by Jack Ballas
Lingo shook his head. “I been wantin’ to get up to the ranch for a week now but couldn’t ’cause of the pass bein’ choked up with snow. Now it’s thawin’ I can’t go. ’Fore I do that I gotta find that miserable skunk that brought all this on us.”
Nolan nodded. “Better git after it, son. You don’t an’ he might git long gone toward Grand Junction.”
Quint shook his head. “That pass ’tween here an’ Grand Junction might git open, but I figger high as it is it’s gonna take a lot longer to open up than that pass into Lingo’s valley. It’s maybe thirteen-thousand-foot high.” He shook his head. “That pass ain’t gonna open up ’til late spring.”
Barnes took a swallow of his coffee. “Quint’s right. I think I’ll head for Silverton, see if he’s there, then head for Red Mountain Pass.”
“I’ll trail along.”
Lingo looked at Quint. “Why? You think I can’t handle it?”
“Nope. Jest figger I’d sit here an’ eat my guts out knowin’ you wuz up yonder havin’ a whole bunch o’ fun an’ me sittin’ down here gittin’ stiff in the joints doin’ nothin’.” He chuckled. “Fact is, Art King damned near had a conniption fit when I told ’im me an’ Lingo wuz gonna go after that Easterner, an’ I wanted ’im to stay at the line shack a few more days. Lingo made ’im feel better though, when he dug out a full bottle from his saddlebags he’d been hidin’ from me.”
Nolan chuckled. “ ’Stead o’ gittin’ stiff from doin’ nothin’ you gonna git stiff from the butt freezin’ cold up yonder.” His chuckle turned to an outright laugh. “I’d sure like to see you shiverin’, shakin’, an’ wantin’ to cuss at Lingo fer gittin’ you into a pickle like that, but then you’d remember you had only your own rear end to kick.” He took a swallow of coffee and shook his head. “Sure is hard on a man when he has only his own self to blame fer his predicament.” He turned his look on Barnes. “Go on, Lingo, take ’im with you.”
Barnes knew Nolan wanted the two of them to tackle the problem together, knowing they’d be safer that way, but he also knew the marshal would never let on that he gave a damn one way or the other. He nodded. “All right, Cantrell, reckon you’ve bought into this game. Let’s head for Silverton.”
When they walked from Nolan’s office, Cantrell hesitated, looked squint-eyed at Lingo, then glanced toward the general store.
Barnes’s look followed Quint’s. “What you thinkin’?”
Cantrell slanted him a questioning look. “When you left your ranch, you bring ’nuff warm clothes with you? We have to head for Red Mountain Pass we gonna git almighty froze up if we ain’t fixed for what we gonna face up yonder.”
Lingo studied on Cantrell’s words a moment. He shook his head. “Don’t have anything that’ll protect me from what I know is waitin’ for us up yonder. Let’s go to the store an’ get outfitted.”
“We better git provisions, too. Don’t like sittin’ round a fire without a cup o’ hot coffee.” He grinned. “ ’Course I reckon a cup o’ coffee without a healthy slug o’ whisky in it ain’t gonna make me a whole lot happier.”
Barnes nodded. “I’ll pay for what we need—whisky included, but first let’s get the clothing we gonna need.”
Quint nodded. “Better add some .44 cartridges to the list—we gonna need ’em.
Bartow and D’Amato camped east of Durango, with the Italian complaining that he had thought to sleep in hotels and eat in restaurants, not sleep on the cold ground or eat poorly prepared food. Bartow tried to quiet his complaints with the promise that they’d both sleep and eat in the finest places in the East as soon as they got control of the mine, and knowledge of the whereabouts of the new vein.
He shook his head, mentally. He’d had enough of Colter’s stubborness. He’d give it one more try, and if the old man didn’t tell him where his new strike was, he’d kill him anyway. He’d already filed on the claim above his, and he’d start looking for the vein.
The next morning they broke camp, with Bartow first doing the cooking, and most of the other work.
