by Jack Ballas
Barnes thanked the agent, shook hands, and left. Back at his hotel, he pondered whether to head out for the mine, or go to his ranch and make them aware of what he figured to do. The ranch won the argument. He wouldn’t leave them there to wonder what was taking him so long. He thought it might take as much as a week to find the mine, see what he wanted to see, and get back to Durango, or his valley. He packed his gear, bought four bottles of whisky, and headed for home.
Emily Lou looked across the table at Wes. “Do you suppose Lingo will be careful? He charged into the camp where those men held me without seeming to care a thing about his own safety.”
“Ma’am, gotta tell you, I’ve seen Lingo in a mighty lot o’ tight spots, but them wuz spots he put ’imself into knowin’ what the gamble wuz. I guarantee you, ’fore he went into that camp where them men had you, he knew eggzactly what the chances wuz o’ gettin’ you outta there without gittin’ you or him hurt.”
Emily let a faint smile break the corners of her lips. “Wes, you’re worse than Lingo. You talked all around giving me a straight answer. Now answer me, will he take unnecessary chances?”
His face sober, Wes nodded. “Yes’m, reckon he will, if he thinks it’ll git ’im what he wants.”
Emily sighed. “I was afraid of that.” She pinned him with a look that went through him like an arrow. “You—either of you—don’t seem to fear anything.”
Wes grinned. “Miss Emily, don’t reckon you looked at us close enough. Tell you what’s a fact, Lingo an’ me’s been in places where we both sweat gallons o’ sweat we didn’t have to spare. Yes’m we git scared, mighty scared, but we both know what we gotta do, an’ do it despite bein’ scared outta our boots.”
Emily stared at her now empty plate a moment, then raised her eyes to look into his. “That’s what I think real bravery is: smart enough to know the danger, feeling the fear from it, and then going ahead and doing what has to be done.”
Kelly had sat there, not adding anything to the conversation; now she cut in. “Tell you somethin’, Em.” She’d taken to calling Emily Em when she heard Lingo call her that. “Tell you, when the man up above made real men, he practiced up on all the rest an’ then made Wes an’ Lingo. They ain’t no man, nowhere, can stack up with the two men we got with us.”
Emily smiled. “That’s as good an endorsement as I can imagine any man getting. Thank you, Kelly. You’ve put my mind at ease.” But her words belied her true feelings. She cast a look at the door, wishing Lingo would come through it.
Wes finished eating and made as though to help with the dishes. Kelly placed her hands on her well-rounded hips. “Shoo now, Wesley Higgins, know you gonna go back up the side o’ that mountain to keep us safe. Git your rifle, some dynamite, an’ git goin’. Me an’ Em’s gonna take care o’ this end o’ things.”
He grinned and did as he was told. When the sound of his horse’s hooves died in the distance, Emily poured herself and Kelly a cup of coffee and sat, wanting to talk some more before getting busy with chores. She looked at Kelly. “That man ever said anything about loving you?”
Kelly stared at her, eyes wide. “Em, don’t reckon the thought ever entered his head. He’s got that head o’ his full of cows, grass, water, guns, an’ mostly tryin’ to measure up to what Lingo thinks o’ him. Lordy day, he cain’t see that Lingo loves him like a big brother would. He says Lingo’s done taught him everything he knows ’bout them things. He thinks he’s workin’ here for nothin’ so’s he can repay him for takin’ ’im under his wing, but I happen to know Lingo counts Wes as a full partner in this here ranch.”
She stood and refilled their cups. “One day while I was cleanin’ up I seen a piece o’ paper—didn’t mean to, but there it lay, so I looked. It wuz the title to this here valley, an’ both Lingo’s an’ Wes’s names wuz on it. I ain’t never said a word to Wes ’bout seein’ it; ain’t gonna neither. Lingo’ll tell ’im when he figgers the time’s right.”
For a reason she didn’t understand, Emily’s throat swelled, her chest warmed. “Sounds like you think Lingo’s about the best man you ever met, uh, of course that’s excepting Wes.”
Kelly sipped her coffee, then looking down at the table she said, her words soft, “Em, I love both o’ them men, but in a different way. Reckon I think of Lingo as someone above all other men. Ain’t nobody gonna tame him.” She stood. “Reckon we better red these here dishes up so’s we can wash ’em.”
