"I'll go with you," Glidinghawk volunteered. "That'll give Celia and Preston time to settle in. And it'll get the other folks in the gulch used to seeing them here by themselves."
Landrum considered the Omaha's suggestion, then shook his head. "There'll be time enough for that later," he said. "I think it'd be better if Preston went with me and you stayed here. I won't worry as much about Celia that way."
She frowned and glanced at Fox. "I don't know who he's insulting, Preston, you or me."
"I don't mind going back to town," Fox said. "I think it's a good idea, too."
He would start doing some scouting around of his own, he decided. The first step to solving this case was in Virginia City, and that was where Fox wanted to be.
Over Fox's objections, Landrum drove the team as they took the wagon back into Virginia City. So far, Fox had not gotten to handle the reins at all, which he felt was unfair. He could certainly drive a wagon as well as Landrum.
For his part, the Confederate looked at the rugged trail, the steep slopes, and the muddy quagmires that dotted the road in places, and decided that he wanted to take no chances on Fox getting them stuck — or worse.
As they headed toward town, Fox cast a dubious eye toward the sun, which was giving off a watery autumn light, and said, "Are you sure we're going to be back to the claim before dark?"
Landrum grimaced. It was possible he had miscalculated. "We won't waste any time in town," he growled. "Just get what we need and head on back. Should make it."
Fox still looked doubtful.
Virginia City was still busy when they arrived. Landrum found a place to tie up the wagon in front of a general store. "They should have anything we need here," he said.
Fox was even more careful getting down from the wagon this time. His pants had just about dried out, and clumps of hardened mud were beginning to fall off them. Luckily, the street was in better shape here, and he had no trouble getting to the high sidewalk.
He followed Landrum inside. There were several customers already at the counter, and they had to wait a few minutes for a clerk to wait on them.
Fox looked around at the store. It was much like the one in Bozeman, full of every conceivable item that might be needed on the frontier, plus some goods whose use completely escaped Fox.
There were narrow aisles between piles of merchandise that were stacked nearly to the ceiling. Display cases with dusty glass fronts lined the walls. Tools and other hardware hung from the exposed rafters of the building. Over all of the clutter hung a musty mixture of odors, a miasma of dust, spices, sulfur, and too many other smells to identify.
Fox sneezed.
Landrum glanced at him. "Not coming down with a cold from that soaking you got, are you?"
"I don't think so," Fox said, shaking his head. He certainly hoped not. He was all too aware of his tendency to catch colds. That was one reason he had had a rather sickly childhood and had not developed into a more impressive physical specimen.
This time, however, he was sure the sneeze had resulted from the store's assault on his olfactory senses.
Landrum stepped up to the counter as the customer in front of him concluded his business. The middle-aged clerk asked, "What can I get for you, mister?"
"Need some mining gear," Landrum told him. "We've got a claim out in Alder Gulch. Can you fix us up with some pans and whatever else we'll need?"
The clerk grinned slightly. "Greenhorns, eh? Come to find a fortune?"
Fox stiffened in outrage at the man's mocking tone. Even if they weren't miners in real life, the merchant had no right to make fun of them. He didn't know they were undercover operatives of the US Army.
The muscles in Landrum's face were a little taut as well, but he put a hand on Fox's arm to keep the younger man from flying off the handle. "Could be you're right," he admitted to the clerk. "But our money's as good as anybody else's, isn't it?"
"Oh, sure, mister. I didn't really mean any offense. I've just seen so many folks go through here out to the gulch and come back with nothing. It's usually that way unless you happen to be one of the first ones at a strike."
"We'll trust to our luck," Landrum said.
"You'll need it. Now, I'll fix you right up." The man cocked his head to one side and frowned abruptly. "Say, you ain't the ones who bought old Kirbee's claim, are you?"
Landrum nodded. "We sure are."
"Then you really will need that luck you were talking about."
Fox thought the man deserved a good thrashing. He certainly didn't deserve their business. But Landrum showed no signs of wanting to leave.