Riding toward Silverton, Bartow told D’Amato about Maddie, and that they’d keep her as long as she was useful. “She’s a good-lookin’ woman, damn good-looking—but dumb. She does whatever I tell ’er to do, doesn’t ever complain, an’ is a good bed partner. She knows what I’m after, an’ thinks she’s gonna share in it.” He chuckled. “You think anybody could be that dumb?” Then assuming D’Amato agreed with him, he added, “Yeah, she’s gonna share in it long’s she keeps us warm, fed, and comfortable.” He glanced at the Italian and felt icicles crawl up his spine.
The Italian looked at him, his eyes flat, dead, and deadly. “My friend, I keep myself warm, fed, and comfortable. The only one I figure as being dumb is you. If this whole plan of yours doesn’t pan out, an’ I mean right down to a fifty-fifty split of some pretty hefty profits, you won’t be needing her to keep you warm, or fed, or comfortable.” D’Amato’s lids closed down over his eyes until they were only slits. “Know what I mean?”
“Aw hell, Vic, let’s don’t get to threatening each other. You know you can trust me.” He knew immediately he shouldn’t have mentioned trust, and D’Amato’s chuckle put the emphasis to his thought.
“Trust you, Barlow, or whatever you’re callin’ yourself? Hell no. I don’t trust you far’s I can throw this horse I’m riding. You forget I knew you back East. I didn’t trust you then, don’t trust you now, and never will. Why you think I ride behind you all the time?” He nodded. “Yep, you got that right. You an’ that sleeve gun you wear won’t be enough to take me, mostly ’cause I won’t give you a chance to use it.” He sucked in a breath of the clean, pine-scented air. “Now that I believe we understand each other we better get on toward this town you call Silverton.”
They rode in silence until Silverton spread below them. Bartow led a few paces ahead all the way. His mind worked frantically for a way to get out of the mess he’d gotten himself into. He didn’t worry that D’Amato would shoot him in the back on the way to town. The Italian would want him alive until he knew enough of the facts to make a profit for himself—then he’d have to make certain D’Amato never got behind him again. Or, if it worked out, he’d have Shorty Gates shoot him from ambush.
•••
Sam Slagle looked across the table at Miles Colter. He marvelled at the progress the old man had made in the few days Maddie had been taking care of him.
She had hovered over him like he was her own child, even though she was the one young enough to be his child. When it looked like he might need something, she stood and asked him what he needed. Or before he got back on his feet, she put salve on his feet and legs where Bartow had burned them. She’d look at his thin arms and legs and go to the stove to dish up more food for him, and if he’d profess to not be able to hold another bite, she’d scold him, and tell him he had to put on weight.
Sam stood, went to the stove, picked up the coffeepot, and poured the three of them a cup of coffee. “Miles, if I hadn’ta seed it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t believe how much you done got better.”
Colter smiled. “Sam, there’s not a person in this world who wouldn’t have improved, what with the way you an’ Maddie have taken care of me.” He nodded. “I owe you both my life and I’ll not forget it.” He took a swallow of coffee, then looked at Maddie. “How much longer you think Bartow’ll be gone?”
She studied the tabletop a few moments, then shook her head. “Don’t know where he went, but if he went to the same place he always seems to go when he leaves like he did I’d say he’ll be gone another two days.”
Sam nodded, then cocked his head to listen.
“You hear somebody, Sam?” Colter and Maddie asked at the same time.
Slagle nodded. “Not somebody—somethin’.” He grinned. “You reckon you can sit a horse for a couple o’ days, Miles?”
“Yes. Where’re we goin’?”
Sam’s grin widened. “Like I jest told ya, I ain’t hearin’ someb
ody, I’m hearin’ water drippin’ off’n the roof. We got us a thaw. The pass over into Lingo’s valley’ll be open by tomorrow.” He took another swallow of coffee. “I figger we’ll pack up an’ head outta here in the mornin’.”
He noticed when he made that announcement that Maddie’s face crumpled a bit. He frowned. “What’s the matter, Maddie? You don’t seem excited ’bout gettin’ outta here.”
“Aw, pshaw, I reckon I jest done got used to takin’ care o’ Mister Colter. Now I gotta see if a stage’ll be leavin’ for Grand Junction.”
Before she finished, Sam’s head wagged back and forth. “Maddie, I reckon that pass over Red Mountain ain’t gonna open up ’til late spring. I wuz hopin’ you’d go with us.”
