Fowler began to fidget then, and lost some of the color from his face. He still had sand enough to say, "I don't appreciate a threat like that."
"I've never threatened anybody in my life," Rockwell replied. "Not you, nor old Missouri Boggs."
Another hesitation. Then, "Awright, if you say it was self-defense, that settles it as far as I'm concerned. The truth be told, that Seamus has a reputation that'd gag a buzzard."
Rockwell sipped his coffee. Waited. "So, we're done, then?"
"One more thing. You mind me askin' what your plans are for today?"
"Thought I might use that map of yours. Go out and see the claim you say the Saints abandoned. Meet the folks who took it over."
"You'll recall I mentioned—"
"Some of them are jumpy. Got it."
"I would hate for anything to happen there."
"Outside your jurisdiction, either way," Rockwell reminded him.
"That's true enough. I've done my part."
"Like Pilate."
"How's that?"
"Never mind."
"Mmm. You enjoy your breakfast, now."
"I'm trying to."
He watched the chief depart, making a left turn when he hit the sidewalk. Going where? Most likely to consult with someone higher up in Tartarus. Fowler didn't impress him as the sort who'd hatch a plot with pimps and prostitutes, if only for the reason that he lacked the nerve to follow through. So someone else had planned the badger game, or simply given Seamus Hannigan a free hand to proceed as he saw fit.
But it had backfired. They would have to think of something else.
When he was finished with his meal, Rockwell walked back to the hotel and used its privy, then retrieved his other tools—the Sharps and tomahawk. Fowler had left the toothpick lying on his breakfast table, where it gave the little waitress a surprise. Now Rockwell put it in his saddlebag and left it in his room, locked up, went back downstairs and out into the street.
* * *
Same hostler working at the livery. He knew Rockwell by sight, and went to get the Appaloosa, trailing small talk in his wake. "You leavin' us today, Marshal?"
"Can't say. I've got some things to see about. Save me a place."
"No prob'em."
For an old man, he was pretty spry. Rockwell stood watching while he got the Appaloosa saddled up within ten minutes, ready for the road. Rockwell doled out another coin to hold a stall, and got a grin back that was missing several teeth. If he was poison to the town, somehow, word evidently hadn't reached the hostler yet.
As for the people passing up and down Main Street, it may have been his own imagination that they eyed him with suspicion, apprehension, animosity. He saw none of the handful whom he'd questioned in his ramblings, after supper, but he guessed Chief Fowler would have spread the word to some extent by now. How far it spread, he reckoned, would depend on who knew what about the disappearance of his nephew and the other missing Saints.
The atmosphere surrounding Rockwell lightened once he'd cleared the northern boundary of Tartarus and put those anxious eyes behind him. He enjoyed riding the Appaloosa, but he wasn't on a pleasure jaunt. As soon as he was out of sight from town, Rockwell removed his Sharps from its saddle scabbard, resting it across his thighs and balanced by the saddle horn, ready for action. He was crossing open country, for the most part, on his ride to the abandoned Mormon claim, but any shooter with a weapon such as his might try to pot him from five hundred yards or more, and Rockwell wanted a response in kind at hand, if that occurred.
Meanwhile, he did his best to sit back and appreciate the scenery without imagining it as a battlefield. Not easy, given Rockwell's temperament and history. He'd tracked too many men, survived too many shooting scrapes, for any ride on hostile ground to feel like just another easy jaunt. And this was hostile ground, he sensed, no matter what Chief Fowler said about the Saints deciding on their own to pull up stakes and vanish in the wind.
An hour out of Tartarus, the land began to rise, taking him up into the foothills of the Independence range. Rockwell made no special study of geography, but knew the land of Utah Territory well enough for hunting game and men across its varied landscape. He knew, for instance, that the Independence Mountains ran north-south for roughly 110 miles, with their highest point—McAfee Peak—topping 10,400 feet. The mountaintops were white now, what the Spaniards called Nevada, meaning "snow-capped." Rockwell didn't plan on scaling them.
