“Right,” said Dog Face. “There’s time fer some of us to ride there, check out the claim, an’ get back here before the Utes go after them wagons on their own.”
“I’d go,” Slade said, “but I don’t know the country.”
“You wouldn’t be goin’, if you knowed it like the back of your hand,” said Sangre. “I purely don’t trust you.”
“Then I won’t go,” Slade said.
“You sure as hell won’t,” said Hueso. “I don’t trust you neither.”
“You varmints don’t trust one another,” Dog Face roared. “I’ll go myself, by God. That is, unless you got your doubts about me.”
“We ain’t doubtin’ you,” said Sangre sullenly, “but I ain’t sure we can control them Utes while you’re gone.”
Slade laughed, and after a moment, Dog Face joined in.
“What’s so damn funny?” Hueso demanded.
“You two jokers,” said Slade. “What kind of damn fools would expect one man to take over a gold strike, defendin’ it against the bunch that’s comin’ to claim it, as well as God knows how many Utes that’s determined to take his hair?”
“Well said, Slade,” Dog Face said. “You greedy varmints ain’t thinkin’, but I reckon that ain’t your fault. You ain’t equipped for it. Since we’re layin’ the cards on the table, I got to say that I don’t trust neither of you, together or separated, even if you knowed this territory, which you don’t. So you got a choice, damn it. Slade goes or I go, and if I go, the pair of you has got them Utes to deal with.”
“I ain’t wet-nursin’ a bunch of ornery Indians,” said Hueso. “Not fer you, not even fer a gold claim.”
“Me neither,” Sangre said.
“Slade,” said Dog Face, “ride when you’re ready. Take grub fer a week.”
Slade nodded, secretly pleased. The hostility between Dog Face and his pair of troublesome lieutenants was out in the open, and he was confident they could be eliminated once the gold strike had been located. Without a word, Slade saddled up and rode out, riding along the south fork of the Green.
* * *
The wagons had been drawn up along the river for the night.
“By tomorrow evening,” said Collins, “we should reach the fork in the river. From there we’ll take the south fork until it plays out. Then it’s due west until we reach the bend of the Sevier.”
“Seems like we ought to be out of Ute country by then,” Shanghai said.
“Not necessarily,” said Collins. “That’s what we thought, but their country seems to be of their choosing.”
“That’s the truth,” Felix Blackburn said. “We left the Sevier on the run, Utes after us every jump of the way. If those renegades hadn’t shown up, none of us would have made it out alive.”
“We’ll have to do as we’ve always done,” said Faro, “and that’s be prepared. Never take Indians for granted, if you want to keep your hair.”
“They won’t be taking my hair, as long as I have a gun in my hand,” declared Mamie McCutcheon.
“Nor mine,” said Odessa.
*The Green River, which flows into the Colorado in southeastern Utah.
Chapter 14
The eight men whom Durham had told of the gold strike wasted no time in making plans.
“If there’s gold in southern Utah,” said Luke, “who’s more entitled to it than us? For sure, not some strangers from Santa Fe. I say we move in and take that claim.”
“Yeah,” Ebeau agreed, and his sentiment was quickly echoed by the others.
“Then we’d best gather up some grub and ride,” said Newsom. “There’s another storm buildin’, if my rheumatism ain’t lyin’.”
“We don’t necessarily have to ride ahead of the storm,” Inkler said. “If that outfit has five wagons, snowdrifts will delay ’em another four or five days. Why don’t we wait out the blizzard here, where we’ll be warm with hot grub?”
“I’m for that,” said Giles.
“Well, I ain’t,” Kirk said. “If that bunch gets there ahead of us, it’ll be us that’s claim jumpers.”
“He’s got a point,” said Marklee. “If we got to face ten armed men, then I want to be dug in before the lead starts flyin’. If they get there first, it’ll be them that’s dug in.”
“Inkler,” Luke said, “you and Giles can stay here, or you can ride with us. If you stay here, then you don’t share in the gold. Which way do you aim to jump?”
