“You figure he was testing your mettle?” Buck asked.
“Now, that’d be downright disappointing if he was,” Milo replied. “I’d hate to think I let him buffalo me that way.”
“Well, I won’t complain as long as he keeps up.”
Milo’s attention was diverted by a Gilmer and Salisbury express, leaving the trees along the river; its six-horse hitch was loping smoothly. “They keep these roads hot, don’t they?”
“They’re making hay while the sun shines,” Buck agreed. The stage, hugging the west side of the road to pass the Box K caravan on the left, bristled with passengers, including several men perched on top with the luggage. Buck recognized the slim frame and sweat-sheened black face of its driver from two hundred yards away. “That’s Hoots,” he said to Milo.
“What’s a hoots?”
“The jehu, they call him Hoots. I don’t know his real name.”
Hoots started hauling back on his lines as soon as he spotted Buck and Milo. He guided his rig off the road with his left foot gingerly working the long brake lever that slanted up at his side. “Whoa!” he called to his horses. “Slow down there, jugheads ”
“Hoots!” Buck called, jogging his mule toward the still-rocking coach.
“Ho, Buck!” Hoots called, hunching his shoulders to the plume of dust rolling forward over the G&S rig.
Buck knew Hoots from Corinne, but they weren’t good friends, and Buck knew he wouldn’t have stopped if it wasn’t important. “What’s up?” he asked.
“Yes,” echoed a passenger from within the coach. He poked his head out the window, a dough-cheeked individual in his fifties, with brows like giant woolly worms and a shiny pate that gleamed in the afternoon sun. “Why have we stopped, driver? We’ve barely left the last station.”
“Hold your water, mister,” Hoots told his sweating passenger. “I need a word with this man.”
“By thunder, you’re not paid to converse with strangers,” the bald man blustered. “You’re paid to drive this coach to Montana as expeditiously as possible.”
That gave Hoots pause. He twisted in his seat to stare down at the man hanging out the front window. “You get back inside that coach before I smack your head with the butt-end of my whip,” he snapped. “This rig is going to Montana and it’ll get there on time, but that sure in hell doesn’t mean you have to be on it. Now, git!”
The man’s cheeks flamed red as a radish as he struggled for a suitable comeback. Then a feminine hand reached out over his shoulder and pulled him back. Buck could hear the woman’s chidings from the shadowy interior of the coach, and he glanced at Hoots and winked.
“What causes you to stop?” Buck asked.
“I got a message for you.”
“From Jock?”
Hoots shook his head. “Nope, from Lotty Beals.”
Buck’s lips thinned. “Lotty’s dead, Hoots.”
“I know she is, but she had something she wanted you to hear. You recollect a little China gal workin’ at the International called Shanghai Lil?”
“I know who she is.”
“Well, she and Lotty were friends, and me and Lil.…” He let that part of the conversation trail off. “You know life ain’t easy out here for a Celestial, Buck, especially the women, but Lotty had a good heart and treated Lil like a sister. I always thought real highly of her for that.”
Buck felt a pang of guilt for Lotty’s death. “She was a good woman,” he concurred.
“As good as they come, I’d say.” Hoots lowered his voice confidentially. “Lil wanted me to tell you that it wasn’t the big man with the greasy hair who killed Mase Campbell that night. She doesn’t know who did do it, but she says it wasn’t the card player. I don’t know if Lotty knew any more than that, but Lil thinks Sally Hayes might have known something, for whatever good that’d do you now.”
“I’ll be damned,” Buck said softly. “What about the rest of it? What about the small man in the green coat that Tom Ashley mentioned?”
Hoots shrugged. “I couldn’t say, although I reckon Lil would’ve told me if she knew anything else.” He leaned forward to release his brake. “I got to get this rig rolling, but I wish you luck and hope you find the bastard. I’d pull the trigger on him myself, if I knew who it was.”
“Thanks, Hoots, and tell Lil I appreciate her help.”
