford swore, “I was not dreaming!"
"I ... I don't think going out in the dark is a good idea,” Dr. Fulton said.
"That's true,” Butler agreed. “There's lots of little dangers around an old mining town—sinkholes, cave-ins—"
"Mr. Callaghan,” Mrs. Clifford pleaded, angering Butler by interrupting him, “won't you please go outside and at least look for a sign?"
"He can't find any sign at night,” Butler said, bitterness tainting his voice.
"I can't find a sign anytime, Mr. Butler,” Corey said. He tried to make his voice sound light and hearty. He really didn't understand Butler's sudden hostility. “I don't have the skill."
He turned to Mrs. Clifford. “I'll go out there and look around if you want me to, but I have to be honest: I'm not going to find anyone in this darkness who doesn't want to be found."
Mrs. Clifford looked around her uncertainly, seeking support from the other passengers.
"It's quite possible,” Miss Parson said, “that you did see someone. I wouldn't be surprised if a few miners are still trying to work this claim. It would be natural for them to be curious about us and suspicious of our presence. I suggest we stay here tonight and in the morning, loudly and publicly go about our business as quickly as we can. Everyone will be happier when we leave again."
"I did see someone,” Mrs. Clifford insisted.
"I believe you,” Miss Parson said.
Dr. Fulton noticeably shuddered at this confirmation.
"Let's all go back to sleep,” Butler said.
Mrs. Clifford still looked frightened and uncertain, so Corey spoke up again. “It's up to you, Mrs. Clifford. I'll still go look around if you want me to."
Butler snorted at the suggestion.
"Mabel,” Mr. Clifford said, “let's just go back to sleep."
"All right,” Mrs. Clifford agreed at last. “If Mr. Callaghan believes it's safe to stay here."
Butler bristled. “As if he knows anything about it!"
"I think,” Corey said, “it's safer to stay inside than to wander about in the dark."
"All right then,” Mrs. Clifford agreed, wrapping her arms around herself and huddling down in her chair. Her eyes were glued to the window, looking for another glimpse of the stranger.
Corey returned to his own seat, knowing that none of them were going to get much more rest.
* * * *
Dawn broke on a hungry and exhausted group of travelers. Corey stood and stretched his weary muscles. “Mr. Butler,” he called with forced cheeriness. “Why don't you and I go see if we can scrounge some breakfast?"
Butler struck Corey with a baleful glare. “What makes you think you can give me orders?"
"No orders,” Corey said, “just an offer, if you'd like to come."
"I'll come,” Miss Parson volunteered. “There's probably an old garden with wild vegetables growing, and I'd like to find some water to drink and wash my face.
"Glad to have you,” Corey said. “Mr. Butler?"
Butler turned his back on Corey, so the boxer shrugged and left with Miss Parson.
"That problem is going to get worse, not better,” she observed when they had made their way a few dozen feet from the old saloon.
"Problem?” Corey asked.
"Mr. Butler wants to be in charge of things, but he doesn't know what to do. That makes him very jealous of you."
"That's foolish,” Corey protested. “I'm not in charge of anything."
"Of course you are. You are the only person here with the strength and the initiative to lead, and the only one who has any practical idea how to fix the stagecoach."
They wound their way behind a line of three small houses.
"Look,” Miss Parson said, pointing ahead of them. “Garden
s, just like I hoped. And there's a creek just beyond them."
The three small gardens were scraggly things, well picked over by the animals, but a variety of plants had survived, most noticeably squash and potatoes. They quickly filled Corey's cap and Miss Parson's hands, then decided to return to the Golden Nugget to share the good news with the others.
Their cheerful mood was spoiled when Corey almost stepped in fresh horse droppings. The two friends looked at each other. “Mrs. Clifford's visitor?” Corey asked.
Miss Parson shrugged. “I did think I heard a horse last night."
"I don't suppose Mr. Butler's horses could have gotten over here."
"No."
"What odds would you give that I'd find Dr. Fulton's suitcase if I walk back down the road to look for it?"
That got a smile from Miss Parson. “I respect you too much to take your money like that."
