To the north the passes were blocked with snow, and to the south lay miles of trackless and almost waterless desert. Yet they had been obligated to repay the money Hitson had loaned them by the first day of March or lose their ranches to him. It had been a pitifully small amount when all was considered, yet Hitson had held their notes, and he had intended to have their range.
Months before, returning to Nevada, Steve Mehan had scouted the route. The gold rush was in full swing, people were crowding into California, and there was a demand for beef. As a boy he had packed and freighted over most of the trails and knew them well, so finally the ranchers had given in.
The drive had been a success. With surprisingly few losses he had driven the herd into central California and had sold out, a few head here and a few there, and the prices had been good.
The five ranchers of Paiute Valley who had trusted their cattle to him were safe. $25,000 in $50 gold slugs had been placed on deposit in Dake & Company’s bank here in Sacramento City.
With a smile, he lifted his coffee cup. Then, as a shadow darkened his table, he glanced up to see Jake Hitson.
The man dropped into a chair opposite him, and there was a triumphant light in his eyes that made Steve suddenly wary. Yet with the gold in the bank there was nothing to make him apprehensive.
“Well, you think you’ve done it, don’t you?” Hitson’s voice was malicious. “You think you’ve stopped me? You’ve played the hero in front of Betty Bruce, and the ranchers will welcome you back with open arms. You think when everything was lost you stepped in and saved the day?”
Mehan shrugged. “We’ve got the money to pay you, Jake. The five brands of the Paiute will go on. This year looks like a good one, and we can drive more cattle over the route I took this time, so they’ll make it now. And that in spite of all the bad years and the rustling of your friends.”
Hitson chuckled. He was a big man with straw-colored brows and a flat red face. From one small spread down there at the end of the Paiute he had expanded to take in a fair portion of the valley. The methods he had used would not bear examination, and strange cattle had continued to flow into the valley, enlarging his herds. Many of the brands were open to question. The hard years and losses due to cold or drought did not affect him, because he kept adding to his herds from other sources.
During the bad years he had loaned money, and his money had been the only help available. The fact that he was a man disliked for his arrogant manner and his crooked connections made the matter only the more serious.
Hitson grinned with malice. “Read your paper yet, Mehan? If you want to spoil your breakfast, turn to page three.”
Steve Mehan’s dark eyes held the small blue ones of Hitson, and he felt something sick and empty in his stomach. Only bad news for him could give Hitson the satisfaction he was so obviously feeling.
Yet, even as Steve opened the paper, a man bent over the table next to him.
“Heard the news?” he asked excitedly. “Latch and Evans banking house has failed. That means that Dake and Company are gone, too. They’ll close the doors. There’s already a line out there a hundred yards long and still growin’!”
Steve opened his paper slowly. The news was there for all to read. Latch & Evans had failed. The managing director had flown the coop, and only one interpretation could be put upon that. Dake & Company, always closely associated with Latch & Evans, would be caught in the collapse. February of 1855 would see the end of the five brands of Paiute Valley. It would be the end of everything he had planned, everything he wanted for Betty.
“See?” Hitson sneered, heaving himself to his feet. “Try and play hero now. I’ve got you and them highfalutin’ friends of yours where I want ’em. I’ll kick every cussed one of ’em into the trail on March first, and with pleasure. And that goes for you, Steve Mehan.”
Steve scarcely heard him. He was remembering that awful drive. The hard winds, the bitter cold, the bawling cattle. And then the desert, the Indians, the struggle to get through with the herd intact—and all to end in this. Collapse and failure. Yes, and the lives of two men had been sacrificed, the two who had been killed on the way over the trail.
Mehan remembered Chuck Farthing’s words. He had gone down with a Mojave Indian’s bullet in his chest.
“Get ’em through, boy. Save the old man’s ranch for him. That’s all I ask.”
It had been little enough for two lives. And now they were gone, for nothing.
The realization hit Steve Mehan like a blow and brought him to his feet fighting mad, his eyes blazing, his jaw set.
“I’ll be eternally blasted if they have!” he exploded, although only he knew what he meant.
