A week later, Morgan’s men were traveling just above the timberline. Although Ortiz, the old Spanish officer, had been clearly determined to travel south, he’d also had an excellent eye for terrain. The trail he’d marked echoed the ridgelines, thereby avoiding endless climbs in and out of valleys, but also regularly found good grazing and water. The longer Morgan followed in the old man’s footsteps, the more impressed he became with the fellow.
He was also very glad that Jones was breaking trail for him—felling trees, hauling brush, clearing rockfall. It was backbreaking work and those thugs had to be cursing it.
Morgan had his own hands full finding the old quartz markers, which were damn hard to spot against the mountainsides. They seemed to have been planted at every major turn or junction, such as when two large streams came together. Sometimes he couldn’t, such as when a rockfall had apparently occurred in the past two centuries. But he found them often enough to be sure he was still on Ortiz’s trail.
Thankfully, there’d been no rain since they left the Three Needles, meaning less wet rock and mud than he’d expected. So the footing was good, even if the air—often at more than eleven thousand feet—was damn thin, something he and Jessamyn had difficulties with. On the other hand, his men, horses, and mules, all longtime residents of Colorado’s mountains, had adapted very smoothly.
They were also catching up to Jones, who was less than four hours ahead according to Little. Even inexperienced Jessamyn had commented on how their pursuit was flustering her cousin: the disorganized campsites, the unburied trash, and worse, the numbers of horses lost to accidents. Two of those, a pair of fine Thoroughbred mares, had been abandoned for minor injuries, rather than being shot. O’Callahan, an Irishman by way of New Orleans, had doctored and adopted them, announcing they had a better than even chance of survival.
The most enjoyable aspect was traveling with Jessamyn. Throughout the expedition, she’d been a superbly passionate bed partner. But over the past few days, she’d turned into the best of companions, quick-witted and willing to talk about almost anything as they rode along. By the campfire, she’d laughed and joked with the men, even told stories and once started a round of singing. She tended Starshine very well, of course, but she also helped Dawson. She was the boon companion he’d dreamed of as a child but far better, since a boy could never have imagined her nighttime sensuality.
He snorted in derision, well aware he sounded like a besotted fool. But Jessamyn was rapidly becoming dearer to him than his own skin, which was a terrifying thought. She’d leave him in a moment as soon as she had the gold. The gold that those damn quartz blazes hinted at.
His hands tightened on the reins, bringing Chaco rearing up. “There, boy, there,” he soothed.
Peace was quickly established between them but Morgan’s frown didn’t leave his face. In fact, it deepened when he surveyed his surroundings.
Now they rode through a steadily narrowing canyon, below steep walls of crumbling, gray rock. The right-hand side—or southwest—reared up far higher than the left, and was wrapped with a series of ledges as far as the ice-crowned summit. Only a few miserable shrubs tried to make a living in this stony canyon. Water trickled and fell out of the sides to join a brook running through the center. The noise was irregular and continuous, fraying the nerves, as if the rock itself wanted to join the water and go down to the sea. Bighorn sheep displayed themselves on those ledges in a variety of attitudes, from relaxed grazing to wary scanning of all directions, as if they were figurines on a giant’s wedding cake. Even the mules’ bells seemed muted and duller here.
The skin on Morgan’s neck crawled as he studied the place. But no matter how bad this canyon felt, it was still better than the jagged peaks to the northeast, like daggers thrust from the earth by a vengeful god. He understood quite well why Ortiz had chosen this trail instead of exploring that ridge, where the howling winds whipped the last traces of snow from the pinnacles.
A chance breeze sent spray from one of the small waterfalls across the trail. Chaco pranced and tried to buck, laying his ears back against his head. Morgan was the only one still mounted; everyone else, including Jessamyn, was walking now so they could steady their horses.
Morgan automatically brought Chaco back down and soothed him with a few soft words in Apache. When he straightened up, a group of bighorn sheep caught his attention. They were staring fixedly at a single point, just above a large rocky knob at the mountain’s far corner—well beyond what he or his scouts could see.
