"She was talkin' to Brionne," Peabody offered. "She sat with his kid when Brionne fought the fire."
Cotton mulled it over, hitching his gun around into his lap. He liked none of it. Brionne's showing up at Promontory couldn't be an accident. It was too pat, too easy.
"We got to keep nosin' around until we find where he's gone," he said finally. "You can bet somebody knows."
"Maybe he went huntin' Brennan's mine," Peabody suggested. "You say he was thick with the girl."
"I don't think Brennan had any mine. If he had, he'd of told us. You think he'd of stood all we did to him without tellin'? It don't stand to reason."
"I saw the silver," Hoffman said. "He surely had silver--some big chunks of it."
"He was no miner. You said so yourself."
"He might know somebody who was. How about that old man he was forever staking to money? Ed Shaw--wasn't that his name?"
Cotton thought that over. "Well," he said at last, "the Gopher did say Shaw spent a lot of time down in the mountains east an' south of here."
He looked up, his flat, cruel eyes on Hoffman. "You round up that conductor friend. If Brionne left town on a train, he should find out. And Peeb, you go talk to that Irishman down to the stable where Brionne got his horses. He might know something."
Hoffman spoke up. "There was another gent on that train. Kind of a tow-headed man, looked like a Texican. Him and Brionne talked some."
"Forget him. If we paid mind to ever' gent Brionne talked to or ever' girl he made up to we'd never find him."
"I still think we ought to keep an eye on that girl. She didn't come way out here for nothing. I think she knows where that mine is."
"If there is any mine." Cotton's mean eyes were thoughtful. "All right. I'll have a look at her. But don't you forget, we got to kill that boy. If he grows up to have half the nerve his ma had ..." He paused, remembering. "That woman had sand. Chills me to think of her settin' there... waitin'."
Outside, Hoffman started to walk up the street, then paused. "You be careful, Peeb," he said. "That sheriff they've got here is a tough one."
Peabody did not seem to hear. "That woman bothers his head," he told Hoffman. "Ol' Cotton's killed twenty-five, thirty men I know of--nine of them in face-up gun battles--an' he's killed four, five women, but none of them ever made him think twice. Only that Brionne woman."
"I heard Tuley speak of her. Cotton says he don't want none of her get growin' up to know who he is. I think he's more set on gettin' the kid than on Brionne."
"He'd better not be. I hear tell this here Brionne is hell on wheels with a gun."
They were silent for a few moments as they went up the street together. Then Peabody went on, "Only there's nobody can use a gun like Cotton, not even ol' Tuley, an' he's mighty handy ... almighty handy!"
"You think we'll find Brionne?"
"Sure! This here's a big country, but no man can cut down through it without leavin' some notice of himself. If he's set on huntin' us down, we'll just give him the chance."
"There's one thing," Hoffman commented after a moment. "Brionne don't know Cotton ... nor Tuley. He never laid eyes on them."
"Only that kid."
"I don't like that," Hoffman muttered. "I never killed a kid."
"Nits make lice," Peabody replied shortly. "What difference does it make?"
They separated at the corner. Hoffman hesitated, thinking, then he started for the Golden Spike. That was where his friend the conductor hung out. If Brionne had used the railroad he would have heard some talk of it.
A tow-headed cowboy, the one who had helped fight fire when it endangered the train, was loafing on the corner. Another drifter. The town was full of them.
Chapter 6
Alone in her room at Pat Brady's place, Miranda Loften counted over her money. Seventy-four dollars and fifty cents ... That, and nothing more.
That was all that stood between herself and whatever happened to a girl who was without money, in a place where there were no jobs for women.
Of course, there was her father's gold watch and her mother's ruby and diamond ring. It was costing her just fifty cents a day to live at the Bradys' and Pat would let her have horses at a dollar a head per day. When she started out she would need food, blankets, and some kind of a weapon.