“Since you put it that way,” said Inkler, “I’ll go.”
“Then I reckon I’ll go, too,” Giles said.
“Good,” said Luke. “We’re all of the same mind. Gather up enough grub for a month, and plenty of shells. I look for us to have a fight on our hands.”
“We’ll be leavin’ our women and kids here alone,” Jed said. “I don’t like that.”
“Neither do I,” said Luke, “but we’ve done it before, and they’ll be armed. Some of us may get ventilated and not ride back, but when there’s enough at stake, you’ve always got to gamble.”
An hour later, the eight of them saddled up and rode south.
* * *
“The part of me that’s Injun says there’s more snow on the way,” Tarno Spangler said. “We got maybe another day to take shelter.”
Not more than a dozen miles after crossing the Colorado, the teams had been unhitched from the wagons and the outfit was finishing supper.
“Damn,” said Dallas Weaver, “ain’t that Injun blood of yours ever wrong?”
“Not as I recollect,” Tarno said.
“We don’t have to rely entirely on that,” said Levi Collins. “The wind’s considerably colder than it was this time yesterday. I think perhaps tomorrow we ought to begin looking for some shelter. Otherwise, we might not fare so well. Faro, why don’t you ride ahead tomorrow, and let me take over the wagon?”
“Suits me,” Faro said, “but you’ve been through here before. Your judgment might be better than mine.”
“I doubt that,” said Collins. “All my experience has been with mules and horses. You’ll be looking through the eyes of a man accustomed to taking wagons across country.”
“Then I’ll have a look ahead,” Faro said. “I don’t know what kind of terrain we may be facing, but this would be a good time to pick up the gait some, if you can. Finding shelter may not be the problem, but it could be a ways off, and gettin’ to it ahead of the storm might be difficult. We’ll pull out tomorrow as soon as it’s light enough to see, and we’ll expect a long ride, rather than a short one.”
* * *
The wagons moved out at first light, facing a chill wind from the northwest. Faro rode far ahead, searching for possible shelter. He viewed the terrain as a teamster, for a wagon had not the mobility of a man on horseback. Drop-offs and steep-sided arroyos must be avoided, often increasing the distance that must be traveled. The river they were following wasn’t yet bank-full, but there were no rock or sandbars beneath overhanging banks that might be utilized as shelter. Faro rode south, beyond the river, knowing the terrain would limit them to what the wagons might safely travel. There also had to be a source of firewood, for the temperature might fall to zero or below, trapping them for days. Faro had ridden more than fifteen miles before finding any kind of shelter. Even then, the arroyo was shallow, its rims not exceeding the height of the wagon canvas by more than a foot or two, but there was little hope of finding anything better. The distance the wagons had to travel might already be too great, for as the storm moved in, overhanging clouds would bring twilight two hours early. After resting his horse, Faro mounted, riding back the way he had come. Lest they travel even farther out of their way, he had to reach the wagons and divert them south, away from the river. Riding on, Faro reined up occasionally, listening for the rattle of the wagons. But the wind was at his back, and he had ridden more than ten miles before he finally heard them coming. He galloped ahead, and when Collins—in the lead wagon—saw him coming, he reined up. There was a clearing, an
d the rest of the wagons were drawn up beside him. It was time to rest the teams, and Faro wasted no time in relaying what he had learned.
“The arroyo’s maybe two miles south of the river,” Faro said, “and it’s still ten miles or more ahead of us. It’s not as deep as I’d have liked, but there’s nothing else. There is water, maybe a run-off from the river, but no graze, and it’ll take some ridin’ to drag in enough firewood to see us through. Push the teams as hard as you can, and follow me.”
They needed no urging, for the heavy gray storm clouds had come closer, and the winds from the northwest had become much colder. The wagons had traveled less than half the required distance when the sleet began. Wind-driven, it rattled off their hats and the wagon canvas, stinging their cheeks and half blinding them. Wanting to turn their backs to the wind, the mules tried to balk.
“Take their bridles and lead them!” Faro shouted.
