by Jory Sherman
"You don't even know Clay," Kathleen said loudly. "He's a fine man, an orphan who had to live as best he could. He and my father have been friends for a long time. He has helped us more than once in rough camps where men behave like animals. I love Clay."
Garrison heaved a sigh. "I had hoped you wouldn't make up your mind so hastily, Kathleen. This country is changing fast. The gold is changing it. The Mormons settling on the Rancho San Bernardino. The man who survives here won't do it with a gun. He'll do it with property, substance."
"I have no doubts you're right, Garrison. I believe Clay intends to change with the country himself. My father is changing, too. He no longer burns with the fever that he once had when he mined gold. He works hard, he saves. This is his last claim and he'll work it till it pays out. Then he'll live comfortably the rest of his days. He will have earned that right by dint of hard work."
"Still, I'd like you to consider my proposal, too. Don't give yourself to this man without seriously thinking of your own future—with me."
Kathleen rose, then, knowing that Garrison Morfit hadn't really listened to her all evening. She had tried to be firm with him. She had no idea that Clay worked for him and that made it even more imperative that she discourage Garrison from any false hopes he might have.
"I appreciate your offer, Garrison. I'm sure you mean well. But I made my mind up about Clay a long time ago. I love him, I'm going to marry him. I hope you understand that I never meant to encourage you to make such a proposal to me."
Garrison fumed inside, but kept silent. He rose, too, knowing that he had lost this round. Kathleen O'Keefe was a strong-willed young woman. Well, he was strong-willed, too. He still had one last ace to play.
"I think you're blind, Kathleen," he said slowly. "Clay Brand was just a girlish infatuation and you put him in a mold where he doesn't belong."
"Good night, Garrison," she said firmly. "And goodbye. Please don't come around anymore. It would only ruin our friendship." She held out her hand, but he couldn't take it just yet. There was still something more he had to say. He was bitter and he didn't like to lose.
"Clay Brand is not so considerate of you, Kathleen. Right now he's with a young woman himself."
The words snapped at Kathleen like a whip. "I—I don't believe you!" she said, her temper flaring. "How despicable of you to say such a thing!"
Garrison knew he had her ruffled. "Oh, it's true, all right. He's with Laura Wilson."
"Get out of here!" she shouted.
He stepped back, stunned by her fury. Her voice had brought Andy from the cabin. He blinked in the dark, his pipe stuck in his mouth. "What's that?" Andy asked.
"Garrison is just leaving," she said. "Good night again, Garrison."
"Good night, Kathleen. Andy!"
He turned then and strode to his horse. He mounted and looked back at her. She was lovely in the moonlight. If only that damned Brand weren't around!
"Good night, Garrison," Andy said tightly. He knew that his daughter had been going to tell the man not to come calling anymore. He could smell the trouble even without knowing exactly what had been said between the two. Garrison wheeled without another word and rode off.
Kathleen burst into tears and Andy came off the porch, took her in his arms. "There now, there now, lass," he said, "don't weep."
"Oh, Dad, that man! He said Clay was with Laura Wilson."
He patted her on the shoulder, soothingly. "Don't you listen to him. He's stung by pride is all. No man likes to come in second best. He was just trying to give you some hurt back."
"I—I don't know. I'm confused. I think Garrison may be telling the truth."
"Well, if he is, he put Clay up to it. Morfit and Wilson are thick as thieves."
The two walked back into the cabin. Kathleen put her arm around her father's waist, glad for his strength. She was so miserable. She hadn't wanted any bitterness from Garrison. At first she had been surprised that Clay worked for him. She hadn't thought to ask who his employer was, she had been so glad to see him. Now, she regretted she hadn't asked. She might have been easier on Garrison.
Would that have helped? She didn't know. He had hurt her with that remark about Laura Wilson. She knew who Laura was, that her father owned the stamp mill at the other end of Holcomb. Laura was a beautiful young woman. Could it be true that Clay was seeing her? For the first time in her life, she wasn't sure anymore.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Clay took several wagons down the Cushenbery over the next three weeks. March, the month the Indians called the Moon of Strong Winds, led into April with freezing nights, muddy days of thaw. The winds kept the trail hard, but the ruts from the wagons made the trip a nightmare for the teamsters and the horses.