The trouble was she had no idea how long it would take to get to the mine, or just how far she would have to travel, and she was afraid to ask anyone. If only she had dared trust that man ... the tall man with the little boy. He seemed so sure of himself, so positive about where he was going and what he was going to do.
As for Mat, despite herself, she worried about him. He was such a little boy to be going into that wild country. Did his father realize how young he was to face such hardships and dangers?
Nobody seemed to believe in Rody Brennan's silver mine. He was a man everybody had liked, a man who talked and spent freely. And nobody seemed to have any secrets in this country. There were too few people for any of them not to be known to the others. Nobody believed in Rody Brennan's mine, but Miranda Loften had never known Uncle Rody to lie.
He had told her where the mine was, even how to get there. He had left them what money he had and gone back west on his railroad pass. He might, she admitted to herself now, he might have exaggerated the importance of the mine and the number of men working there. It would be like him to do that to convince them it was no hardship for him to give them the money.
But it was odd that no one out here even knew of the mine, or knew that he had any interest in one. Come to think of it, the thing he had been most explicit about back home was its location. She had made no further inquiries here, but whenever she could she steered the conversation to mining, but there was never a comment on Uncle Rody when the talk involved mining.
She might, she was thinking, be able to sell the ring. It might give her money enough to hire horses, and to get the supplies she would need. Yet deep inside her was a kind of fear at the thought of relinquishing the ring.
Her lips trembled, and she sat down stiffly on the edge of the bed. ... Suppose there was no mine? Suppose Uncle Rody had just gotten that money some other way--somewhere, somehow--and had told them there was a mine so they would accept the money?
Yet, if that was the case, why the careful directions?
Moreover, there was her fear about the ring. It was a family heirloom, and her mother had told her it was valuable; but Miranda doubted that her mother knew that much about jewelry. That was really what she was afraid of--suppose the ring was not really valuable--suppose it was worth nothing.
She had to find the mine, and to find it she had to risk everything she had. If she could not find it within a few weeks she would have to give up, and she would not have even the money for a ticket back.
She could not bring herself to say a ticket home. It was no longer home. It was only one of several cities in which she had lived as a child, and it was the place where her mother was buried. There was nothing there for her, nobody ... only a few people who had known her to speak to, a few casual friends of her mother. Nobody who had any interest in her, nobody in whom she had any interest.
She was alone.
The shadows grew long, but she did not light the lamp. She still sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, frightened at what was before her. Yes, to find the mine was her only chance. Without it, there was nothing. There were no jobs for women in Corinne except in the dance halls and in the cribs behind them. There were few other jobs available anywhere except as household help, which she could do, but which she shrank from except as a last necessity. Even that would mean she would have to go somewhere else, to a city where people hired household workers.
She would talk to Pat tonight. She would arrange for horses, and she would ask his advice on what she would need to take with her.
She got up and left the room. Tonight only Pat and Nora Brady were in the house, and they had been talking about her. She knew that as soon as she joined them.
"Pat"--he had insisted she call him that--"I shall need a horse to ride, and a pack horse. I am going out after that mine."
"Ma'am," Pat said gently, "you better realize what I'm sayin'. There just ain't no mine. Nora an' me, we knew your Uncle Rody. We been going back over the years after he came west and ma'am, he didn't have time to find any mine! We just been sittin' here figurin' it out. He was never out in those hills, never in his life! At least, not far enough or long enough.
"I can tell you how long he worked for the railroad, when he hired out to drive stage. ... Ma'am, except for that trip back east, Rody Brennan was always right where folks could see him."
So there it was. She felt the fear growing inside her. She had always, down underneath, been afraid it was too good to be true, just as she was afraid the ring was worthless.
But she lifted her chin a little now and said quietly, "Pat, I believe Uncle Rody. He told big stories sometimes, but he never lied to me."
She took up her cup of coffee. Holding it carefully with both hands, she went on speaking. "I do not have much money, Pat, but I have a ring. If you would buy it from me ... or better still, let me have the horses and hold the ring for security..."