Emily tried to ignore the words Ain’t nobody gonna tame him, then she wondered why anyone would want to tame a man like him, and at the same time she wondered that she was beginning to think of him as did Kelly—well, not exactly as did Kelly. For some reason her face warmed.
The next afternoon, Wes and Lingo came down from the pass together. Wes wanted to stay on watch while Lingo went to the cabin for supper, but Lingo squashed the idea. In his mind, Bull and Shorty would stay in Durango until Shorty got so he could walk after being shot in each leg, and then they’d probably go to whatever mine they worked. And he wondered what interest the owner of that mine had in keeping Emily from going to her father. He intended to find those answers.
Before they got to the door, Wes yelled, “Supper ready yet? I’m starved.”
From the doorway, Kelly stared at him and shook her head. “Wes Higgins, don’t reckon I ever seen you when you wasn’t starved. Yep, supper’s ready. Git washed up an’ come on in.”
When Lingo came through the door a few steps behind Wes, Em stood bent over the oven, her face flushed from the heat. She pulled beautifully browned biscuits from the hot interior. Lingo looked at her and admired the pretty picture she made. “Em, don’t reckon there’s anything prettier than a girl carrying a pot o’ fresh brewed coffee or a plate of hot, browned biscuits.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Lingo, those words won’t get you even one extra biscuit. Now get to the table while everything’s still hot.”
He pulled out a chair and held it for her to sit. “Gonna try something on y’all, but we’ll talk ’bout it after supper.”
4
LINGO LOOKED AT Emily. He frowned. “Ma’am, I figure somethin’s wrong up yonder at your father’s mine.”
Her eyes widened, and showed fear.
“No now, little miss, don’t get upset ’til I do what I’m gonna propose.” He took the plate of buttered carrots Wes handed him and helped himself to a couple spoonfuls, then again looked at Emily. “There might not be anything wrong, but I aim to find out who’s workin’ for ’im, how much time they’re puttin’ in at the shaft, where your pa is,” he sat back and shrugged. “I reckon what I’m sayin’ is, I’m gonna figure out if everything’s all right. If it is, I’ll take you to him.” He chewed a bite of steak, swallowed, then took a swallow of coffee while thinking how to get her to stay here in the valley until he could do the things he knew must be done. It turned out not to be a problem.
“Em, we’ll take good care of you; won’t let nothin’ happen to you, an’ I b’lieve you’ve figured out by now Wes an’ me’ll be gentlemen.”
While he talked, Emily’s eyes never left his, then her face turned a pretty pink. “Lingo, I never had a doubt about your and Wes’s behavior.” She stared into her cup a moment. “I know I want to see Father in the worst way, but I know if I try to tag along I’ll probably get in the way at the most inappropriate time.” She nodded. “I’ll stay here with Kelly and Wes ’til you find what you need.”
Lingo stared at her a moment. She was the most level-headed woman he’d met. Most women would insist on having their way, or cry at the thought of something being wrong at the mine, but not Emily. She might be torn up inside with worry and desire to go with him—but she sat there quietly and accepted his idea.
After a couple more cups of coffee, Lingo stood. “Y’all go on an’ finish eatin’. I’m gonna get my trail gear ready to put on a packhorse come daylight.” He smiled. “Then, reckon you’ll see me when you see me. Don’t know how long it’ll t
ake me to cut through the mountains an’ find the right hole.” He stepped toward the door. “I’ll sleep in the stable tonight so as not to waken y’all when I leave.”
Before anyone could say anything, Emily stood, placed hands firmly on her hips, and looked Lingo in the eye. “Lingo Barnes, you’ll do no such. You’ll leave here with a full stomach, and a hug from each of us. We want you back safe.”
While she talked, Kelly looked at her with a slight smile crinkling the corners of her eyes and lips.
Bull Mayben had watched Lingo leave the saloon with Marshal Nolan. Now he sat at the bar, his face flushed, eyes red, veins sticking out on his forehead. He looked at Shorty Gates. “Gimme your gun. Gonna go after that bastard and kill him.”