"You really think this is a miner?"
"It could be, but I doubt it.” Miss Parson began ticking off points on her fingers. “The man in the window, the missing suitcase, the horse and the droppings—those could all be a miner looking us over. But the stone in the road that started all of this—I just don't think so."
"Aye,” Corey said, “that makes sense to me. So who is stalking us, then, and what do we tell the others?"
"I don't know,” Miss Parson admitted. “I just don't know."
* * * *
In the end, they told the others nothing, deciding to wait and see if they noticed anything themselves. They brought the food they had gathered back to the saloon and emptied out Corey's duffle bag so they could carry more. Patrick and Mr. Clifford accompanied them back to the garden, along with Mrs. Clifford's admonition to wash the food this time before returning with it. Neither Patrick nor Mr. Clifford noticed the horse droppings, or at least they didn't comment on their significance if they did.
After breakfast, Corey prepared to find the wood he needed to repair the stagecoach. “Look,” he said, using the axle beam he had carried up the road as his model. “We're going to need a piece of wood about five feet long, six inches wide, and five or six inches thick. My first thought is to look in the actual mine. Those timbers are longer than we need, but with the axe we should be able to cut them down to size."
"That's my axe,” Butler noted.
"I know,” Corey said. “What's your point?"
"It's my axe,” Butler repeated. “I should be the one to use it."
Corey shrugged. “Whatever you want."
Butler seemed satisfied with that answer, so Corey continued. “Another possibility is some of these roof beams. They aren't quite the right size either, but I think we might make them work if we have to."
"What about these tables?” Dr. Fulton asked. “There are a lot of them and they're right here."
"The wood is too thin,” Corey explained. “I'd have to break them up and then stack them together. But they're also warped, so they won't stack very well, and that means they probably won't be strong enough to support the stagecoach. I'll use them only as a last resort."
Corey looked around. “Any other questions? Good. Now if you're all willing I'd like to split us into two groups."
"There you go giving orders again,” Butler complained. “Who died and made you God?"
An uncomfortable silence rippled through the group. Corey waited a moment for anyone else to comment, then continued as if he hadn't been interrupted.
"It will only take two or three of us to work on the new axle. I thought the rest of you might like to search through town and see if you can find anything useful to us—candles, matches, buckets, bottles, a saw—"
"I said, Who died and made you God?"
Corey sighed. “Mr. Butler, would you like to step outside and tell me what's troubling you? Yesterday, I thought we were friends. Today you seem awfully angry at me."
"I'm the stage driver! I'm the one who should be in charge!"
"Oh, what do you know about anything?” Mrs. Clifford snapped.
"Mrs. Clifford, please,” Corey said, keeping his voice soft, despite his own frustration. “We need Mr. Butler! He's the only one of us with the experience to drive that stage over these rough roads. He's also the only one who knows the route to Evanston. He's quite right. As the stage driver, he's the captain of the ship and should be in charge. What do you want us to do, Mr. Butler? I'm sorry I overstepped my authority."
Butler puffed his chest out with pride and stood to address his passengers. “Well now, that's more like it. Now what I want is..."
Butler's voice trailed off as he tried to figure out what to do.
Patrick erupted in a fit of laughter. “Corey, me lad,” he said, slapping his thigh as he struggled to force the words out through his mirth. “That's the funniest thing ... All of that and he..."
Butler's face was growing red with embarrassed rage. “Stop it! Stop laughing!"
Mr. Clifford was also smiling now, and Mrs. Clifford covered her mouth with her hand. Miss Parson's eyes were wide with concern.
"Please stop laughing!” Corey begged.
That made Patrick laugh even harder. Then Dr. Fulton began to chuckle as well.
"Stop it!” Butler screamed. He whirled left and right, glaring at his passengers, then turned to thrust a quivering finger at Corey. “I'll get you for this, Callaghan! Nobody makes a fool of me!"
He charged out of the saloon, leaving the batwing doors swinging behind him.
Corey started after him. “Butler!"
Miss Parson caught hold of his arm. “Let him go, Mr. Callaghan. Let him cool down."