"Miss, didn't you hear a word I said? There's no silver, there's no mine. There couldn't have been."
"Uncle Rody Brennan never lied ... not to me. He said there was a mine, and I believe him." She looked earnestly at them. "There just has to be a mine. It is all I have."
"Now, look here." Pat began.
Nora stopped him. "Be still now, Pat. Let a woman talk. It's like this. Pat an' me, we've taken to you, Miranda. We've no daughter of our own, so s'posin' you stay on with us, just like you have been."
"Why, there's no tellin' who might come along! There's many a handsome laddie comes by this way, and the best of the lot come to eat with us. You could have the pick of them, an' hereabouts there's mighty few girls, and none as pretty as you."
"Thank you, Nora--it is good of you. But no--I have to find that mine. I have to. I want to marry, but on my own terms, not just because I have to have someone to take care of me."
Pat sat back in his chair and stuffed his pipe. Loaded it, might have been a better term, for the fumes from that pipe had been known to send grizzlies back into the deepest canyons, to stampede buffalo, and even skunks were repelled by it.
"Miss, have you got any idea what you're takin' on?" he asked after a moment's silence. "There's thousands of square miles out yonder, filled with all manner of varmints, four-legged or two.
"When the railroad ended at Promontory it spilled all the workers and the camp followers and the trash that lived at the hell-on-wheels towns at the end of the track, it spilled them all loose on the country.
"Those with money rode the cars out, east or west, but a mighty big lot of them were caught with little or nothing, and they stayed on to rob, to kill, to get along any way they can. And those woods are full of them."
"I am going," Miranda said firmly.
"There's Utes, too. Indians, they are, and pizen mean."
"You can't talk me out of it, Pat," she said quietly.
"Then we'll just have to find somebody to ride along. It's a pity you couldn't have gone with Major Brionne."
"Major Brionne? Major James Brionne? Was that who that was?"
"You know him? I saw the name on some of his gear."
"I know the story." Suddenly she was thoughtful. That poor little boy! Slowly, remembering it as she had read it in the papers, she told the story of the attack on the Brionne home, the death of his wife, and of the search for the Allards. "He is a very famous man," she said.
"Aye," Pat said thoughtfully, "I remember it now, although it's been few newspapers we've seen out here."
No wonder that little boy had been so quiet at first! She remembered how he had snuggled against her when the flames were coming close. At that moment little Mat must have been remembering the flames when his home burned. Shuddering, she put the thought from her mind. She would not see them again ... somehow the thought gave her a sense of loss, of loneliness. And that was foolish. She had spoken only a few words to James Brionne.
She took the ring from her purse, and handed it across the table to Pat. "Will you buy that? Or accept it for security?"
He shrugged. "Miss, I don't know nothing about such things. If this here is worth what it looks like, there ain't money enough in town to buy it; and if it ain't--well, it just ain't worth much of anything."
"Will you take it for security?"
Pat looked up at her, smiling. "Miss, you been livin' in the East too long. Out here we do business on character, not on notes or security or the like. I like you and I think you're a solid person, so I'll stake you to the horses an' gear you need. You pay me when you can."
He passed the ring back to her. "You keep that."
She shook her head. "No, Pat. Something might happen to me. You keep it for me. I shall want to leave the day after tomorrow."
"I got to find somebody for you," Pat protested. "That may take time."
"There's a man who was on the train," she suggested. "I have seen him around and he doesn't seem to be doing anything. He worked with Major Brionne to put out that fire, and he seemed very competent. I wonder if--"
Pat's face was expressionless. "I know the man you mean. I'll talk to him."
Outside, he paused in the darkness and lit his pipe. Odd that she should pick on out Mowry ... of all people.
Pat Brady walked through the darkness toward the stable. He always made this late check to be sure everything was all right. His night hostler was a good man, but old, and Pat liked to keep an eye on the comings and goings in town.