Dismounting, Faro tied his horse behind the lead wagon, and seizing the bridles of the first team, forced them ahead. The other teamsters, knowing what must be done, led their teams in similar fashion. As suddenly as it had begun, the sleet ceased, but the wind grew stronger, touching their ears, gloved hands, and booted feet with icy fingers. Just when it seemed they would never reach shelter, they did. Collins and Faro, leading the teams by their bridles, forced the first wagon into the arroyo, and the others followed. Each of the wagons were driven as near the west rim as possible.
“Shanghai, Tarno, Dallas, Collins, and Puckett, saddle your horses and come with me,” Faro shouted. “We’re going after all the firewood we can find. The rest of you unharness the teams.”
As the six of them rode out, the big gray storm clouds seemed only treetop high, as the day became as night. Like a thing alive, the wind moaned through the firs. While there were many lightning-struck and windblown trees, limbs had to be trimmed and their root masses cut away before they could be snaked into the arroyo. The men dismounted with axes and began their race with time. By the time they had snaked in their first loads, there was a fire going, started with dry wood from the possum bellies beneath the wagons. The McCutcheons had the coffeepots on and tin cups ready.
“Here,” Mamie shouted, “the coffee’s hot.”
Gratefully, Faro and his companions took the time to down the scalding brew before returning to their task. By the time they returned with their second load, snow had begun falling, whipping into the arroyo on the wings of the howling wind. Blackburn, Snyder, Withers, and Kritzer had ben busy with axes, reducing the logs to manageable lengths for the fire.
“There’s more coffee,” Odessa cried.
“No time,” said Faro. “We have to bring in another load or two, if we can.”
The six men rode out a third and fourth time, ceasing when the storm worsened to the extent that they might become lost, unable to find their way back in the deepening snow. Gratefully they gathered around the fire, warming their hands with tin cups of hot coffee.
* * *
Others caught up in the storm hadn’t fared so well. Slade had been forced to hole up beneath a riverbank where there was barely room without dangling his feet in the water. He had picketed his horse among some brush, taking the saddle blankets to use with his own, lest he freeze to death.
* * *
More than a day’s ride to the north, the eight men to whom Durham had revealed the gold strike had been forced to take shelter from the storm.
“I told you we could ride out the storm,” Luke said. “This shelvin’ rock has its back to the wind, and there’s room aplenty for us and our horses. I been across these mountains to California and back. I know where there’s shelter and where there’s water.”
“Yeah,” said Ebeau, “this ain’t bad. Soon as the snow melts enough for us to ride, we can find that strike and dig in.”
* * *
Along the river, a dozen miles west of the arroyo where the wagons had taken shelter, Dog Face, Hueso, and Sangre hunkered before a fire on the lee side of a ridge. In a nearby thicket, their Ute companions had set up their own camp.
“Don’t nothin’ bother them damn Indians,” said Sangre.
“Too bad they ain’t more hombres like ’em,” Dog Face said. “All you an’ Hueso has done since you throwed in with me is bellyache about the weather an’ th’ grub. I’m gittin’ almighty tired of it.”
His disgruntled companions glared at him, but neither of them bothered to reply.
* * *
Along toward dawn, the snow began to diminish.
“Good sign,” said Tarno. “This ain’t gonna be a bad one. Ought to start warmin’ up by tonight.”
“There’s already deep drifts,” Faro pointed out, “and we’ll be mud-bound for a while.”
“We got plenty of firewood and grub,” said Dallas Weaver.
“Yes,” Levi Collins said, “and we don’t have that much farther to go. There’s a chance we can reach the claim before there’s another storm.”
“But the worst of the winter’s ahead of us,” said Isaac Puckett. “I think before we do anything else, we’d better establish a permanent camp. Before spring, there’ll be storms far worse and more frequent than this one.”
“You have the right idea,” Faro Duval said. “Not only must we plan for the winter and the snow, we’ll have to dig in with an eye to defense.”
“Amen to that,” said Levi Collins. “The Utes don’t seem to observe the seasons.”
