"Crippled hand?" Celia asked.
Clancy held up his own right hand and folded down the index and middle fingers. "Missin' them two fingers, he was. I seen it plain."
Landrum, Celia, and Glidinghawk exchanged glances. If Clancy was telling the truth and not just embellishing his story, that could be an important bit of information. It could help them identify the ringleader of the road agents.
"Which way did they go?" Landrum asked.
"Disappeared back into the trees, last I saw of 'em, headin' southwest. O' course, there was still a few of the devils firin' at us so that we couldn't turn around and go after 'em. It was a black day for the Army, me boy."
"Indeed," Preston said sharply. "Deserting your duty that way was unforgiveable."
Clancy narrowed his eyes and stared at Fox. "And what'd ye have us do, lad? Stay there and get our brains blowed out?"
"You were assigned to guard that wagon. You should have guarded it with your lives, yes." Fox sneered. "To do any less is a sign of cowardice, to my mind."
"Oh, it is, is it?" Clancy's tone was rumbling and angry.
Landrum turned around quickly and gave Fox a shove that sent him sprawling among the sacks of supplies. Hastily, he said to Clancy, "I'm afraid my little brother doesn't know what the hell he's talking about, Corporal. You see, he's new out west, and — " Landrum gave Fox a significant look, "-he doesn't know one damned thing about the military."
"I'd say not," Clancy agreed, slightly mollified.
Fox couldn't believe that Landrum would make such an outrageous statement. Why, of the four of them, he was the only one who did know anything about the Army. He started to sit up and tell Landrum exactly that when he felt Glidinghawk 's hard hand on his shoulder, holding him down.
"White man's tongue not always connected to brain," he said in his phony Indian patois. After a moment, Fox took a deep breath and subsided.
The sergeant was mounted up again and obviously anxious to get moving. He said quietly to Landrum, "That brother of yours reminds me of some of the officers we get out here from time to time. Straight out of West Point and don't know their ass from their elbow. But we get most of 'em squared away sooner or later."
"Reckon you do, all right. You ready to move, Sergeant?"
"I am. Let's go, men."
Fox sulked in the back of the wagon as it lurched into motion. He had heard the sergeant's comment — obviously the man didn't care whether he heard the harsh words or not — and he resented the non-com's attitude. Such insubordination was the major cause of trouble in the military, Fox had always believed. Enlisted men never really paid attention to their leaders.
Discipline, that was the key. Always discipline.
It was obvious to Fox that he and the hungover corporal would never get along, which meant that he wouldn't be getting much more information out of the sot. But the young private who seemed to be Clancy's friend was a different story.
The boy was riding beside the wagon, trying not to be too obvious as he cast appreciative glances at Celia's beauty. Fox engaged him in conversation, slowly drawing him out. He tried not to sound too much like the officer that he used to be.
"What's your name, son?" Fox asked, taking a paternal tone in spite of the fact that he was only a year or so older than the private.
"Carson, sir. Alec Carson."
"Glad to meet you, Alec." Fox inclined his head toward the big corporal. "Were you on that detail that got held up, like your friend there?"
Alec lifted a hand to a bruise on his face, a bruise about the size of Clancy's hand. "I'm not sure he's my friend . . . But no, sir, I wasn't assigned to that detail. I've sure heard plenty about it from that blowhard, though." He kept his voice pitched low, so that Clancy wouldn't overhear him.
"You think he's telling the truth about the way it all happened?"
"Oh, sure," Alec nodded. "I heard several of the survivors talking about it, and Clancy's got it pretty much right. Of course, he exaggerates his own role a little bit. From what I heard, he was one of the first ones to try to escape."
Fox put a grin on his face. "I thought he might be making that up about the outlaw with the missing fingers."
"No, I heard that from a couple of the other guys, too."
"Lots of outlaws in this part of the country, are there?"
"More'n enough. What with the Indians causing trouble, too, it's not very safe around here sometimes."