If that knob fell, it would block the old Spanish trail out of this valley. If it did so while anyone was under it, they’d die instantly. Jessamyn—beautiful, nimble, quick-witted Jessamyn—would be snuffed out of existence like a candle.
“Jessamyn, my pet,” Morgan said calmly, although his heart was racing like a least chipmunk running from a hawk. Hopefully, the ridiculous endearment would alert her. “I’d like to look at Starshine. Her gait sounds uneven.” He swung down from his saddle and handed her Chaco’s reins.
Her green eyes widened above the silk scarf shielding her face from the sun. “Huh?”
He tried to signal her with his eyes. If his suspicions were true, there was a very fine pair of field glasses, or possibly a telescope, trained on them at this moment.
Her face cleared, dropping into an expression of such vacuous agreeability that he nearly laughed. “Yes, darling, of course you must do exactly that.”
God bless her quick wits: she never looked at the mountain.
Morgan lifted Starshine’s near forefoot and pretended to examine it. His men were now fully alert, with most of them watching him and the rest eyeing the mountains. He spoke as quietly as possible, all too aware of how well sound carried in these rocky canyons. “Lowell, call in the scouts. I want them off the mountain as fast as possible.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The rest of you—be prepared to turn around and ride, on my signal.” Thank heavens the canyon floor was not too uneven, as canyons went.
“Yes, sir,” came the murmurs.
Lowell began to loudly whistle “Dixie,” with a strong emphasis on the chorus line, “Away, away.” Other men stretched, ostensibly casually, but a good many pieces of gear were double-checked in the process.
Morgan put down the last hoof and patted the proud Morgan mare, who accepted it as her due. “My dear lady,” he said more loudly, “I believe it’s time you rode again. Your mare could use the exercise.”
“Whatever you say, dear,” Jessamyn replied in ringing dulcet tones.
Morgan barely stopped his eyebrows from flying up. Whatever he said?
Recovering himself, he put her back up on Starshine and mounted Chaco. He was pleased to see that only a quarter of his men had also used this opportunity to mount up, reducing the chance of alerting any watchers. Still, the ones who hadn’t mounted were either ex-cavalry or his wilder men, all of whom could mount a horse while it was in motion.
He glanced up at the mountainside again, calculating how far into the canyon he could safely take Jessamyn and his men if the knob was to fall, especially if it took out other ledges in a domino effect. The bighorn sheep were still eyeing that one spot, keeping their lambs on the mountain.
So Morgan signaled his expedition forward, albeit at a slower pace than before. Rutledge soon dropped down from the canyon walls and silently mounted up, then Calhoun, which returned his flankers. Now he only had to worry about his point men, who were the farthest away and hidden by a bend.
Then he saw first one man riding toward him, then another. Grainger and Little were coming back, but would they arrive soon enough? That knob could take out enough ledges to fill the whole damn canyon.
Morgan took Chaco farther, showing off his paces to buy time. Jessamyn matched him on Starshine for a perfect display of equestrian idiocy. Daly edged Rosie, the bell mare, back toward the expedition’s rear, causing the mules to also retreat.
Suddenly the bighorn sheep flung up their head
s and simultaneously sprang off the mountains, leaping from crag to crag like stones skipping across a pond. Little and Grainger broke into a gallop. Daly smacked Rosie on the rump, sending her bolting off with a loud neigh of disapproval, her bell clanging. The mules hastened to follow, their bells pealing in alarm.
A loud boom sounded and a puff of black smoke appeared on the mountain high above. There was a moment’s silence as if Nature were holding her breath. Then, with an awful, grinding sound, the rocky knob started to crumble away.
Morgan whistled for an immediate retreat. His men wheeled their horses and galloped toward the remounts, ducked low over their saddles as if dodging bullets. He would be the last one out, of course, since he would not leave Grainger and Little behind.
But Jessamyn—dammit, not Jessamyn!—sat calmly beside him. “Go back, Jessamyn! There’s no guarantee of safety here.”
“No.” Her lovely mouth was set firmly. Starshine shied and whinnied, eyeing the gravel falling like rain, but Jessamyn brought her easily back under control. “Not without you.”