He had almost reached the stable when he heard voices, and he slowed down, never liking to come up on anybody in the dark. There were three of them, and they were speaking in low tones, but Pat could hear what they were saying.
"He talked the trainman into carryin' him on past Corinne. They dropped him there, and him an' the kid took off south."
"Salt Lake?"
"I reckon not. He was packed for travel. I figure he was headed into the Uintahs."
"That's our country. All right, boys, we've got him. We'll light out, come daybreak."
They walked out of the alley into the street, and for a moment Pat saw them clearly. All three were strangers, but he had seen at least one of them before. He was a big man with a wide, deep chest and yellow-white hair. He had a flat, dangerous-looking face, and Pat Brady had seen him around several times. He was the man they called Cotton.
At the stable all was quiet. The hostler said no newcomers had come into town, nobody had left. Dutton Mowry? He hadn't seen him.
Pat drifted down the street, looking into several saloons. At last, almost at the end of the street, he saw the faint glow of a cigarette, and walked toward it. His guess was right.
Mowry was leaning against the awning post, and he spoke around his cigarette. "Howdy, Pat. Late for you, ain't it?"
Briefly, Pat Brady outlined Miranda Loften's proposal. Mowry listened, offering no comment. Finally he said, "You say Rody Brennan never had any silver?"
"Not that I know of. How could he? He was around all the time. I mean, he was a man who talked a lot, and he'd have talked about that. Anyway, he was busy every day. He never went off to do any prospecting."
"Drivin' stage like that he must've knowed a lot of folks."
"I suppose he did."
"Nice feller, they say. I've heard talk about Rody Brennan. Folks said he was a free-handed man."
"Give you the shirt off his back," Pat said. "Never asked nothing of nobody, but if you were in trouble, Rody was the man to go to."
"An' this girl says he never lied to her?"
"That's what she said ... Will you help her?"
Mowry tossed his cigarette into the dust. He stood for a moment watching the dying glow. "No," he said finally.
"Well," Pat said, "I tried." He turned to go, then
paused. "Brionne, now. Was he a friend of yours?"
"A good man ... Why?"
Brady repeated the conversation he had heard. Mowry listened, lighting another smoke. "Called him Cotton, you say? A big feller?"
"That's right."
Mowry smoked in silence. "You don't need to worry none. I figure that Brionne feller is a pretty handy man. I mean, if a body was figuring on picking a fight, he'd better not choose him. I think not."
Pat Brady turned away. "Good night, Dut. I'm off to bed."
"Pat?"
Brady stopped.
"You tell that lady I'll go with her. You tell her that if Rody Brennan had a mine, we'll find it."
Pat Brady walked away down the street, and Dutton Mowry finished his cigarette. Maybe he was being a damn fool. Maybe he was just getting himself into a lot of grief, playing shepherd to a tenderfoot girl in wild country, but he had a hunch, and he was a man who played his hunches. Besides, when you came right down to it she seemed level-headed. There was something substantial about that girl, something that made you think she was one to ride the river ... and they didn't come too often.
"Dut," he said to himself, "you've opened your big mouth and bought yourself a packet of trouble."
Still, he did not feel depressed. He was pleased with the decision he had made, although he was not quite sure why. He was playing a wild-haired hunch that just might pay off, and it was based on two little threads of information that had come to him in the past few days. Two threads that might not tie in at all, but if they did--and his hunch was that they would--he would be there when all Hell broke loose.
"Dut," he repeated, "you've bought trouble, but when didn't you have trouble? And when did you fight shy of it?"
One thing remained. Major James Brionne had better watch his back.
Chapter 7
The stream chuckled over the stones, sunlight glancing from the water. Downstream a few feet the water rippled quietly about a dead branch that hung suspended in the clear water.
Mat Brionne sat on the bank under a dappling of shadow from the leaves overhead. He was fishing, but not very seriously. He was just sitting, eyes half closed, suspended in time, and he was happy. He was deeply, richly content.
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