“I will,” the jehu promised. He hollered and shook out his lines, and his six powerful horses surged forward, the stage rocking forcefully on its leather thorough braces as it bounced back onto the road.
Milo edged his mule closer. “What was that about?”
“Just some old business that reminded me of something Pve kind of neglected lately.”
“What’s that?”
“Finding Mase’s killer.” Buck was staring at the Box K caravan, stretched out like a carpenter’s plumb toward the distant line of the Rockies to the north. “Turns out I’ve been looking for the wrong man in the wrong place.”
Milo appeared puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I think the son-of-a-bitch who killed Mase is probably the same man who cut the straps on Peewee’s load at Hampton’s Crossing, then pulled the eye bolt off his brake going over Malad. He’s here, Milo. He’s somewhere on this train.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
It didn’t take Arlen long to realize Henry Reese had called it square when he described Jim Bonner as crazy. Crazy mean, anyway.
Bonner was a towering, rail-slim man with long brown hair that fell about his shoulders like an Indian’s. Arlen’s first impression of the ex-trapper was that he was one of Runs-His-Ponies’s kin. Bonner had come at them out of a draw astride a scrawny, thin-maned Appaloosa, waving a rifle above his head and howling like a demon. He’d been hatless save for a bandanna around his forehead, dressed all in fringed, grease-blackened buckskins, and the weathered flesh of his clean-shaven cheeks was nearly the same dark shade as the leather on Arlen’s saddle. Only Bonner’s eyes had betrayed his white blood, so blue they looked unnatural. Even now, they could send a chill squirreling down Arlen’s spine whenever the mountain man looked at him.
There had been some tension between Gabe and Bonner at first. Arlen gathered that the two had had a falling out over a woman some years back. Although Gabe insisted he didn’t remember the incident, Bonner clearly did, and Arlen recalled that there had been a similar dispute between Gabe and Runs-His-Ponies over a Paiute woman.
Gabe turned out to be a smooth talker, though, and the promise of nearly two hundred head of Box K mules split evenly among the group—that being Carville, Reese, Bonner, and the six men who rode with him—had helped soothe the last ruffled edges of Bonner’s temper.
The split, Arlen’d noticed, hadn’t included him, although he hadn’t complained. He’d become convinced that if he was going to survive this nightmare, it would have to be by living on the group’s fringe and not attracting too much attention to himself.
After that first shaky meeting with Bonner, things had proceeded more smoothly. Arlen found himself once again relegated to the mundane chores of camp life—toting water, gathering wood, preparing meals. He went about them with his eyes down, his mouth shut, fantasizing almost constantly about the numerous ways he could kill Nick Kelso if he ever got the chance.
“Wagh!” Gabe barked, causing Arlen to jump. “We be runnin’ outta time, Jimmy.”
Time was a horse Gabe had been beating on the last several days. He’d originally pushed for striking the Box K along the Snake, then making a dash for the mountains farther east, before swinging south into Utah to sell the stolen mules to the Mormons, but Bonner had scoffed at that proposal.
“Ye’re a damn’ fool, Gabriel, if ye think the Army won’t notice ye sellin’ mules to the Saints, and branded mules, to boot. We’ll take ’em west to Boise Camp. I know a lad there what’ll buy ’em for pack animals, and pay a good price, too.”
“We can’t ignore that brand,” Henry insisted. He’d been leaning
toward Bonner’s side all along. “The Box K’s too well known in these mountains.”
“My Boise lad’s a master with the runnin’ iron,” Bonner assured him. “Learned the art down in the Monterey Valley, stealing palominos off the big rancheros down there.”
“He’d better be good,” Henry said. “Jock Kavanaugh’s a tough old bird. He won’t take this sittin’ down.”
“My boy won’t talk, and we’ll leave no witness who might.”
A spasm jerked Arlen’s bowels when Bonner laid his cold, blue eyes upon him. The men gathered around the small noontime fire laughed, and one of them threw a piece of firewood at Arlen that bounced solidly off his shin. It hurt like hell but he didn’t say anything.