His business waited for him at the bleak foot of the range, where prospectors were bent on scratching treasure from the earth. Or stealing it from those who did the dirty work, if that was easier, and maybe getting rid of any pesky witnesses.
He didn't like to think of Lehi and the others being dead, but Rockwell was a realist—most would have said a pessimist or cynic. In a pinch, he wouldn't argue with them, wouldn't try to justify or balance his perspective with the basic optimism of his faith. Religion tried to see the good in human beings and redeem those who had gone astray. In Rockwell's line of trade, it made more sense to recognize an evildoer and proceed with any steps required to shut him down. The quickest way to wind up dead was scanning the world through rose-colored glasses.
How much farther? It was hard to tell, from Fowler's hand-drawn map, but from the chief's description of the distance, he had something like another mile to go. Say twenty minutes at the Appaloosa's walking pace, or maybe thirty, as the slope grew steeper and the ground beneath them turned to shale. No hurry. He preferred a steady, plodding progress over unfamiliar ground, particularly when its occupants might not be pleased to see him coming.
Had the chief or someone else in Tartarus forewarned the Gentiles working Lehi's claim that Rockwell planned to visit them?
Keeping a firm hand on the Sharps, he reckoned that he'd find out soon enough.
* * *
Rockwell had seen his share of mining operations, large and small. This one was somewhere in between, a shaft descending into darkness, but he couldn't say how far. Two rangy, dirty men were standing out in front of it and watching him approach. One held a pickaxe, while the other had a Colt Walker stuck through his belt for a left-handed draw. No move to pull it as Rockwell came up to them, edging the gelding around to his right, so the Sharps pointed midway between them.
"Marshal," said the one holding the pickaxe. He didn't look or sound surprised.
"Expecting me, were you?"
"Chief said you might be comin' out," the other said.
"You sure it was the chief?"
Both of them blinked at him. "I guess we oughta know Chief Fowler," Pickaxe said.
"So, not his doppelganger, then?"
"His double what?" Colt Walker asked.
Rockwell ignored him. Said, "Because I got the sense he rarely sticks a toe outside of town."
"I guess he gets around okay," said Pickaxe.
"Good to know. Who am I talking to?"
"Brett Murphy," Pickaxe said, then nodded to his left. "My brother, Clem."
"Two of you work this claim alone?"
"Mostly," said Clem. "Frien's help us out from time to time."
"That's nice of them. It's registered in your names, then, alone?"
Both of them squinted at him, looking for the trap. A longish minute passed before Brett answered back, "We got a couple of investors."
"Partners?"
"Well ...."
"And who might they be?"
"Why you askin' us these questions?" Clem inquired.
"Chief didn't fill you in?"
"Just said you might be comin' out to talk about the Mormons," Brett replied.
"That's right, far as it goes."
"Where else you goin' with it, Marshal?"
"Anywhere it leads me, I suppose. About those partners ...."
"I don't like ta say," Brett answered.
"Do it, anyhow."
They thought about defying him, but finally weren't up to it. "There's Mr. Beardsley," Clem allowed.
"Who
is ...?"
"He runs saloons," Brett said. "Oh, yeah, and he's the mayor."
"Handy. Who else?"
"Who else?" Brett echoed him.
"You said investors, meaning more than one."
"Oh, right. There's Mr. Walton, justice of the peace. And Mr. Jacobs. Heads the Miner's League."
"That's all of them?"
"It is."
"No Seamus Hannigan?"
Clem laughed at that. "The pimp? Hell, no."
"So, how'd you come into this claim, exactly," Rockwell asked.
"The Mormons give it up," said Brett. "Reckon they didn't care for all the work involved."
Lie number one, for sure. "You say they gave it to you?"
"Sold it, what he means to say," Clem offered.
"For how much?"
"Five hunnert dollars." That from Brett.
"Five hundred for a played-out claim?"
"Played out?" Clem said. "Who told you—"
"They just thought it was played out," his brother interrupted. "We decided, why not take a chance."