Fox cast his mind back over what he knew about the area and its background. Deceptions like this did not come easy to him — ordering people to tell him what he wanted to know was more natural.
"I hear there used to be a lot of bandits around Virginia City," he said.
Again, Alec nodded. "I'm not from around here myself, but I've heard all the stories about the Plummer gang and the vigilantes. They may have cleaned out Plummer and his bunch ten years ago, but there's other outlaws still around."
Fox lowered his voice even more. "What about this place called Robber's Roost?"
"We steer clear of it," the private said simply. "I don't think even the Army wants to mess with the bunch that hangs out there. Bad men, bad liquor, and bad women, from what I've heard."
Something about the young man's melodramatic words struck a chord in Fox. There was a certain amount of romance to the place's reputation, even though he was sure that in real life it was a sordid, squalid hovel, full of pathetic specimens of humanity.
Bad men, bad liquor, and bad women . . . Fox still had to repress an excited grin at the thought.
There was no doubt in his mind that the road agents responsible for the payroll hold-up were still in the area. They were probably in Virginia City or Robber's Roost.
He was going to find them. Fox made that vow to himself.
Fox gleaned nothing else useful from Private Alec Carson during the rest of that day or at the camp the entire group made that night. Landrum had no objection to the cavalry troopers sharing their fire. Extra guns meant more safety for all in this lawless land.
The group stayed together the next day, arriving in Virginia City a little after noon. The settlement was a good-sized town with quite a bit of horse and wagon traffic on its muddy main street. Still, it was nothing compared to its boom days several years earlier, when the local gold rush had been in full bloom.
Landrum hauled the team to a stop and asked the sergeant, "Do you happen to know where the land recorder's office is?"
"Still planning to stake a claim?"
"That's what we came out here for."
The non-com pointed out a small clapboard building down the street. "Good luck to you," he told them. "You'll need it."
He was more right than he knew.
As he drove the wagon on down the street, Landrum said to the others, "We'll see if we can buy a claim in Alder Gulch. That'll give us a good base of operations while we're looking around for those outlaws."
"And if we can't find them?" Celia asked.
Landrum shrugged. "Maybe we can get them to come to us. A rumor of a new gold strike might draw them out into the open, especially if the claim was left alone with a woman a lot of the time."
"I see where that plan is heading," Celia said dryly. "Thanks. I always wanted a target painted on my back."
"Don't worry. Glidinghawk and I will be around," Landrum assured her.
Fox noticed that Landrum made no mention of his part in this. No doubt they intended for him to do the dirty work and pretend to be mining the claim. He would be a decoy, nothing more.
Well, they would see about that. Preston Kirkwood Fox had already begun to formulate a plan of his own.
Landrum stopped the team in front of the recorder's office, which was next door to the assayer's office. That was convenient.
He got down from the wagon, being careful to avoid a large mud puddle. Glidinghawk leaped lithely from the vehicle, then turned to help Celia down. Fox was left to manage for himself.
He climbed onto the driver's seat,
then balanced himself on the wheel as he started to climb down. Landrum's long legs had enabled him to step over the muddy obstacle, but as Fox tried to duplicate the maneuver, he felt his boot sliding.
Desperately, he tightened his grip on the wagon wheel, but it was too late. His balance deserted him, and his grip on the wheel slipped off.
Fox's feet shot out from under him, and he landed with a splash in the puddle.
A curse ripped out from him. He glanced up and saw the other three members of Powell's Army watching with carefully controlled expressions.
"Go ahead and laugh, damn you!" Fox grated.
Landrum, Celia, and Glidinghawk obliged him.
With their hoots ringing in his ears, Fox clambered to his feet and made his way carefully to the sidewalk. The seat of his pants was soaked and filthy, as were his hands from catching himself when he fell. He glared at the others, then stiffened his shoulders and took a deep breath.
He would maintain his dignity. Even in a disgusting situation like this, he would not lose control.
"I thought we were here to see about staking a claim," he said tightly. "I suggest we get about it."