And when he thought about it, Fox realized that it might not hurt for word to get around that a family of greenhorns had moved in on old Kirbee's former claim. After all, if it became necessary, they wanted to draw the gang of road agents out into the open.
A sudden tugging at his sleeve made Fox turn around. He looked down to see a grimy-faced urchin yanking on his arm. Fox jerked his sleeve loose from the boy's grasping fingers and said, "What the devil do you want, boy?"
The boy pointed upward, toward the rafters. "C'n you hand me that, mister?"
"What?" Fox asked. He looked up where the boy was indicating but saw nothing except several pickaxes hanging on loops of cord.
"One o' them picks," the boy replied. "C'n you get one of them for me?"
Fox frowned in exasperation. "What do you want with a pickax?" The little ragamuffin couldn't have been more than seven or eight years old.
"What's the matter, mister? Ain't you ever seen a prospector before?" The tone of the boy's voice indicated that he thought he was talking to an idiot.
"Of course I've seen prospectors," Fox said. "I've just never seen one that looked like you."
"That ain't my fault. Now, are you goin' to hand down that pick or not?"
Fox reached up and took one of the pickaxes loose from its cord. Before handing it to the boy, he asked suspiciously, "Your name isn't Joshua, is it?"
"Nope. It's William. You can call me Bill."
Still holding the implement, Fox glanced at Landrum and found him still in conversation with the clerk as the man gathered up the equipment they wished to purchase. He knelt on one knee and extended the pickax toward the boy called Bill.
"Tell me, Bill," Fox said as he handed over the pickax. "Have you been around here long?"
"All my life," the boy answered. "My pa was a prospector, too."
"Was?"
"He's dead now. Outlaws kilt him. It's just me and my ma and my baby sister now, tryin' to make a go of my pa's old claim."
Fox nodded solemnly. This was a stroke of luck. The filthy little child might actually have some useful information. Adults sometimes tended to forget that children were around and usually listening.
"Did the law catch the men who killed your father?"
Bill snorted contemptuously. "Ain't much law 'round here, mister, 'cept'n what folks does for theirselves. You know, vigilantes."
"Like the ones who cleaned out the Plummer gang?"
'That was before my time. But I've heard tell a lot about it."
The boy had a serious expression on his face. Fox wondered fleetingly if the lad ever smiled. "What about the robbers around here now? Where do they stay?"
Bill shook his head. He had the butt of the pick's handle resting on the floor and was balancing the heavy tool against his body. "You sure don't know a hell of a lot, do you? Ain't you never heard of Robbers Roost?"
Fox glanced over his shoulder, hoping that Landrum had not overheard. He was developing this lead on his own, and he didn't want the Confederate horning in.
"I've heard of it," he said in a low-pitched voice. "I've heard that it's where the meanest desperadoes in the west hide out."
"Reckon there's some mean 'uns, all right. They killed my pa. Wish I could kill them."
"Most of the gangs in the territory show up there sooner or later, don't they?"
"Reckon they do." The boy frowned. "H
ey, why're you askin' me all these questions, mister?" Bill sneered. "You sure as hell ain't the kind to go to Robbers Roost."
Fox pursed his lips. He started to try to come up with some kind of explanation for the boy, then decided against it. He was under no obligation to explain himself to a child, for God's sake.
Bill shook his head, hefted the pickax, and started toward the door. Fox called after him, "Aren't you going to pay for that?"
"They know me here," Bill said over his shoulder. "They'll put it on my account."
Fox looked back at the clerk and saw the man nod. "It's a sad situation," the clerk said. "That boy's had to be the man of the family. I told you fellows that times were hard out here now. Gold's about played out."
Before either Fox or Landrum could reply, the attention of everyone in the store swung toward the street. There was a sudden racket of gunshots from outside, and a man's voice yelled harshly, painfully.
Fox and Landrum looked at each other. The smart thing might be to stay right where they were, and they knew it.
Both men headed for the door.