"But I—"
"I know, but you can't do any good with him now. Maybe he'll let me talk to him once he's calmed down."
* * * *
Patrick and Corey entered the mine with another jury-rigged torch. Corey didn't think they would have a lot of time before the torch burned out, and he hoped it would be enough. The shaft was light enough for about ten feet, but then it darkened quickly. A lantern hung just inside the entrance to the shaft, but there was no oil in it and so it was of no use.
"Seems like there ought to be some candles left around here somewhere,” Patrick said.
"Let's not waste any time looking for them,” Corey replied. “The torch is burning. Let's see what we can find."
Timbers braced the tunnel about every fifteen feet, but there was no metal or wood track on the ground to remove the ore. There was, however, a wheelbarrow some thirty feet inside the tunnel, a clue to how the miners had transported dirt and supplies.
It was very dark beyond the flickering glow of the torch, but within that fragile illumination Corey could see just well enough to navigate. He found what he was looking for about one hundred feet into the darkness. A long niche had been cut into the wall of the tunnel and loaded with supplies: two more wheelbarrows, three pickaxes, a shovel, nine wooden buckets, a box of short candles, and seven timber beams some seven feet long, ten inches wide, and four inches thick.
The first thing Corey did was light several candles to ward off the darkness that would accompany the death of his torch. Then he handed the torch to Patrick, grasped one end of the top timber, and began to slide it off the pile. “Dear God, Patrick, but this is heavy."
"Aye, me lad, I'm sure it is."
"I mean, it's several hundred pounds heavy. How am I supposed to carry it? My side is still sore from yesterday."
"Sore is it?” Patrick asked, not really showing any concern. “Didn't I warn you to be careful?"
"Not that I can recall."
"Of course I did. Maybe this time you'll pay attention when I try to help you."
"I'm listening,” Corey assured him. Not that he believed for one second that Patrick had some magic trick for carrying the beam out to daylight.
"Then pay close attention. It's called a wheelbarrow. You balance the timber on top of it and let it do the carrying."
* * * *
It wasn't quite as simple as Patrick had said
it would be, but the wheelbarrow did the trick in the end. It also let them make a second trip into the mine to cart out the candles, buckets, shovel, and one of the pickaxes. Corey didn't know that they needed these things, but he felt it was better to have them than to want them.
Supplies gathered, it was time to start fixing the stage.
"It's my axe and I'm going to use it!” Butler insisted.
Corey finally lost his temper. “I'm not arguing with that, you old fool, but if you keep chopping there, I'm going to have to go back in the mine and get another timber.
Butler was as angry as Corey. “I know what I'm doing!"
"No, you don't!"
Butler stepped across the beam, holding the axe up between them. It was chest high, not drawn back over his head to swing, but the position was threatening nonetheless. “I'm good and tired of listening to a dumb mick who thinks he's better than me."
Corey hit him hard in the gut with his right fist, then danced out of the way as Butler and his axe doubled over. A sharp left shot straight out from his shoulder and struck Butler's jaw. The stage driver went down hard, and Corey kicked the axe away from him.
"I am good and tired,” he mimicked Butler, “of listening to no-account sons of Englishmen call me a dumb mick."
He waited for Butler to get up, but the stage driver didn't accommodate him. Corey picked up the axe and handed it to Patrick. “Can you cut this beam for me?"
"Aye,” Patrick agreed. “That punch hurt your ribs?"
"Not a bit,” Corey assured him, “but I think chopping wood might."
He touched a place on the beam with his foot. “No closer than here, understand?"
Patrick marked the spot with the axe. “Aye, you can count on me, Corey, me lad."
* * * *
Corey finished shaving the table leg and compared it to the surviving wooden wheel spokes. It wasn't perfect, but he thought it would do. His timing was also good. Outside, Patrick had just finished chopping, and Corey needed to see what he'd have to work with. He fit the spoke into the hub of the wheel and then pulled heartily against the rim while he muscled the piece into place. It resisted for a moment and then snapped into the slot. The result was looser than Corey had hoped, but he thought it would serve.
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