"Sure," Landrum said, still chuckling. "Come on, little brother."
The clerk in the recorder's office had trouble keeping a grin off his face as he took in the sight of Preston's dripping form. He asked, "What can I do for you folks?"
"We're interested in staking a claim in Alder Gulch," Landrum told him.
The clerk started to shake his head. "Not much out there worth panning anymore," he said. "Of course, that's your business-"
A new voice interrupted from the doorway. "Don't listen to him, youngsters. There's still plenty of gold out yonder. Plenty of gold!"
They turned around to see a bearded, stooped old duffer standing in the door. He wore broken-down boots, patched denim pants, long Johns, and a greasy vest. The hat on his head was filthy and shapeless.
"Name's Kirbee," he went on, extending a calloused hand to Fox. The former second lieutenant ignored it. After a second, the old man said, "Now if you're lookin' for a claim, I got me a good one out there in the Gulch that I'm lookin' to get rid of."
The clerk leaned on his counter and said, "Be careful, folks. This old man's been trying to unload that claim for weeks now. He waylays every pilgrim who comes in here."
"Unload my claim? No such!" Kirbee protested. "It's a damn fine piece of ground. I'm just gettin too old to do it justice anymore."
"This claim of yours is out in Alder Gulch, you said?" Landrum asked.
Kirbee nodded. "A prime piece of property, mister. Lord knows how much dust I took out'n the creek there."
Landrum exchanged glances with his partners. They could go out to Alder Gulch, scout around, and locate a claim on their own, but that would take longer.
"I even got a cabin put up on it," Kirbee added. " 'Tain't much, but it's got a roof and four walls, keep out some of the weather, it will."
That decided Landrum. Buying this old geezer's claim, worthless though it surely was, would speed up matters.
"What's your price?" he asked.
Kirbee rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "I'm a little cash-poor at the moment, so you'll be get-tin' a real bargain, mister. Say . . . a hundred bucks?"
That was a lot of money, but Landrum was willing to part with it. He stuck out his hand. "You've got a deal."
"You're making a mistake," the clerk said in a sing-song voice.
"It's my mistake to make," Landrum replied coldly.
Fox agreed with the clerk, but he kept his mouth shut. There was no reasoning with Landrum when the Confederate had his mind made up.
Fox was dreading seeing the cabin the old man had built. It was bound to be awful.
Kirbee produced his deed to the claim, money changed hands, and the deal was sealed and recorded. Landrum and the others were now the proud owners of the claim in Alder Gulch.
The last they saw of Kirbee, the old man was heading toward one of the saloons with his newfound riches.
"Let's go see what we bought," Landrum said.
CHAPTER NINE
The claim was all they had expected — and less.
Kirbee had been telling the truth when he said the cabin had four walls and a roof. What he had not mentioned was that the walls had holes in them and the roof was sagging dangerously.
Fox thought he had never seen a more disreputable-looking structure. The idea that they might have to spend weeks living here and pretending to be miners was well nigh intolerable.
They might not have to endure that fate, though, if his nebulous plan took shape and achieved the results he desired.
"Not too bad," Landrum said, surveying the claim and the cabin. "I've seen worse."
"Where?" Celia asked, her tone making it clear she didn't believe anything worse could even exist.
"It's better than some of the Union prison camps," Landrum replied.
Fox was not going to let that slur pass unchallenged. "What about Andersonville?" he snapped. "What about the men who died in that hellhole?"
"A lot of good men died in a lot of places," Landrum said wearily. He turned away from Fox and said to Glidinghawk, "What do you think?"
The Indian looked at the cabin sitting on a small stretch of level ground between the steep, rocky slopes of the gulch. The creek bubbled by only a few steps away. "We'll have water and a place to sleep," Glidinghawk said. "Like you said, it could be worse. There could be problems in defending it if we're ever attacked. We could get pinned down real easy."
"Maybe it won't come to that."