Gates shook his head. “Naw, find me a doctor. Gotta git my laigs patched up. Don’t figger I got any bones broke, don’t figger it’s gonna take me long to git ’em well.
“Too, reckon I’m better with a handgun than most. Sure figger I can beat that there cowboy, but we ain’t gonna do nothin’ ’til we see the boss, tell ’im we messed up gittin’ the girl.” He grimaced, held his left hand tight against his thigh and took a long pull on the beer he held in his hand, then sat it back in front of him. “Tell you what, I ain’t in no hurry to tell the boss what happened. He’s gonna be mad-der’n a skunk-sprayed hound-dawg. But these holes I got in my laigs gonna give us a good reason to stay away from him a few days. Maybe by then we can figger how to git in that valley.”
“When you figger we oughtta git goin’?”
Gates took another swallow of beer. “We better git some trail supplies first. Then a couple days for my laigs to git healed some, then we gonna see what we can do.”
Bull stared at him a moment, sat back, took a couple of deep breaths, felt his anger grow to a cold knot in his stomach, and then decided Shorty had it figured right. “All right. We gonna do it your way; first ’cause we gonna have to face the boss sooner or later; second ’cause I figger to be packin’ iron, my own gun next time I see that ranny.” He knocked back his drink and stood. “I’ll git the doc to look at your legs, then I’ll git some supplies. Finish your beer, the doc’ll be here ’fore you can finish it.”
Bull left. Shorty figured he had given in only because his anger pulled on him less than the fear he had of the boss and the boss’s sleeve gun. Gates thought of himself as one of the fastest draws he’d seen—but a sleeve gun was only inches from a man’s hand, and ready to fire as soon as his fingers curled around it. A tinge of fear at the thought of facing that kind of gun ran chills up his spine, yet he might have to do it. The boss had a temper that flared up seemingly for no reason.
He sipped on his beer. A pain stabbed him where Barnes’s bullet had burned through him. He flinched, and told the girl to bring him a water glass full of whisky, knocked it back, and tried to stand. He made it on his third try. Then limping on both legs, he went to find Bull. To hell with the doctor; if he could stagger along, he didn’t need a doctor.
Two hours later, the two renegades wound their way along a deeply pine-forested, rocky trail. Bull looked over his shoulder at Gates. “What we gonna tell the boss?”
Shorty thought a moment. “Reckon we gonna tell ’im ’zackly what happened, only in the dark we couldn’t tell how many they wuz what jumped us; but they wuz a whole bunch. We didn’t have a chance.”
Bull nodded. “Sounds good. Think maybe he’ll figger we done all we could do. He’ll most likely give us a few more men an’ send us after her agin.”
“Yeah, maybe, but if’n we’d of had a hunert men we couldn’t of got any farther along that there pinched-in pass.”
Bull urged his horse up a steep incline, then muttered, “Ain’t gonna tell the boss that.”
They made camp that night alongside a snow-melt stream that tumbled down the side of the mountain. Berry bushes flourished along its banks and onto the small flat that bordered it. Bull sniffed. “Don’t like this place, Shorty. Smells like big cat, or bear country to me.”
“Aw hell, Bull, this whole country’s full o’ them mountain lions an’ grizzly bears. If we rode on into the night, we’d still be in their territory.”
“Yeah, reckon we better stay where we are.” He shook his massive head. “Sometimes I wisht we’d of stayed in Texas.”
Shorty nodded. “Yeah, all we had down there wuz Comanches, Comancheros, and a bright new rope waitin’ fer our neck to fit into. . . .” He shrugged. “I’ll take my chances with them wild animals we wuz talkin’ ’bout.”
“Yeah, but this here minin’s hard work.”
Shorty laughed. “Yeah, hard work, but no harder’n rustlin’ cows, an’ hell, Bull, you an’ me ain’t done one day’s work since we come to work for the boss. He jest wants my gun, an’ your muscle.”
They talked while the coffee boiled, then ate beans and bacon, and crawled into their blankets. Soon Bull snored loud enough to shake tree limbs above him; Shorty followed suit.