He'd had no trouble on his trips, but other freighters were robbed consistently. Morfit kept him busy so he'd had no chance to see Kathleen or Andy, always riding in late at night, cold, exhausted. He had two horses, besides his own, to ride and sometimes he'd have as many as three wagons to guide down the twisting grade to the desert.
Morfit's business grew, especially as word got around that his wagons got through without being attacked by road agents. Laura was sometimes at the stamp mill when the loading was going on and they talked, but it was usually just light banter. He ran into Jenkins again, the man he'd met after his run-in with Jingo, Nat, and the man he'd killed, Farrel. The reunion was a hearty one. Jenkins had gone to Morfit because he had found out that Clay was the gun riding along on the trips out of Holcomb.
Clay had seen no sign of Perez or Leffler, but he believed they were behind the depredations on the other freight outfits. Certain descriptions that came back up the hill after the raids made him suspect that they were behind the rash of robberies. Miners held daily meetings; vigilantes roamed the countryside, and fights broke out concerning these lawless acts and the men who perpetuated them. Yet, Clay had not even had to draw his pistol or cock his rifle. It was beginning to get on his nerves. Either they were afraid of him, or there was some other reason why the wagons he guarded had escaped ambush.
Near mid-April he saw Kathleen and Andy again, unexpectedly. He was talking to Laura Wilson at the stamp mill while waiting for the wagons to be loaded with ore bound for Selby when the two rode up in Andy's old buckboard. Surprised, he excused himself from the conversation with Laura and walked over as Andy pulled up.
"Hi, Andy, Kathleen. Been hoping we'd run into each other."
"Top of the mornin', Clay," Andy said cheerily.
"Yes, I gather you've been too busy to see us," Kathleen said.
"As a matter of fact, I have," Clay told her. "I'm getting ready to leave again now. Won't be back until tomorrow."
Andy walked away while the two talked. He perceived that his daughter was miffed, and supposed it was because Clay hadn't been out since that first night.
"I see you and Laura have time for each other," Kathleen said.
A puzzled look came over Clay's face. "I don't know what you mean," he said. "Her father owns this mill. This is Garrison's base of operations as well. It's just convenient for him, for us."
"Convenient? Yes, I'd say that. Why haven't you been out to see us, Clay?"
"Haven't had the chance. Garrison's had me riding one load after another down. I was hoping to get a day or two after this trip. The way the wagons have been getting robbed, Morfit's line is getting more work than any of the others, including Cushenbery's. I'm sorry, Kathleen. I've missed you and Andy."
Kathleen softened then. "Really? Well, you tell Garrison Morfit that you have to have some days off. I won't stand for a separation just after I got you back."
She smiled warmly then and he took her hand in his, squeezed it. "That's better," he said. "You have no reason to be jealous."
"I hope not, Clay."
He rode out with Pops and two other teamsters, three wagons in all, shortly after Andy and Kathleen left for town. Several other miners had come to talk to Garrison and Henry Wilson while the wagons were
being loaded and he gathered something big was up. When he returned the next day, he found out he was right.
"Take the rest of the day off, Clay," Garrison told him, "then be ready for the most important trip of all."
"What's that?"
"The stage has been operating, you know, carrying passengers only, from here over Cajon to San Bernardino. Tomorrow, it'll be carrying something else."
"Gold?"
"Dust, pure stuff. About $60,000 worth. Passengers going along too. I want you to ride with it all the way. Pops will drive."
Clay whistled. He didn't like it.
"Keep your mouth shut about it. Take two horses. Be ready to leave early tomorrow. The gold will be in strong boxes, loaded on the stage before it goes to town to pick up the passengers. I'm counting on you, Clay, to get it through. The miners trust us since we've had no trouble. That's why they're putting it all on this stage."
"Pops and I'll take her through," he said.