He started for the door, leaving his breakfast unfinished behind him, his mind working like lightning. The whole California picture lay open for him now. The news of the failure would have reached the Dake & Company branches in Marysville and Grass Valley. And in Placerville. There was no hope there.
Portland? He stopped short, his eyes narrowed with thought. Didn’t they have a branch in Portland? Of course! He remembered it well, now that he thought of it. The steamer from San Francisco would leave the next morning, and it would be carrying the news. But what if he could beat that steamer to Portland?
Going by steamer himself would be futile, for he would arrive at the same time the news did, and there would be no chance for him to get his money. Hurrying down the street, his eyes scanning the crowds for Pink Egan and Jerry Smith, cowpunchers who had made the drive with him, he searched out every possible chance, and all that remained was that seven hundred miles of trail between Sacramento and Portland, rough, and part of it harassed by warring Modocs.
He paused, glancing around. He was a tall young man with rusty brown hair and a narrow, rather scholarly face. To the casual observer he looked like a roughly dressed frontier doctor or lawyer. Actually he was a man bred to the saddle and the wild country.
Over the roofs of the buildings he could see the smoke of a steamboat. It was the stern-wheeler Belle, just about to leave for Knights Landing, forty-two miles upstream.
He started for the gangway, walking fast, and, just as he reached it, a hand caught his sleeve. He wheeled to see Pink and Jerry at his elbow.
“Hey!” Smith demanded. “Where you goin’ so fast?”
“We run two blocks to catch up with you.”
Quickly Steve explained. The riverboat tooted its whistle, and the crew started for the gangway to haul it aboard. “It’s our only chance!” Steve Mehan exclaimed. “I’ve got to beat that steamboat from Frisco to Portland and draw my money before they get the news. Don’t tell anybody where I’ve gone, and keep your eyes on Hitson.”
He lunged for the gangway and raced aboard. It was foolish, it was wild, it was impossible, but it was their only chance. Grimly he recalled what he had told Betty Bruce when he left the valley. “I’ll get them cattle over, honey, or I’ll die trying.”
“You come back, Steve,” she had begged. “That’s all I ask. We can always go somewhere and start over. We always have each other.”
“I know, honey, but how about your father? How about Pete Farthing? They’re too old to start over, and the ranches are all they have. They worked like slaves, fought Indians, gave a lot in sweat and blood for their ranches. I’ll not see ’em turned out now. Whatever comes, I’ll make it.”
As the riverboat pushed away from the dock, he glanced back. Jake Hitson was staring after him, his brow furrowed. Jake had seen him, and that was bad.
Mehan put such thoughts behind him. The boat would not take long to get to Knights Landing, and he could depend upon Knight to help him. The man had migrated from New Mexico fifteen years before, but he had known Steve’s father, and they had come over the Santa Fe Trail together. From a mud-and-wattle hut on an Indian mound at the landing, he had built a land grant he got from his Mexican wife into a fine estate, and the town had been named for him.
Would Jake Hitson guess what he was attem
pting? If so, what could he do? The man had money, and with money one can do many things. Hitson would not stop at killing. Steve had more than a hunch that Hitson had urged the Mojaves into the attack on the cattle drive that had resulted in the death of Chuck Farthing. He had more than a hunch that the landslide that had killed Dixie Rollins had been due to more than purely natural causes. But he could prove nothing.
His only chance was to reach Portland before the news did. He was not worried about their willingness to pay him the money. The banks made a charge of one half of one percent for all withdrawals over $1,000, and it would look like easy profit to the agent at the banking and express house.
Nor was it all unfamiliar country, for Steve had spent two years punching cows on ranches, prospecting and hunting through the northern valleys, almost as far as the Oregon line.
When the Belle shouldered her comfortable bulk against the landing at Knights, Mehan did not wait for the gangway. He grabbed the bulwark and vaulted ashore, landing on his hands and knees.
He found Knight standing on the steps of his home, looking down toward the river.
“A hoss, Steve?” Knight repeated. “Shorest thing you know. What’s up?”
While Steve threw a saddle on a tall chestnut, he explained briefly.