Sam reckoned until that moment that he’d seen beautiful sunrises, but not one of them compared with the light that brightened Maddie’s face. “Wh-why I ain’t got nothin’ else to do, so if you’re sayin’ ‘come on along’ that’s eggzactly what I’ll do.” She stood. “Well gosh-ding it, what’re we all sittin’ here for? We got packin’ to do.” Tears—Sam figured them as tears of happiness—streamed down her cheeks.
Sam and Colter chuckled, then laughed right out loud. It was then Slagle began to ponder the idea that Miles, after all this was over, might need someone to care for him, with the proper pay, of course. He figured Emily Lou would be all tied up with caring for Lingo Barnes. Of course he might be wrong.
While Colter and Maddie finished packing, Sam saddled and rode into town to rent a packhorse from the livery stable. He didn’t figure to come back to Silverton until Bartow and his bunch were taken care of. He left word at the general store that he’d be out of town for a while, and that he didn’t expect to have to run a claim jumper out of his mine or cabin.
When he got back with the packhorse, Colter sat at the table, a sheet of paper in front of him. “Whatcha writin’, Miles?”
Colter looked up from the paper. “You think it’d be safe to go to Bartow’s cabin an’ pin this note to the door, or maybe leave it on the table so it’ll be seen right away?”
Sam frowned, thought for a moment on what Miles had asked, then nodded. “I’d have to be the one to take it there. With this thaw takin’ place I’d leave tracks, an’ I don’t want them tracks to lead back here—or in the direction we take outta here, but yeah, I’ll take it over yonder.”
“Don’t do it, Sam, if there’s any chance it’ll lead to more trouble.”
Slagle glanced at the note. “What you tellin’ ’im?”
Colter picked up the paper and handed it to Sam. He walked over to the lamp and held the note so he could read it. It read,
You unappreciative bastard. I’ve managed to get away. Now I intend to spread the word all over this territory about what you did to me physically, and that you have tried to steal my mine. If you’re smart, you’ll get clear out of this country. I want you to know, though, I’ll have the law looking for you here, all over the West, and on the East Coast.
Something else you’d better be aware of is that when you tried to have Emily Lou raped and killed you set yourself up for every man in the West to kill you on sight—now run like hell, you bastard. Miles Colter.
Slagle frowned. “Why for you warnin’ ’im, Miles?”
Colter smiled—and there was no humor in it. “Way I have it figured is, he’s yellow, an’ to top that off, he doesn’t know this country very well. He doesn’t dare go into Silverton, or to Durango. His only option is Grand Junction. He’ll try the pass, and he’ll never make it. Somebody’ll find his body up there in the spring.”
Sam shook his head. “You don’t know Lingo Barnes, but I’m here to tell you he’s gonna be right down disappointed he ain’t gonna be the one to hang Bartow.” He folded the note, stuck it in his pocket, and said, “Be back soon’s I kin git this taken to Bartow’s place.”
When he reached to open the door he stopped, frowned, and shook his head. “Nope, reckon I ain’t gonna leave tracks direct from here to Bartow’s cabin. Think I’ll saddle up, ride back to town, an’ go to his cabin from there, then back to town, an’ in a round about way work my way back here.” He nodded. “Yep I figger that’d work. If I left tracks back to this cabin, Bartow’d burn it down out o’ pure dee-cussedness.” He grinned at them and went into the warming air.
His horse slopped through the muddy ground already thawed an inch deep. He rode straight through town, circled, rode under trees where a thick matting of pine needles blanketed the ground, found smooth rocks to ride across, and in every way he could think to leave as few tracks as possible.
With every step he worried that he left a clear path behind, then thought of the kind of man he knew Bartow to be—a city man, a man who knew nothing about the woods, or tracking, a man who had only walked sidewalks and cobblestone streets. Finally, he nodded, then forced the worry from his mind. Hell, if the Easterner did find his tracks and managed to track him toward Lingo’s hanging valley, Bartow would be out of his element; he’d either get lost, or a bear or cougar would get him—and if neither one happened, Wes would take care of him.
Slagle, honest with himself, admitted he couldn’t under any circumstances be considered a woodsman, but even at that he’d be a lot better than Bartow.