CHAPTER TEN
Landrum and Fox had been gone for half an hour or so. Celia had unpacked some of their goods, leaving most of them boxed up so as to protect them from varmints and insects.
Glidinghawk, who was leaning against the rough-hewn table, suddenly straightened up, his muscles tensing.
"Somebody's coming," he announced.
Celia turned from what she was doing. She had her derringer strapped to her leg underneath her dress, and long hours of practice had ensured that she could get to it in a hurry. Glidinghawk wore a Colt on his hip in addition to his big hunting knife, and Landrum had left his Winchester leaning in one corner of the cabin.
They had plenty of armament if the newcomers already represented trouble. Neither Celia nor Glidinghawk wanted any problems this soon, however.
As the footsteps came closer, Glidinghawk relaxed somewhat. "Just one man," he told Celia in a low voice. Still, he kept his hand near the walnut butt of his Peacemaker.
The footsteps stopped outside, and a man's voice called, "Hello, the cabin! Anybody to home?"
He didn't sound threatening. Glidinghawk wished there was a window in the front of the building through which he could get a look at their visitor. For a moment, he considered motioning for Celia to keep quiet and make no reply, then decided to go ahead and see who the man was. No sense in being overly cautious, he thought.
With his hand on his gun, Glidinghawk pushed the canvas over the door back enough to peer out. A man wearing the rough clothes of a miner was standing about twenty feet away from the door, arms at his side, hands hanging empty.
The stranger was in his twenties, Glidinghawk estimated, medium height, a little stocky, with an honest, open face dotted with dark beard stubble. He certainly looked harmless.
"Hello," Glidinghawk replied to his call, keeping his face and voice expressionless. "What can we do for you?"
The man stayed where he was, being just as cautious as Glidinghawk was. "Just come over to say howdy. Them's my diggin's up yonder." He gestured to the tent up the gulch. "Seein' as we're goin' to be neighbors, I wanted to innerduce myself."
Glidinghawk scanned the rough terrain behind the man. There was no sign of anyone else hiding in ambush, waiting for the man to draw out the occupants of the old Kirbee's ramshackle cabin.
Glidinghawk's instincts told him the man meant no harm.
"Come ahead," he called. He pushed the canvas flap back some more.
The miner strode up to the cabin, a grin on his face. When he got close enough to make out the red skin of Glidinghawk's face, his step faltered for an instant, then he came on.
When he reached the cabin door, he held out his hand to Glidinghawk. "Name's Elroy Strickland," he said.
"Gerald Glidinghawk," the Omaha supplied as he shook Elroy's hand.
"Don't find too many Injun's workin' gold claims," Elroy said. "No offense, but you folks never seemed to set much store in the stuff."
"I've lived in the white man's world enough to acquire some of his avarices," Glidinghawk replied. "Anyway, I just work for the Colfaxes."
As Elroy frowned in puzzlement, Glidinghawk moved aside slightly so that he could see Celia. The miner's eyes got wide as he took in the sight of the beautiful young redhead.
"This is Miss Celia Colfax," Glidinghawk told him. "She and her brothers own this claim now."
Elroy closed his mouth, which had fallen open slightly as he stared at Celia. He reached up and swept the battered hat off his head. After a stumbling start, he finally found his tongue and said, "I'm right proud to meet you, ma'am."
"And I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Strickland," Celia told him. "Have you had any luck with your claim?"
Elroy shook his head. "No, ma'am, not much. But I'm still hopin'. Didn't really figure I'd ever have neighbors again after ol' Kirbee give up on this place. I mean," he added hurriedly, "after he decided to change his line of endeavor."
Celia smiled at him. "Don't worry, Mr. Strickland. We know everyone thinks this claim is worthless. But we intend to prove them wrong, don't we, Gerald?"
Glidinghawk grunted noncommittally.
"Well, if there's ever anything I can do for you, Miss Colfax, you just come see ol' Elroy. I'd be right honored to be of assistance to you."
"I'll remember that, Mr. Strickland," Celia told him.