“You’ll never make it, boy,” Knight protested. “It’s a hard drive, and the Modocs are raidin’ again.” He chewed on his mustache as Steve swung into the saddle. “Boy,” he said, “when you get to the head of Grand Island, see the judge. He’s an old friend of mine, and he’ll let you have a hoss. Good luck.”
Steve wheeled the chestnut into the street and started north at a spanking trot. He kept the horse moving, and the long-legged chestnut had a liking for the trail. He moved out eagerly, seeming to catch some of the anxiety to get over the trail that filled his rider.
At the head of Grand Island, Steve swapped horses and started north again, holding grimly to the trail. There was going to be little time for rest and less time to eat. He would have to keep moving if he was going to make it. The trail over much of the country was bad, and the farther north he got toward the line, the worse it would be.
His friends on the ranches remembered him, and he repeatedly swapped horses and kept moving. The sun was setting in a rose of glory when he made his fourth change of mount near the Marysville Buttes. The purple haze of evening was gathering when he turned up the trail and lined out.
He had money with him, and he paid a bonus plus a blown horse when necessary. But the stockmen were natural allies, as were the freighters along the route, and they were always willing to help. After leaving Knights Landing he had told no one his true mission, his only explanation being that he was after a thief. In a certain sense, that was exactly true.
At 10:00 p.m., ten hours out of Sacramento, he galloped into the dark streets of Red Bluffs. No more than five minutes later, clutching a sandwich in his hand and with a fresh horse under him, he was off again.
Darkness closed around him, and the air was cool. He had no rifle with him, only the pistol he habitually wore and plenty of ammunition.
The air was so cold that he drew his coat around him, tucking it under and around his legs. He spoke softly to the horse, and its ears twitched. It was funny about a horse—how much they would give for gentleness. There was no animal that responded so readily to good treatment, and no other animal would run itself to death for a man—except, occasionally, a dog.
The hoofs of the horse beat a pounding rhythm upon the trail, and Steve leaned forward in the saddle, hunching himself against the damp chill and to cut wind resistance. His eyes were alert, although weariness began to dull his muscles and take the drive and snap from them.
Twenty miles out of Red Bluffs he glimpsed a fire shining through the trees. He slowed the horse, putting a hand on its damp neck. It was a campfire. He could see the light reflecting from the front of a covered wagon, and he heard voices speaking. He rode nearer and saw the faces of the men come around toward him.
“Who’s there?” A tall man stepped around the fire with a rifle in his hand.
“Mehan, a cattleman. I’m after a thief and need a fresh horse.”
“Well, light and talk. You won’t catch him on that hoss. Damn’ fine animal,” he added, “but you’ve shore put him over the road.”
“He’s got heart, that one!” Steve said, slapping the horse. “Plenty of it. Is that coffee I smell?”
The bearded man picked up the pot. “It shore is, pardner. Have some.” He poured a cupful, handed it to Steve, and then strolled over to the horse. “Shucks, with a rubdown and a blanket he’ll be all right. Tell you what I’ll do. I’ve got a buckskin here that’ll run till he drops. Give me twenty to boot and he’s yours.”
Mehan looked up. “Done, but you throw in a couple of sandwiches.”
The bearded man chuckled. “Shore will.” He glanced at the saddle as Steve began stripping it from the horse. “You’ve got no rifle?”
“No, only a pistol. I’ll take my chances.”
“Haven’t got a rifle to spare, but I’ll make you a deal on this.” He handed Steve a four-barreled Braendlin repeating pistol. “Frankly, mister, I need money. Got my family down to Red Bluffs, and I don’t want to come in broke.”
“How much?”
“Another twenty?”
“Sure, if you’ve got ammunition for it.”
“I’ve got a hundred rounds. And it goes with the gun.” The man dug out the ammunition. “Joe, wrap up a couple of them sandwiches for the man. Got smokin’?”
“Sure thing.” Steve swung into the saddle and pocketed the extra pistol. He put the ammunition in his saddlebags. “Good luck.”
“Hope you catch him!” the man called.