Gabe wasn’t in the mood for torment, though, and continued to stare at Bonner. “By God, enough of this shit, Jimmy,” he said. “If ye be set on Boise Camp, then let’s do ’er. Yer boy just damn’ well better have the money, or be able to lay his hands on it quick. We’s gonna have to cache fer a spell after this. A long spell.”
Bonner laughed and slapped his knee. “Now ye’re talkin’, Gabriel, and about damn’ time, too. Don’t worry about the money, he’ll have it.”
Unfurling his lanky form, Bonner threw the dregs from his cup into the fire. Even in moccasins, he seemed to tower over everyone else. “Ye heared the man!” he bellowed. “Saddle up! We’ve got us a freight caravan to raid.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
It was noon before Milo caught up with the outfit. His news was grim. “They’re catching up, boss. I don’t know how they’re doing it, but they aren’t more than six hours behind us now.”
“Six hours!” Buck echoed in disbelief.
“They haven’t been playing by the rules, that’s for sure.”
“Did you see them doing anything underhanded?”
“No, but I didn’t hang around long, once I was sure it was them.”
Buck exhaled loudly. He hadn’t expected this. When he’d sent Milo back to check on C&L’s progress, he’d thought they might have gained an hour or two. Even three or four wouldn’t have worried him. But this.… “They’ve got to be driving after dark,” he said finally.
“The road’s smooth enough for it,” Milo agreed. “Solid bed, no ruts or bogs, but they’ll wear out their mules if they keep it up.”
“Maybe that doesn’t matter to them,” Buck mused. “It’s their first run of the season and their mules are fresh. They could stand being pushed a little harder this trip.”
“What about their BMC rep?”
“Reps can be bought off. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Lordy,” Milo breathed. “What are we gonna do? If they’re cheating, we’ve got to do the same, don’t we?”
“No,” Buck answered firmly. “I won’t cheat.”
“Then what?”
Buck considered his options for a moment, then said: “Get yourself some more grub, then ride back and keep an eye on ’em. Dog ’em every step, and any time you see them break a rule, make a note of it. It’ll be something we can challenge them with later, if we have to.” He hesitated, remembering Mase and Lotty and Sally, then added: “Watch yourself, too. I’ve got a feeling things are going to get meaner, the closer we get to Montana.”
They camped that night on a windswept plain without a tree in sight. Buck stepped down from his saddle, grunting as his left leg bent sharply in the stirrup, causing the stitches above his knee to pull tight. Although the wound hadn’t scabbed over yet, the pain had become bearable with a bandage. His arm felt a lot better, too. The stiffness had lessened considerably, and the deep blues and purples had faded to a pale, ugly yellow. The faint odor of Centaur Liniment lingered however, and the men continued to make fun of it at night around the fire.
When Buck was satisfied that the camp was in order, he tramped back to where Dulce was standing beside the mud wagon, watching O’Rourke kindle a fire from greasewood.
She smiled tentatively when she saw him. “Come on,” he said, reaching for her hand. “Let’s take a walk.”
“Where?”
“Not far.” He led her to the mess wagon to dig out a pair of field glasses.
“I’m becoming intrigued,” she murmured as Buck draped the flat leather strap over his neck. “Are we going to spy on someone?”
“More or less.”
“Mister McCready,” she said, feigning shock, “I’m not sure I want to be a party to something so underhanded.”
“If you’re too busy.…” He left the rest unspoken, recognizing the games of courtship they’d played so often in Corinne and finding a kind of comfort in its familiarity. It was enough, for now, to keep them from facing something neither of them were ready to examine too closely.
Buck spotted O’Rourke out of the corner of his eye, squatting beside his fire with a cigarette dangling from his lips. The coachman’s low opinion of them was undisguised.
“Don’t trifle with me,” Dulce was saying. “Tell me where we’re going?”
He pointed with his chin toward a knobby outcropping of lava rock, barely visible in the deepening twilight.
“Romantic,” Dulce said dryly, the sparkle in her eyes dimming.
“Not much, but it’ll give us a good view to the south.” He paused. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”
“No, I’ll do it.”