Garrison just stared at Clay, then turned and left him standing there. Clay mounted up and rode slowly into town, thinking. The thought of all that money weighed heavily on him. Some of it represented months of work and years of dreams to the miners who took it from the earth. Clay knew how hard it was to come up with clean dust—and $60,000 worth was many hours of back-breaking toil.
Octagon House was busy when Clay walked in after tying up his horse out back. The sky was heavily overcast, a gunmetal gray that stretched from hill to hill as far as he could see. There was a nip in the air, a taste of far-off moisture. Inside, the talk was all of storms past, up on the Yukon, in the High Sierras, the Nevada ranges. The tall man ordered a drink from Ken McElves, who was chasing up and down the back bar like a confused rabbit, filling orders for beer and booze.
"Straight whiskey, Ken."
"Think it's going to snow?"
"Likely. Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow night."
Ken uttered a short expletive and ran down to the opposite end of the bar, his dog Coco watching him scramble. Clay downed his drink and was about to leave when Ken came back.
"You know those two you were asking about a month ago?"
Clay nodded.
"Well, they were here a while ago."
Clay's eyes narrowed. He leaned over the bar. "Say anything?"
"Nope. They talked to themselves, had a drink, and left. I was too busy to see where they were headed. Just thought I'd let you know."
"Thanks, Ken. Obliged." He threw four bits on the bar and strode out, checking the house as he went. He saw no one he knew, mostly idlers and men spending the dust they'd made that day. The women hadn't even bothered to paint up much that early in the day. They were busy.
Brand rode quickly to the Van Dusen stable where he asked the stable boy, Jimmy, if he'd seen two men on horseback come through town. He described them to the youth.
"I saw them," Jimmy replied. "One had a scar on his face, the dark one. They was here, bought a sack of grain."
"What color horses were they riding?" Clay asked.
"The Californio was atop a long-legged black, sixteen, seventeen hands high. And the other feller rode a fat bay."
"Any pack animals?"
"No, sir. Didn't see any."
"The man on the bay—did he have his right arm in a sling?"
"No, sir."
"Which way'd they ride?"
"They cut across like they was going to Union Flats or up to Wilson's mill."
"Can you show me their horses' tracks?" Clay asked him.
Jimmy took him out back of the stable. In the soft earth he showed Clay two sets of fresh tracks. Clay bent over and studied them carefully. Sometimes a hoof print was just like a drawing on paper, a picture one could read like a road sign. One set of tracks were deep sunk in the mud, wide. The other set were more narrow, not as deeply sunk. The shoes were worn on both horses, the heavier horse's shoes were more rounded on the edges. Clay figured the bay to be the heavier horse from the way Jimmy had described it. That would be Leffler's horse. The Californio would have the lighter one, the black.
In a moment, Clay saw what he was looking for as he duck-walked the tracks leading away from the back of the stable. The lighter horse's left rear shoe had a V in it, as though a sharp rock had indented the soft lead. Just opposite the V was a tiny mound, either a flaw in the shoe or wrinkled there when the V was made. Since the shoe left an indentation in the earth there, Clay figured there was a hump or protrusion in the shoe lead just to the right of the V.
Clay got up. These tracks were the same ones he had seen when he left Barstow over a month ago. There was no doubt in his mind that they were the men who had shot at him on the trail and ambushed him on the grade.
"Thanks, Jimmy. Let me know if you see those hombres again."
He had wanted to see Kathleen, but the presence of Leffler and Perez in Holcomb Valley had changed those plans.
Clay began following the tracks across the flats. The horse trail led into a wagon trail that in turn joined a road that skirted Osborne Flats. When he hit the main road, he turned right toward Union Flats and the Wilson Stamp Mill.
Behind him, Belleville stretched as far as the eye could see under a slate sky. This whole valley, Clay thought, had grown because of a man's accidental discovery of gold. William F. Holcomb had gone bear hunting, walking over the mountain from Starvation Flats in Bear Valley. He and Ben Choteau had tracked a wounded bear in the new valley. They spotted specks of gold in a quartz ledge and gave up chasing the bear. The two men walked down a ridge with grasslands on both sides. They washed their bandanas full of quartz chips they had gotten from the ledge. Digging down under a sandy bar in the creek just below the ridge, they saw bright nuggets and grains of gold. That was in May of 1860, and now, almost two years later, the gold hadn't run out.