Steve touched a spur lightly to the big buckskin and was gone in a clatter of hoofs. Behind him the fire twinkled lonesomely among the dark columns of the trees, and then as he went down beyond a rise, the light faded, and he was alone in the darkness, hitting the road at a fast trot.
Later, he saw the white radiance that preceded the moon, and something else—the white, gleaming peak of Mount Shasta, one of the most beautiful mountains in the world. Lifting its fourteen-thousand-foot peak above the surrounding country, it was like a throne for the Great Spirit of the Indians.
In darkness and moving fast, Steve Mehan rode down the trail into Shasta and then on to Whiskeytown.
A drunken miner lurched from the side of a building and flagged him down. “No use hurryin’,” he said. “It ain’t true!”
“What ain’t true?” Steve stared at him. “What you talking about?”
“That Whiskey Creek. Shucks, it’s got water in it just like any creek.” He spat with disgust. “I come all the way down here from Yreka huntin’ it.”
“You came from Yreka?” Steve grabbed his shoulder. “How’s the trail? Any Indians out?”
“Trail?” The miner spat. “There ain’t no trail! A loose-minded mule walked through the brush a couple of times, that’s all. Indians? Modocs? Man, the woods is full of ’em! Behind ever’ bush! Scalphuntin’ bucks, young and old. If you’re headin’ that way, you won’t get through. Your hair will be in a teepee ’fore two suns go down.”
He staggered off into the darkness, trying a song that dribbled away and lost itself in the noise of the creek.
Mehan walked the horse down to the creek and let him drink.
“No whiskey, but we’ll settle for water, won’t we, Buck?”
The creek had its name, he remembered, from an ornery mule that lost the barrel from its pack. It broke in Whiskey Creek, which promptly drew a name upon itself.
Steve Mehan started the horse again, heading for the stage station at Tower House, some ten miles up the road. The buckskin was weary but game. Ahead of him and on his right still loomed the peak of Mount Shasta, seeming large in the occasional glimpses, even at the distance that still separated them.
He almost fell from his horse at Tower House, with dawn b
right in the eastern sky beyond the ragged mountains. The stage tender blinked sleepy eyes at him and then at the horse.
“You’ve been givin’ her blazes,” he said. “In a mite of hurry?”
“After a thief,” mumbled Steve.
The man scratched his grizzled chin. “He must be a goin’ son-of-a-gun,” he commented whimsically. “Want anything?”
“Breakfast and a fresh horse.”
“Easy done. You ain’t figurin’ on ridin’ north, are you? Better change your plans if you are, because the Modocs are out and they’re in a killin’ mood. No trail north of here, you know.”
With a quick breakfast and what must have been a gallon of coffee under his belt, Steve Mehan swung into the saddle and started once more. The new horse was a gray and built for the trail. Steve was sodden with weariness, and at every moment his lids fluttered and started to close. But now, for a while at least, he dared not close them.
Across Clear Creek he rode into the uplands where no wagon road had ever been started. It was a rugged country, but one he remembered from the past, and he weaved around among the trees, following the thread of what might have been a trail. Into a labyrinth of cañons he rode, following the vague trail up the bottom of a gorge, now in the water, then out of it. Then he climbed a steep trail out of the gorge and headed out across the long rolling swell of a grass-covered mountainside.
The air was much colder now, and there was an occasional flurry of snow. At times he clung to the saddle horn, letting the horse find his own trail, just so that trail was north. He rode into the heavily forested sides of the Trinity Mountains, losing the trail once in the dimness under the tall firs and tamaracks, but keeping on his northern route. Eventually he again hit what must have been the trail.
His body ached, and he fought to keep his eyelids open. Once he dismounted and walked for several miles to keep himself awake and to give the horse a slight rest. Then he was back in the saddle and riding once more.
Behind him somewhere was Jake Hitson. Jake, he knew well, would not give up easily. If he guessed what Mehan was attempting, he would stop at nothing to prevent it. And yet there was no way of preventing it unless he came north with the boat and reached Portland before him. And that would do no good, for if the boat got to Portland before him, the news would be there, and nothing Hitson could do would be any worse than the arrival of that news.
West of the Tularosa Page 9