She was well aware that the miner's eyes had gone slowly from her head to her toes and back again, taking in all the details of her body that were visible under the cheap cotton dress she wore. At least he wasn't hypocritical about his admiration for her form.
Now he let out a whistle, unable to restrain himself any longer. "No offense, ma'am, but you are surely the prettiest sight this ol' gulch has ever seen."
"Why, thank you, Mr. Strickland. You're certainly gallant to say so."
Turning his hat over and over nervously in his work-roughened hands, Elroy backed toward the doorway, still grinning. He said, "I'll see you folks later," and then ducked out of sight.
Glidinghawk went to the door and watched the miner go back to his claim. There was a slight smile on his lips as he said, "Seeing you seems to have put a spring in Mr. Strickland's step, Celia.
I hope he doesn't make a pest of himself." "Oh,he's harmless, Gerald. Anyone can see that." "Then I hope he doesn't get hurt when things finally blow up around here."
* * *
Landrum reached the door a step ahead of Fox. He went onto the sidewalk with his hand on his Colt, eyes darting from side to side.
Fox was acutely aware of his unarmed status as he paused in the doorway. He suddenly wondered if he should hang back and let Landrum take care of this trouble — if indeed it was anything that they had to get involved in.
Landrum glanced back over his shoulder and said, "Come on, Preston. Looks like the shooting's over, but I want to see what it was all about."
Fox realized that the street was quiet. It had been long moments since the guns had fallen silent. He stepped onto the sidewalk and followed Landrum's gaze down the street.
Several buildings away, a crowd was gathering just in front of the sidewalk. Fox heard angry mutters beginning to emanate from the townspeople as they congregated. They were clustered around a tall man who was standing beside a sprawled body. The tall man had a pistol in his hand.
"Shot poor Thad down like a dog, he did!" one of the townspeople exclaimed. "I seen it all!"
"Me, too!" another man chimed in. "Nothin' less'n murder, if you ask me."
"Nobody did," the tall man growled. He cast a narrow-eyed gaze around at the gathering crowd, spat disgustedly, and holstered his gun. Fox could tell he regarded the angry townspeople as no great threat.
Landrum and Fox paused on the edge of the crowd to watch as several of the locals stooped, grasped the corpse's arms and legs, and began to haul the dead man away.
The individual who had done the killing took a cigar o
ut of his vest pocket and stuck it, unlit, in his wide mouth. He was well-dressed for a place like Virginia City, wearing a black suit and a cream-colored hat. His boots shone with polish, even through the film of dust on them. The man's face was beginning to show the lines of middle-age, but he was still handsome and there was only a little silver in his crisp black hair.
To Fox's eyes, the stranger was an impressive specimen. From the way he carried himself, he could have been an army officer.
But when the tall man put his hands on his hips, his coat pulled back enough for Fox to see the badge on his chest.
"Now I don't owe you people any explanations," the man said, staring coldly at the crowd, "but just for simplicity's sake, I'm going to tell you what happened here. That man being dragged off to the undertaker's came out of one of those shops waving a gun around and acting like someone who had just robbed the place. I called out for him to stop, and he turned his gun on me." The lawman took the cigar out of his mouth and spat. "I don't allow anybody to do that."
"So you gunned him down," one of the braver townies accused. "You don't have any proof he committed a crime, Marshal."
The tall man put the cigar back in his mouth and spoke around it. "Let's go look in that store," he said.
With the marshal in the lead and Landrum and Fox hanging back in the crowd, everyone made their way across the street to the business in question, a gunsmith's shop. The lawman opened the door and went inside. He reappeared in the doorway a moment later, a supporting arm around a bald-headed old man.
"It's Mose!" someone in the group said in surprise. "What's happened to him?"
"I'll tell you what happened!" the old man flared. He was holding a hand to a bleeding cut on his head. "That goddamn, no-good Thad Manley just held me up. That's what happened!" He let out a moan. "Pistol-whipped me and took what little cash I had in the shop."
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