She’d risk her life to stay with him, no matter what she thought of him? Something shifted in his heart, leaving him speechless. If he lost her, his world would be obliterated. All the years he’d thought about vengeance—had been because he loved her. She had to live, no matter what happened to him.
Without a moment’s hesitation, he slapped Starshine on the flank. The dappled bay startled in shock at her amazing ill treatment, nearly throwing Jessamyn, and bolted toward the rear. He fought to see Jessamyn through the cloud of dust and rocks, aching because he was helpless to protect her. He couldn’t take her to safety, as his heart insisted. No, he had to stay behind, as duty demanded. But dammit, duty had never seemed so difficult before.
Overhead, the knob’s remains smashed into the first ledge. With a roar, it, too, broke free and began to fall. An instant later, its corner took out another ledge and the pile of debris racing down the mountainside began to rapidly accumulate. Fist-sized chunks of rock started smashing into the canyon.
Stone dust was rising, thick and choking. Chaco bucked, neighing his challenge to the elements that tried to destroy him. Morgan fought to control him, wheeling him so he could watch Jessamyn’s flight to safety.
God help him, he was in love with Jessamyn.
A boulder the size of a man’s head crashed into the canyon and rolled across, breaking into fragments.
Little and Grainger finally reached him, bent over their horses’ necks like jockeys, and they raced for safety. A minute later, the first ledge’s remains crashed into the valley, its huge boulders bounding after the men like starving cougars.
By the time the dust settled, the canyon had become a giant gravel pit and the old Spanish trail had vanished.
But Morgan and Jessamyn, with their men and horses, were safe—although completely blocked from following Ortiz’s map.
High atop the mountainside, Maggie took another pull on the cigar Charlie had used to light the dynamite, as she counted up the survivors through the field glasses. The heavy metal and leather contraption made her face hurt, which was red as a lobster from sunburn and peeling like a potato. Even her lips were split and bleeding. She’d warned Charlie that she needed to use lotion and wrap her face against the deadly sun at this altitude, where the air was so very thin. But no, he’d wanted to be able to see her face at all times, in order to be sure she wasn’t flirting with Donleavy.
Charlie was insane. Ever since that day on the Rio Grande, he’d decided she fancied Donleavy, simply because she’d praised the man for catching a catfish. Why would she be interested in a hired gun, who obviously had no money? Ridiculous. Nonetheless, he watched her continuously—at least when he wasn’t standing over Hazleton with some scatterbrained idea for moving faster through these mountains.
She was damn sure that if they’d been near any kind of civilization, Hazleton and his brother would have quit and left. But there was nothing up here, not even ranchers or the occasional prospector. Only Charlie had the all-important map, which he refused to let anyone else see. So they trailed along with him and bit their tongues on open objections, while occasionally subverting some of his more nonsensical ideas. She’d helped them once or twice.
Even his thugs were growing fretful. But Schmidt, their leader, was still completely loyal to Charlie and he kept the others in line.
“Good work.” She closed the field glasses and put them away, careful to keep her back pressed to the stone. They were standing on a narrow ledge and it was a very long drop to the canyon floor below, after all. Morgan Evans had survived, thank God. Of course, if he hadn’t, there’d always be other men to warm her bed, even if they wouldn’t be of his caliber. “Pity you didn’t kill the bitch, though.”
Charlie shrugged, packing away his explosives into the small chest with the easy dexterity of long experience. “Doing so wouldn’t have stopped Evans. He has the map, and as her husband and heir, he has the right to claim the gold.”
Maggie sniffed and edged onto more stable ground. “She deserves to die after how she treated me at the lawyer’s. She’s poor as a church mouse yet she dared to be rude?”
Charlie straightened up. His eyes met hers from less than a foot away, as chillingly cold as the stone around them. “Is that the only reason you want Jessamyn Evans dead—or is it so you can take her place in Morgan Evans’s bed?”
Maggie stomped her foot. “Charlie Jones, you’re worth a damn sight more money than Morgan Evans is—and you’ll have even more when we find that gold. Do you think I’d risk losing you for a few nights’ fun?”