"And your investors felt the same."
"Seems like."
"So, how's it doing for you?" Rockwell asked.
Another hesitation, then Brett told him, "Not too bad. I guess the Mormons just give up too soon."
"Some folks will do that. How about you let me see the bill of sale."
"Ain't here," Clem said.
"Where is it, then?"
"Guess Mr. Beardsley has it, back in town. He fronted half the price."
"He has the business savvy, does he?"
"Seems to, from the way he lives," Brett said.
"Maybe I'll have a word with him, at that. One other thing. These Mormons give you any notion where they might be headed, when they pulled up stakes?"
"We didn't talk about it none," said Clem. "They weren't like frien's or anything."
"You didn't get along with them?"
"Well ...."
"They wanted money in a hurry," Brett explained. "No point us askin' where they's headed, was there?"
"Guess we'll see. You boys are generally here, I take it?"
"One of us, at least," said Clem. "It pays to keep a sharp eye on the claim."
"So I know where to find you, then."
"For what?" Brett asked him, sounding anxious.
Rockwell shrugged and said, "You never know."
He headed out, still riding north. One of them called to him, "Town's back the other way, ya know!"
"Thanks for the tip," he said, and passed on out of pistol range, beyond their line of sight.
* * *
He wasn't going back to Tartarus just yet. It stood to reason that he'd find another claim or two along that way, since someone had seen fit to clear a road of sorts. And sure enough, a half-mile's ride brought Rockwell to another shaft, no one outside to greet him this time, though he picked up voices echoing from somewhere underground.
He sat and waited for a good five minutes, then raised his voice. "Hello the mine!"
The muffled voices ceased, and Rockwell waited for a moment longer, then heard scuffling footsteps coming toward him from the darkness. Lantern light bobbed on the walls, then was extinguished on the edge of sunshine filtering beyond the adit. Two men finally emerged, one carrying a double-barreled shotgun, while the second held the lamp in his left hand, a shovel in his right. Again, Rockwell sat ready, with the Sharps angled in their general direction.
"Who'n hell are you?" the miner with the scattergun demanded.
"U.S. marshal," Rockwell answered. "Got a couple questions for you, if you have the time."
"And if we don't?"
"I've got a couple questions for you, anyway."
"Tha's what I figgered." Surly and resentful. "Ask away."
"You know the Murphy brothers, down the hill there?"
"More or less." It seemed that Shotgun did the talking. Fair enough.
"And what about the folks who had the claim before they got it?"
"Them? A buncha Mormons." Almost spitting out the word.
"You didn't cotton to them?"
"Cotton to a Mormon?" Shotgun sneered at the idea.
"I guess that means they didn't tell you why they planned on leaving?"
Shifty looks between the two, now, trying to conceal it. "Didn't tell us nothin'," Shotgun answered. "Weren't like we was neighbors, was it?"
"I suppose not. Never passed the time of day with them at all, coming or going?"
Shotgun shook his head, the very notion seeming foreign to him.
"Any idea how the claim's been doing since they left?"
''The hell would we know that?"
"Word gets around a mining town, when someone makes a strike."
"We don't know nothin' about nothin' but the work we do right here," Shotgun insisted.
"Right. Thanks for your time."
Instead of pushing any farther north, Rockwell decided he would likely hear some version of the same account from any miners he encountered in the neighborhood. He turned back southward, passed the Murphy claim without a glimpse of Brett or Clem, and kept on going downhill, winding back toward Tartarus. He had three other men to visit now, investors in the claim his nephew and the other Saints had chosen to abandon.
If, in fact, it was their choice.
Rockwell still wasn't sold on that, by any means, but he would give the men in charge of Tartarus a chance to sell him on the story first, before he judged them and considered how to shake the real truth loose. Sometimes it came without a fight, but other times ....
The shot—a rifle's crack—came from behind him, somewhere higher up, and sent him plunging from his saddle to the ground.