“Speaking of the Utes,” Dallas Weaver said, “wonder how Durham’s gettin’ along with them?”
“I doubt that he’s havin’ to,” said Shanghai. “He’s the kind who’d throw in with them renegades that’s been stalkin’ us, if they’ll have him.”
“They won’t,” Kritzer said. “Slade’s with ’em, and he’ll see they don’t take Durham in.”
“They might, long enough to kill him,” said Withers, “if they find out he run off with that twenty-five thousand in bank loot.”
Collins laughed. “Faro expected that. The saddlebag Durham took was stuffed with old wrapping paper.”
That drew a round of laughter, especially from the McCutcheons, but they all became grim when the wind brought the chilling howl of a lobo wolf. It was a vivid reminder of the attack that had seriously wounded Faro and had resulted in the death of the Indian.
“Oh, God,” Mamie said, “I hope the wolves don’t come after us again.”
“We’ll have to keep watch day and night,” said Faro, “and I reckon we’d better start a couple more fires. This is a shallow canyon, and they can attack from either rim.”
Again there was a distant howl, and this time it was answered. Shanghai, Dallas, Tarno, and Snyder began heaping wood for two additional fires, one of which would be near the lower end of the canyon. The mules and horses, already spooked by the distant cries, had moved nearer the wagons. The mules brayed their fear, even as Faro sought to calm them. Collins, Puckett, and Blackburn joined them, and soon the two additional fires flamed high. The men cocked their Winchesters and walked from one end of the canyon to the other, but there was no sign of the fearful predators.
“With the storm dying, maybe we’ll escape them this time,” Faro said.
Toward late afternoon, the clouds were swept away. Without the wind, the sun seemed warm, and some of the snow showed signs of melting. With the coming of twilight, the first stars bloomed in a vast purple meadow above.
“We’ll go with the usual watch,” said Faro, “unless we hear from the wolves again. All of you keep your Winchesters loaded and ready, and take off nothing but your hats.”
* * *
Far to the north—in western Colorado—Hal Durham had taken shelter in a mass of huge boulders where there barely was room for him and his horse. Huddled in his blankets before a meager fire, he was able to boil coffee and broil his bacon. After the snow ceased he waited only until the next morning before riding on.
* * *
Gratefully, Slade looked up at the clearing
sky. Leaving his cramped position under the riverbank, he managed to break enough dead limbs from a fir to start a small fire over which he broiled his bacon and some much-needed coffee. Concluding his meal, he saddled his horse and rode west, keeping near the riverbank where snow had not drifted. By late afternoon the stream he followed began playing out, and recalling the directions Dog Face had provided, Slade rode due south. Reining up just north of the Sevier River, he dug in for the night.
* * *
“We’d better wait another day,” Jed argued. “Them drifts will be almighty deep.”
“They’ll be just as deep tomorrow, and we’ll have lost a day,” said Luke. “It ain’t all that cold, and the sun’s up. We’ll lead the horses and break trail, if we have to.”
So they rode south, dismounting frequently, assisting their horses through deep drifts. But the going was difficult, and come sundown, they were still half a day’s ride from their destination. Settling down for the night, they arose at first light and rode south.
* * *
The sun was two hours high when Slade reached what he believed was the Sevier River. He rode northwest along it until he reached a bend where it hooked back sharply to the south.
“Damn it,” Slade grumbled to himself, “the claim markers, if there are any, are likely under the snow.”
Still he rode on, and along the riverbank where the snow had begun melting first, he found what he sought. It was a pyramid of stones. Elated, he continued following the river until he found a second pyramid perhaps a quarter of a mile distant. There would be two more corners, he reasoned, and unless they were on the opposite bank of the river, they would be hidden among snowdrifts. He debated riding away with what he had discovered, but his excitement got the better of him, and he backtracked several miles downriver before he found a place to cross. He then rode west along the river until he had reached the point where he had found the stone pyramids on the opposite bank. But much of the area where he rode was covered with brush and an accumulation of snow, and it was with great difficulty that he was able to find the third marker.
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