He wasn’t the best rifle shot in the world, but if Bartow followed, he’d take care of him. He’d take his shotgun and rifle with him. Too, maybe Colter knew a little something about shooting.
When he got within fifty yards of Bartow’s cabin, the smell of death assailed his nostrils. He squinted at the still locked door and nodded. Looked like Maddie was right so far. Looked like the Easterner hadn’t gotten home yet.
The closer he got, the worse the stench. Freezing weather hadn’t done anything to keep Shorty’s dead body from rotting and stinking.
He held his hand over his nose, and with his right hand reached into his coat pocket for the two small nails he’d brought with which to nail the note to the door. Not wanting to dismount and leave footprints, he pulled his handgun, leaned from the saddle, and nailed the note to the door. He studied the note and nails a moment, figured unless the wind picked up considerably the paper would stay in place. He reined his horse back toward town.
He looked back the way he’d come. His horse’s tracks left a trail a child could follow, but on second thought, once back in town he could lose the tracks his horse made in those left by the hundreds of other animal tracks in the muddy street. He doubted that any animal track would be discernible in the quagmire the street would be after only a little traffic. He nodded. Hell, even Lingo couldn’t track him in that mess.
Maddie had guessed Bartow would be back within two days. Slagle figured he’d need both of those days to get Maddie and Colter to Trap Valley, as Lingo insisted on calling it, and from what Sam had seen, it would have been, had it not been for this back door Barnes had shown him when he’d been there. The hell of it was that if Bartow knew anything about tracking, a talent Sam didn’t give him credit for, this thaw left ground that gathered tracks like ticks to a hound dog. Anybody could follow them.
Back at his cabin, Sam, with Colter’s and Maddie’s help, went about setting the cabin up for any visitors. With the task finished except for bringing in a couple armloads of firewood, Sam told them to finish up, that he would go load the packhorse, and saddle the three they would ride.
Finally, ready to leave, Sam took a last look at his cabin, the only home he’d had in many years. He didn’t know whether the next time he saw it it might be a pile of ashes—if Bartow managed to find where Colter and Maddie had gone. He sighed. He could always rebuild.
He led them toward Silverton, reached the south edge of town, then cut toward Durango. He’d be taking a chance on the well-travelled road if Bartow came back earlier than Maddie had figured, but he only planned to stay on the road long enough to mask from which direction they’d come.
They came to the place he wanted to angle off the trail and head to the southeast. He glan
ced across his shoulder at the other two. “We gonna ride on down the road a piece, then come back an’ head off yonder toward Barnes’s ranch.” He pushed his cap off his forehead, rolled a cigarette in brown corn shuck, and nodded. “Figger that way won’t nobody know we just come outta Silverton.”
Colter chuckled. “Slagle, I doubt that anybody traveling this trail would be interested in who turned off.” He frowned. “As a matter of fact, with all the holes we been punching in these mountains it could be anybody looking to strike it rich.”
Sam grinned, then nodded. “Sort o’ the way I seen it. Let’s ride on apiece, then we’ll backtrack.”
They rode toward Durango only about another quarter of a mile when Slagle reined his horse around. “This’s far as we go in this direction. Now we go back to that stand o’ trees what was growin’ right down to the edge o’ the trail, then we cut off toward Lingo’s valley.”
Another fifteen or twenty minutes and they sat at the edge of a copse of pines a little above the one from which they’d turned off the trail. Sam looked down on the muddy road, stiffened, and looked at Maddie. “Your guess as to when Bartow would be back wuz ’bout one day too long, an’ only a few minutes from gittin’ us in a heap o’ shootin’ trouble.” He squinted and nodded toward the road they’d left only minutes before. Bartow and another Easterner rode where Sam and his small party had ridden only moments before.
He glanced at Colter. Emily’s father, jaw knotted, eyes slitted and cold, tugged at the rifle in his saddle scabbard. Sam clamped his hand over the old man’s fist. “Don’t. We gonna let Lingo take care o’ that garbage.”
Colter turned his look on the big miner. “What makes you think Barnes is anywhere around, and why are you so all fired sure he is capable of handling those two? That trash needs taking care of now.”