Celia got down from the wagon. "Sitting here and staring at it's not going to make it any better. Come on, Preston, help me get these supplies unloaded."
Fox did as she asked, although it still seemed to him that he was doing an inordinate share of the physical tasks on this mission. A cool wind blew down the gulch, chilling him when it hit his still-wet pants.
There were still plenty of claims up and down Alder Gulch. A hundred yards or so away, a tent marked the site of some other pilgrim's dream. All told, there were probably upwards of fifty men still in the gulch, trying to make it pay off.
It was a safe bet there were no women — at least none who looked like Celia.
"You're going to be drawing some attention," Landrum told her as she and Fox unloaded the wagon.
"Yes," Fox agreed. "So be sure to behave yourself. We can't have you acting like a trollop this time."
"What a thing to say to your little sister," Celia chided him, a hint of steel in her voice. "I know enough not to blow our cover unnecessarily, Preston."
The attitude behind her words was plain. Fox knew she was referring to the problems he had had in the past, the mistakes that had led him to this desolate spot.
All of that was behind him, though. He was confident of that. This mission would be his salvation.
While Celia and Fox unloaded the supplies, Landrum and Glidinghawk looked over the claim. When they came back to the cabin, both men seemed fairly confident.
"I think we'll be able to get a line on the men behind the robbery," Landrum said. "There'll be plenty of gossip going on up and down the gulch. The information we need will pop up sooner or later."
"In the meantime, maybe we'll strike gold," Glidinghawk put in. "You know Amos doesn't care what we do with any money we happen to make while we're undercover."
"Yes, but do either of you know anything about panning for gold?" Celia asked.
Landrum and Glidinghawk looked at each other for a long moment. Finally, Landrum admitted, "Not a hell of a lot. I've talked to people who have done it, though. It sounds simple enough."
Fox was paying little attention to their conversation. He was busy looking around the cabin and wondering just how they were going to survive one night here, let alone weeks.
The floor was hard-packed dirt with a few chunks of rock sticking up here and there. You had to be careful not to trip over one of the protrusions w
hile walking around the place. The walls were constructed of rough planks, and there were many gaps where the boards had splintered and broken.
The same type of planks were used for the roof that sloped from front to back. They were covered with curling sheets of tar paper that might turn water if it didn't rain too hard.
Furnishings were crude almost to the point of nonexistence. There was one table, a rickety affair with no two legs the same length, and a three-legged stool that looked as if it would collapse under the slightest weight. An old cook-stove reposed in one corner.
The door was a canvas flap that hung down over an irregular opening, and the window in the rear wall was the same sort of arrangement. Judging from the smell floating in through the window, Kirbee had simply stepped around to the back of the cabin to relieve himself.
It could have been worse, Fox supposed. The old man could have done it in one of the inside corners. He had looked slovenly enough for such a practice.
Fox stacked their boxes of supplies in a corner and then interrupted the discussion the others were carrying on by asking, "Just where the devil are we supposed to sleep?"
Landrum waved a hand at the floor. "There's the bed right there."
Fox curled his lip. "We're supposed to sleep on the floor?" Disbelief was evident in his voice.
"This is the frontier, little brother. Life's rough."
"But this is ridiculous. And I'm not your little brother!"
"Don't let anyone else hear you say that," Glidinghawk advised coolly. "You'll put us all in danger if you do."
"I know that," Fox muttered. "It just seems so . . . so improper." He glanced at Celia.
"Don't worry about my modesty, Preston," she said. "I can cope with the embarrassment if you can. And I promise not to peek at you."
Fox felt his face getting warm as blood rushed to it. "I didn't mean — ”
He gave it up, knowing that he was not going to come out ahead on this exchange.
Landrum went to the doorway, pushed the canvas flap back, and leaned against the edge of the opening as he regarded the claim. "We're going to need some more equipment," he said. "I'm sure we can pick up whatever is necessary in Virginia City. The prices may be kind of high there, but we can't be too choosey." He glanced up at the sun. "I think there's still time to ride back in today."
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