Chapter 7
Rockwell lost his hat but hung onto his Sharps as he went down, hit hard, and rolled clear of the Appaloosa as it bolted from the sound of gunfire. Impact with the earth was jarring, but the shot had missed him, wasted. Now, before the sniper had a chance to try again, he wriggled under cover with a boulder at his back, shielding him from the slope above and to the west of him.
It wasn't much in terms of cover, granted. He was pinned down for the moment, and the man who'd tried to kill him—was there only one of them?—had full mobility to creep around and find another angle of attack. Rockwell was still considering his options when a second shot spanged off the boulder, whining into empty space and sprinkling him with slivers from the larger stone.
A rifle, once again. Likely the same one, from its sound, though Rockwell couldn't guarantee it. His first thought had been the Murphy brothers, but the only gun he'd seen in their possession was a pistol. And, so what? There had been time enough, after he left their claim, for one or both of them to run for long guns they'd kept hidden out of sight somewhere. More than enough time for them to climb up the ridge above their shaft and find a vantage point for dry gulching.
One thing that he could not afford to do was sit and wait for one or both of them to flank him. If they caught him in a crossfire, he was finished. The alternative, he knew, was to expose himself and take a chance.
Rockwell reared up, the Sharps against his shoulder, angling up the hillside. He was ready when the sniper fired again, black powder smoke betraying his position, with a huddled shape behind it. Rockwell fired off-hand and thought he saw a puff of crimson in the midst of all that smoke, but couldn't swear to it.
No matter. He was up and running in a heartbeat, empty rifle in his left hand, now, one of his Colts clutched in the right. The slope was steep and slippery, but Rockwell dug in with his boots, leaned into it, and willed himself to beat the pull of gravity. Somewhere above him, he was certain that he heard a cry of pain, perhaps a second voice responding to it, but the shooters missed their chance to pick him off while he was climbing, when he would have been a relatively easy mark. He stumbled, halfway to the summit, almost sliding back again, but he dropped the rifle, caught himself with his left hand, and charged ahead.
Cresting the ris
e gave them another chance to kill him, framed in silhouette against the sky, but there was no one left on top to do the job. Far off, and disappearing down a canyon, southward, Rockwell saw two horsemen, one slumped forward as if he was having trouble staying in the saddle.
Wounded?
Rockwell didn't try the Colt, since they were both well out of range. Long gone before he could have doubled back to fetch the Sharps, reload, and try to wing one of them on the run. He cursed and never gave a thought to asking Jesus for His pardon, focused now on finding out if he had scored a hit on either of his would-be killers.
And he found a patch of fresh blood on the ground, approximately where a wounded shooter would have fallen back, after he'd fired the Sharps uphill. The quantity was indeterminate, but no hit from a .52-caliber slug would qualify as minor. At the very least, it drilled a half-inch entrance wound, propelling mangled flesh before it. Even missing bones and vital organs, it would be a stunning wound, impact alone sufficient to take most men down and out.
If it had clipped a major artery or vein, the sniper was as good as dead.
It was too late to follow them. He had to scramble back downhill, retrieve his horse—and then, what?
Check the Murphy claim, for starters. His intended killers had been riding south, toward Tarturus. If Brett and Clem were nowhere to be found, Rockwell would have a fair idea of who had ambushed him, and who had put them up to it.
Their three so-called investors. Beardsley. Walton. Jacobs.
And perhaps some more, besides.
* * *
The Appaloosa gelding came when Rockwell whistled for it, trotting up to him and standing ready while he took a moment to reload the Sharps. He mounted, then, and turned the animal back northward, thinking through the moves that lay ahead of him.
One way it could go, if the Murphys were the shooters, he would find their claim abandoned. No threat, there. Conversely, if the brothers weren't involved, they'd have to reason to be gunning for him. Yet another way to look at it, of course: they were involved, but hadn't fired the shots themselves—in which case, seeing Rockwell in the flesh might prod them into trying something on their own, impulsively.
Be ready, then, he thought. Don't give them any slack.
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