It was the second entry, however, that really arrested his attention. It read: I ache from head to toe. Carried out gold to the bottom of the butte. Sawn-Off Mountain they call it. Once I get across the river I ain’t never tellin’ no one about that mine and I ain’t ever comin’ back.
It was with difficulty that Malloy refrained from letting out a whoop. He hadn’t been wrong to suspect the lawyer. There was indeed a secret attached to the mountain and he had found it out. Somewhere high in its recesses there was a gold mine and it was a good bet it wasn’t worked out. It was no secret that Marsden Rockwell was keen to acquire the Pitchfork L. Folks reckoned it was so he could establish the best stagecoach route; there might be truth in that, but what if he knew about the gold mine? In fact, there was probably a connection. The Pitchfork L rangelands gave the best access to the mountain. Having ownership of the stage line would make it easy to transport any gold there might be. A thought crossed the oldster’s mind. If he was right about all this, how did Rockwell know about the gold mine? Maybe there was some further evidence.
He tucked the paper into a pocket and began to delve into the drawer once more. After a few moments his fingers felt another slip of paper which had slid underneath one of the files. He lifted it out; it seemed to be an old newspaper clipping and his heart skipped a beat as he read the words:
A report has reached us of the discovery of gold-bearing quartz in the vicinity of Sawn-Off Mountain. The person making the claim said that he had had a piece of gold assayed at twenty five hundred dollars to the ton. The story, however, seems to us to be entirely spurious and unreliable, more especially as there is no evidence even as to the existence of the above-named individual.
After reading the clipping he leaned against the cabinet, his hand pressed to his brow. The clipping seemed to confirm his suppositions. More than that, it could be the making of his own fortune. He closed the drawer and went through to the print-room. For a moment he hesitated, wondering whether to have another word with the proprietor before deciding that there was nothing he could add. If Whale had known anything about the gold mine, he would have said so in the first place. Besides, it was wise to be discreet. The fewer the people who knew about his discovery, the better. Turning on his heel, he left the newspaper offices and strode purposefully homewards.
When Pocket arrived at Skip Malloy’s ramshackle house, he wasn’t surprised to see the wagon drawn up and the horses harnessed, but he merely assumed another burial was in the offing. The oldster emerged from the building carrying a heavy sack, which he placed carefully in the back of the wagon before turning to him.
‘I won’t be needin’ any help today, boy,’ he said.
‘Then what are you doin?’ Pocket asked. Malloy watched the boy’s lips closely.
‘You might say I’m goin’ on a little trip,’ he replied.
Pocket was puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’ he said. ‘What sort of trip?’
‘That really ain’t none of your business, but I guess it don’t do no harm to tell you. I’m goin’ to take a ride out to Sawn-Off Mountain.’
‘Sawn-Off Mountain!’ the youngster exclaimed. ‘But that could be dangerous. There are bad men up there.’
Malloy gave the boy a questioning look. ‘Who told you that?’ he rapped. ‘Where did you get that idea? Have you been talkin’ with somebody?’
‘Only Mr Stimson.’
‘What? The old feller whose dog you take for a walk?’
‘Yes. He’s a friend of mine.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Nothin’. He just told me to be careful because he’d seen some bad men in town. He figured they might be livin’ on Sawn-Off Mountain.’
The oldster’s mouth moved in an imitation of chewing, weighing up the boy’s words. They confirmed some suspicions he had developed following his discussion with Eldon Garrett. It had seemed odd at the time. Why would the lawyer be interested in Sawn-Off Mountain? What Pocket said seemed to confirm that there was more to it than met the eye. If he’d had a vague reason for riding out to Sawn-Off Mountain before Pocket’s arrival, he had even more now.
‘That’s sound advice,’ he said, looking at the boy closely. ‘You’d do well to bear Mr Stimson’s words in mind.’ He made to climb up on the wagon seat.
‘Can I come with you?’ Pocket said.
The oldster halted. ‘I don’t think that would be a good idea,’ he replied. ‘You ain’t come prepared for a drive. Besides, won’t Miss Winona wonder where you are?’
‘I don’t spend all my time at Miss Winona’s,’ Pocket replied. ‘She’s used to me comin’ and goin’.’
Malloy turned and spat on the ground. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Mr Stimson might be right after all. It could be dangerous up there.’
Pocket had a brainwave. ‘If there’s anybody there, you’ll need someone to interpret for you.’
Malloy shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, son,’ he replied. ‘I can’t deny that it might be useful to have you along, but this ain’t a trip for a boy. Give my regards to Miss Winona. I’ll see you when I get back.’
With some difficulty he hoisted himself aloft and cracked his whip. The horse jerked forward and began to move down the street. Pocket stood for a few moments watching it, torn between his desire to get back to the Sumac and his curiosity about Sawn-Off Mountain. Mr Tulane had said something about going there one day, but that was too indefinite. Pocket had always wanted to see the place for himself but had been put off because of the stories he had heard. But he was too old to be deterred by any of that now. Here was a great chance to see what the place was really like.
When the wagon had gone a little distance he suddenly burst into a run. Catching up with it, he put his hands on the backboard and jumped. For a few moments he swung precariously before drawing up his leg and tumbling into the back of the wagon. He made some noise but the oldster’s deafness was a guarantee that Pocket’s action went unnoticed. The wagon was partly filled with a number of items, including a pick and a spade and a couple of rifles, and Malloy had packed a fair of amount of provisions. Pocket wondered what the old-timer expected to find on Sawn-Off Mountain as he made himself as comfortable and invisible as he could.