They left camp while the men were still rummaging for wood for their fires, the designated cooks for each mess rattling their pots and skillets. In the west, a band of lackluster pink lingered on the horizon, but overhead and behind them, the sky was alive with starshine. A gibbous moon was peeking over a shoulder of the distant Tetons like a shy boy with a freshly scrubbed face, illuminating the high desert plain surrounding the wagons.
It was an easy hike to the base of the knob, but the climb up would be more difficult. They circled the sharp-edged black stones, fused together by a heat Buck could barely fathom, until they found a path that seemed to lead toward a small ledge just under the knob’s crest, maybe thirty feet above them.
“Over here,” Buck said, making for the narrow passage. Feeling his way along, he added: “Be careful. These rocks can cut like flint.”
Dulce stopped at his warning. “Buck!” she declared. “What are we doing?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “I want to see how far back the other outfits are. I thought maybe you’d enjoy the view.”
“It’s dark,” she reminded him acidly. “There is no view.”
He stepped back down to her side. “You can wait here. It was just an idea;, a chance for us to be alone.”
“Here?” she asked, spreading her arms wide. “You want me to wait here?”
Swallowing back the ire that rose in his throat. Buck said: “It’s an adventure, Dulce.”
She was silent a long time, then resolutely squared her shoulders. “All right then, let’s climb this mountain. We’ll revel in the view no matter how limited it is.”
Buck turned away, saying nothing. The summit turned out to be inaccessible, but the ledge he’d spotted from below was wider than it had looked, and they were soon seated upon it side-by-side, their legs dangling over the edge. From here, Buck could make out the evening fires of five separate outfits behind them. The three farthest back didn’t concern him. It was the two nearest camps that captured his attention. One of them would be the Crowley and Luce train, the other the same Salt Lake Freight caravan that had been harmlessly trailing them ever since they crossed the Malads. The Leavitt Brothers train, hauling light and moving fast, had passed them several days before.
“Which camp belongs to Crowley and Luce?” Dulce asked.
“One of those, I reckon,” Buck said, pointing out the two nearest fires, the closest less than five miles back.
“Why, they’re so close. How did they catch up so quickly?”
“I figure they’ve been cheating,” Buck replied. “I sent Milo back to keep an eye on them.”
“T
hey should be reported.”
“To who?”
“To Gwen! She’s our representative to Bannock Mining, not to mention the daughter of one of the company’s vice presidents. She could vouch for what’s happening.”
“Gwen is BMC’s rep, not ours,” Buck replied, focusing his glasses on the nearest camp. “Crowley and Luce have their own rep. He’d deny any charges Gwen made against them. Don’t forget that Gwen’s position is already weak if she’s here under false pretenses.”
“Which we all know she is.” Dulce brought her fist down petulantly against her knee. “These people cannot be allowed to cheat Papa out of what’s rightfully his! You have to do something!”
“There’s not much I can do right now.” Buck lowered the glasses, staring thoughtfully into the distance. “We’ll have to wait until Milo gets back and see.…” He stopped at the sound of gunfire from the Box K camp. The rose-tinged yellows of muzzle flashes reflected off the wagons’ canvas bows even as a scream like that of a terrified woman came to them from the darkness beyond the camp. Buck scrambled to his feet, dragging Dulce with him.
“Come on!” he shouted. “They’re attacking the train.”
A bullet smacked into the side of the mud wagon and Gwen screamed and jumped, spilling her tea. Her first reaction was anger, thinking that someone had accidentally fired his pistol. Then several more shots raked the night air and she threw herself flat on the ground.
Around her the men of the Box K were scrambling for their weapons. Peewee was shouting orders that Gwen couldn’t make out. Someone else, someone outside the double row of wagons, was making a series of eerily high-pitched cries that sent chills down her spine. Someone yelled that they were after the mules, but Gwen had no idea who they were.
“There you are!”
She glanced over her shoulder, feeling immediate relief when she spotted Thad running toward her in a crouch.
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