Charlie’s eyes didn’t warm at all. They blinked once, like a snake’s, still fixed on hers. “No, you won’t be poor again, which is why I’m here. You’ll stay with the man who owns Ortiz’s gold for as long as you live.”
Goose bumps walked up her arms. She managed a shaky smile, as unstable as the canyon floor below. “I love you, Charlie.”
One good thing about these mountains: the thin air kept his marital activities down to staying close. She’d started to make her way back to the horses when he spoke again.
“But I’ll kill Morgan Evans the first chance I get, just to make sure you don’t get any ideas about being a merry widow.”
Chapter Seventeen
Jessamyn poured another dollop of condensed milk into Lowell’s tea and handed it back to him, glad her hands were only slightly trembling. It was late afternoon and the entire party was gathered around the fire, pretending they didn’t know Charlie’s gang was miles away.
Her heart had stopped beating while she watched Morgan sit—just sit, dammit!—as rocks thundered down around him. She’d screamed at him to save himself; couldn’t he see that his men were coming? But no one could hear her over the mountain’s noise. It had seemed like an eternity until Grainger and Little had joined him. Heavens, how she’d loathed them for endangering him. It was the first time she’d ever wished an officer wouldn’t do his duty, except Cyrus, whom she always worried about.
She was still shaken by the experience: the shivering limbs, the inability to think, the eagerness to take refuge in simple things like pouring condensed milk. Or how she’d hidden her face against Starshine’s neck when she’d dismounted, taking comfort from her old friend.
Was it worth risking Morgan’s life to rescue Starshine’s kinfolk? Yes, because Socrates and Aristotle and Cassiopeia were risking their lives to guard them. She had to keep faith with them. She had to pray that another trail would open over the mountains, just as Morgan’s expedition had come back together after the canyon closed.
The expedition had regrouped remarkably quickly after the avalanche. Even rounding up the animals had been easy, since Rosie never willingly went far from Daly. Once her initial shock wore off, she’d turned around and come looking for him, followed by the other mules and the horses. O’Callahan’s two convalescent mares had arrived last, only a few minutes behind the others.
The me
n had immediately made camp, of course, in a good location downhill from the former canyon, on the edge of an aspen grove. They’d fussed over the animals and Dawson had provided an excellent meal, while everyone pretended they’d always planned to stop here so early in the day.
Now the horses and mules grazed as peacefully as if they’d never bolted across a mountainside, while men drank coffee and tea as if sitting in their grandmother’s parlor. The loudest sounds were a woodpecker drilling somewhere in the forest’s depths and the brook gurgling happily on its way to the Rio Grande.
Morgan’s only words since the avalanche had been the minimum orders needed to make camp. He sat with the others now, whistling and watching some bustling chickadees. Jessamyn shot him yet another sideways glance and decided not to disturb him. She could ask him in private why he’d slapped Starshine.
“Would anyone else care for some milk?” she offered, holding up the small pitcher and glancing around at the others as she tried to match Morgan’s savoir faire. Dawson’s equipment included a sugar bowl and creamer, surprising since canned milk was the only cream available.
Back in Memphis, there’d be cream. But it was fever season there. She yanked her thoughts away from that danger.
Heads shook. “No, thank you, ma’am,” said Mitchell, his Virginia drawl more evident than usual.
“Not unless Evans is goin’ to wet his whistle with some,” Lowell commented, catching Morgan’s attention with the blatant plea to start talking.
He glanced around the circle. Everyone there was watching him, drawn by his blatant confidence. A wicked smile teased his mouth, that of a rogue with a trick up his sleeve. Her heart leapt in anticipation. “Jessamyn, would you please fetch the map?”
When she returned with the precious tube, he’d cleared a level space on the ground, covered it with a blanket, and ringed it with torches. She carefully placed the map there and weighted it down against the breeze, before stepping back to stand beside Morgan. He wrapped his arm around her waist and she smiled up at him a little tremulously. If the quest stopped here, at least she was with friends.
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