He turned back to the road, the tracks still clear over those of other travelers that way. When he had gone past the cut-off to Wilson's he heard his name called. He stopped and turned in the saddle. It was Laura Wilson, driving the sulky, alone. "Where are you going?" she asked him.
"Riding," he said.
"Take me with you?"
"No, Laura."
"Big secret, huh? I keep thinking you're avoiding me. We haven't seen much of you when you're in town."
"I'm not in town much," he said. The woman was teasing him, he knew, but he didn't want to be impolite. He was impatient to be on his way. Every minute that passed made the trail colder.
She got out of the sulky, her legs flashing for a moment, under her long dress. She walked up to Clay and began rubbing the pommel of his saddle. "I wish you'd come to supper again. When you get back from tomorrow's trip. Will you?"
Clay looked at her. To refuse would be to invite argument. To accept would be to get Kathleen upset again. There was enough confusion now to last him a long time.
"I will do my best, depending on my time," he said finally. "Morfit doesn't give me much time off."
"He will, if I ask him," she said, her voice low and husky. Her dark good looks seemed especially prominent in the gray light of the afternoon. "Just promise me you'll have supper with us when you get back from this trip."
"I promise. If I can."
She went back to her rig, then smiling at him as she got in. "Goodbye, Clay," she said. "I promise not to argue with you about your gun."
"Goodbye, Laura." He spurred his horse and rode on, relieved that he had gotten out of that situation for now. He had the distinct impression that Laura Wilson was chasing him. He'd have to discourage that or Kathleen would likely put a dent in his head with a skillet. He smiled to himself, his eyes scanning the road intently.
Just before reaching Union Flats, the two sets of tracks veered off the road, heading for the rocks just past a small stream. He followed them as they wound upward and northwesterly. He hunched low over his saddle, using the trees to avoid making himself a target. Past the rocks, he came to a wide sward where he pulled up short. Another set of tracks, coming
from another angle jointed the first two. There were signs that the three people had talked for some time. The two sets of tracks belonging to Leffler and Perez then headed back toward Union Flats.
Clay made a decision. He followed the single set of tracks, backtracking them to see where they began. Whoever had come out here didn't want to be seen and he was probably the same person who had hired Perez and Leffler to kill him. He was also the same man, likely, who had met the two outlaws at Starvation Flats three weeks before. Clay wanted to know who that man was.
Leffler and Perez could wait. A man who hid behind another's guns was by far the most dangerous. Clay wanted to find him and kill him.
CHAPTER NINE
The horses were restless, stamping their feet. Pops gentled them with his voice, impatient himself. The sky was bulging with low-hanging clouds and it was getting colder every second.
Garrison Morfit rode back and forth, uneasy, as the final loading went on, two strong boxes, padlocked, placed on top of the stage. A tarp was drawn over the boxes and they were lashed down tight.
Clay blew on his hands, warming them once again before slipping them back into fur-lined gloves. His spare horse was tied to the rear of the Concord. "It's going to snow; we'd better get moving," he told Garrison.
"Damn it, I know that! Come on men, wrap it up!" Morfit said. "Get those passengers out here!"
A man went into Octagon House and came back a few minutes later with two men carrying sacks under their coats. Gold, probably, Clay thought.
"Hey, wait for me!" yelled someone. Clay turned in the saddle. It was Andy O'Keefe, riding on a burro.
"You going on this trip, Andy?" Clay asked when the panting miner came near.
"Shore am, me bucko. Going to open a bank account in San Bernardino and buy Kathleen some pretties."
"What about Kathleen? She be all right?"
"Listen, that girl can take care of herself. Wanted to go along, but I told her to watch the claim. Going to snow anyway. There's plenty of vittles for her. A deer come right down to the creek yesterday morning and I dropped it in its tracks."