Restless, Gates stirred, turned to his side, then to his back, came partially out of the fog of sleep, then sniffed. A foul odor permeated the camp—bear smell. He froze, then eased his hand from under his blanket to touch his Winchester. His fingers closed over the barrel. He dragged it inch by inch under the blanket with him, wishing with every breath that Bull would wake up, then knew it was better if Mayben stayed asleep; he’d do some damn fool thing to arouse the bear and get them both killed.
Shorty cut his eyes toward the sounds the bear made tearing into their provisions. He couldn’t see him, but the noises he made pulled Gates’s nerves to the breaking point. He wanted to jump from his blankets and put space behind him. He squashed that thought. The bear could catch him in seconds—even if he hadn’t had hurt legs.
Maybe if he lay still, didn’t make any noise, the monster would leave. But Bull still snored too loud for the bear to ignore. To hell with him. If the bear picked the source of that noise against which to make his attack so be it. He, Shorty Gates, would survive. He breathed only enough to keep living.
After what seemed hours of tearing, grunting, slavering, and smacking, the bear reared to his hind feet, looked about the camp, and lumbered into the woods at the side of the trail. Not moving anything but his eyes, Gates drew deeper and deeper breaths into his lungs. He still didn’t move until the sound of crashing and breaking brush faded from hearing. He wished then that Bull had wakened so he could have suffered the same fear with which he’d been paralyzed.
He wanted to crawl from his blankets, throw brush on the embers, and fix a pot of coffee, but feared he’d again attract the bear to their camp. He lay there in a pool of sweat, fear sweat, now chilled by the mountain night, cold, afraid to move, exhausted, and he finally fell into a deep, troubled, pain-filled sleep.
When he wakened, light filtered through the trees. Groggy, he felt as though he’d only fallen asleep a few moments before, but the coming daylight told him different. He rolled from his blankets, looked at Bull still snoring, then glanced about the camp. Their provisions lay scattered about the camp; saddles and saddle blankets shredded. Then he thought of the horses. He stumbled to where they’d picketed them the night before. Picket stakes, ropes, horses, all were gone. In their fear the horses had bolted. Shorty stood there cursing for a good five minutes.
Bull’s voice came through the trees. “What you raisin’ so much hell about? Ain’t through sleepin’ yet.”
Shorty sucked in a tremulous, anger-ridden breath. “Yeah, you through sleepin’. Look around the camp. Wish to hell you’d of woke up, maybe the bear would’ve got you.” Then Mayben’s curses cut off anything else he might have said.
When Bull stopped, apparently to catch his breath, Gates said, “Pack what gear you got left; we got a long walk ahead of us—if I can make it. My laigs’re hurtin’ bad ’nuff to put me to bed. The horses run off.” Bull again commenced his tirade.
Two days later, the two stumbled to the mine entrance. Colter had built his living quarters in the fi
rst thirty or forty feet of the mine shaft—not the usual place to live while mining.
Before Shorty could pull open the door, it slammed open against his outstretched hand. Their boss, Randall Bartow, came out, his face red. “Where the hell have you two been? I figured you’d have taken care of that business I sent you on and been back here long before now.” He raked them with a look that took in their disheveled appearance: dirty, clothes ripped and torn, several days’ growth of beard, and Shorty’s pants soaked with old, dried and blackened blood. His face reddened even more. “You botched the job, didn’t you?” Without waiting for an answer, he straightened his right arm toward them, and as if by magic a pepperbox slipped from his sleeve into his hand. It held four shots. “I oughtta blow your damned dumb brains out right now.” He struggled a few moments to get control of his temper, swallowed a couple of times, then jerked the door open, almost tearing it from its hinges. “Get inside. Tell me what happened, then I’ll decide what to do with you.”
Shorty skittered in ahead of Bull, and edged into a corner as though he would be safer there. Bull pushed up beside him.
Bartow, still holding the sleeve gun on them, waved to chairs at the table. “Sit, tell me about it, and it damned sure better be good.”
Bull looked at Shorty, apparently waiting for him to tell the story.
First, Shorty told about the bear, apparently trying to put off telling Bartow about the girl.
“I don’t give a damn about a bear in your camp. I wantta know what happened to the girl. You kill ’er, dump her body where it won’t be found? Anybody see what happened? What did you do with the stage driver?”