In the period of time immediately following his return to the Sumac, Tulane was torn between his desire to visit the Pitchfork L and his concern for Miss Winona. Although she put a brave front on what had happened, he sensed that she was feeling nervous and that she appreciated having him around. He didn’t expect Spade to put in another appearance. He was pretty sure that he had now found his way to the Bar Nothing. If so, it meant that an attack on the Pitchfork L was imminent. The pressure on him to get to the Pitchfork was growing.
On the evening of the second day following his trip to the Bar Nothing Tulane took the opportunity to talk at greater length with Jordan. He told him in more detail about what he had learned during his short time at the Bar Nothing. When he had finished the ostler let out a subdued whistle.
‘How about we have a word with the marshal?’ Tulane said.
Jordan’s reaction was instantaneous. He laughed out loud and shook his head vigorously.
‘Marshal Keogh!’ he said. ‘I was goin’ to say that man’s a joke, only it’s worse than that. He’s probably in with Rockwell.’
‘What? You think he’s corrupt?’
‘Yeah, and so do a lot of other folk.’
‘Why doesn’t somebody do somethin’ about it?’
Jordan shrugged. ‘Guess folks just prefer to mind their own business.’
‘Until they get involved whether they like it or not,’ Tulane replied.
Jordan looked at him. ‘Like us, you mean.’
‘Us?’
‘You’ve already made a decision to side with the Pitchfork. So have I.’
‘Has what happened with Miss Winona somethin’ to do with it?’
‘Of course. Isn’t it the same with you?’
Tulane didn’t respond. Instead, he look
ed around him at the livery stables. ‘What about this place? Haven’t you got a business to run?’
‘It can wait.’
‘I’m used to handlin’ a gun. Are you?’
‘I can use a gun. I just ain’t had occasion to do so. Till now.’
Tulane’s face suddenly broke into a smile. ‘Then it’s settled,’ he said.
‘What do we do next?’ Jordan asked.
Tulane took a moment or two to weigh up the situation. ‘Seems to me we need to get on over to the Pitchfork L pretty quick,’ he said. ‘Time’s runnin’ short. I think Miss Winona is OK now. Besides, Pocket is doin’ a pretty good job of taking care of her. I’ll go back and spend this evening at the Sumac. I’ll have a few words with them both. Be ready first thing in the mornin’.’
‘Sure thing,’ Jordan replied. They both got to their feet and stood for a moment side by side till the ostler held out his hand. ‘Give my love to Miss Winona,’ he said.
As Tulane made his way back to the boarding house, he began to wonder whether there might be something between Jordan and Miss Winona. It bothered him a little but he couldn’t have said why. By the time he reached the Sumac he had come to the conclusion that they were probably just good friends. After all, they had apparently known one another for a long time. It was no concern of his.
Skip Malloy drew the wagon to a halt. Although he was enveloped in a blanket of silence, his other senses seemed to have developed beyond their normal range to compensate. Maybe it was a kind of sixth sense that told him something was not right. He stood on the open range and looked about him, first towards the looming mass of Sawn-Off Mountain and then back along the way they had come. Ahead of him was the river and he knew it would be high. Moving to the back of the wagon, he reached in for his rifle. At the same moment something moved and he jumped aside as the face of Pocket suddenly appeared.
‘What in tarnation!’ Malloy expostulated. ‘Pocket! What the hell are you doin’ in there? You’re lucky I didn’t blow your head off.’ He had raised the rifle and now he swung it down again.
‘Don’t be mad at me,’ Pocket said.
The oldster gave the boy an exasperated look. ‘There’ll be time for that by and by’, he said. ‘Right now, I got other things to think about. Like gettin’ across a swollen river.’
The boy climbed over the backboard of the wagon and dropped to the ground beside the oldster. He began to stretch his legs, then suddenly halted. He tilted his head, listening carefully.
‘I can hear somethin’,’ he said.
‘Yeah. That’ll be the river.’ The oldster was angry but his relief at finding that his anxiety had been caused by nothing worse than the boy’s presence in the back of his wagon had a pacifying effect on him. He laid the rifle back in its place.
‘I should tan your hide,’ he said.
‘I said I was sorry.’
Malloy shook his head. ‘What about Miss Winona?’ he asked. ‘Won’t she be worried about you?’
‘She don’t expect me to be at the Sumac all the time,’ Pocket answered. ‘She ain’t my ma.’
‘All the same,’ the oldster replied. He lifted his hand and gave the boy a cuff around the ears. Pocket jumped aside before a second blow could land.
‘You’re incorrigible,’ Malloy said. ‘I don’t know why any of us bother with you.’ A shy grin lit up Pocket’s face. ‘Well,’ the oldster concluded, ‘now that you’re here, I guess there isn’t much I can do about it. Get up in the front seat alongside of me and keep your eyes open for a fordin’ place.’
Chapter Five
As arranged, on the morning following their discussion at the Sumac Tulane and Jordan rode out of Water Pocket, heading for the Pitchfork L. It was a dull day. Rain clouds hung low in the sky and a chill wind bent the grass. On the far horizon lightning flickered.
‘What sort of reception are you expectin’ when we get to the Pitchfork L?’ Jordan said.
‘What do you mean?’
The ostler grinned. ‘Well, I was thinkin’ of the last time you made the acquaintance of some of their boys.’
‘That was all a big mistake.’
‘Some mistake! I seem to remember you ended up in a coffin.’
‘Don’t remind me,’ Tulane replied.
They rode on at a steady pace, putting the miles behind them. Rain began to fall and they halted to pull on their slickers before continuing. Thunder rolled overhead. Tulane raised his eyes to look for the bulking mass of Sawn-Off Mountain but it was completely obscured by a heavy blanket of cloud. They seemed to have been riding for a long time before Jordan announced that they must be on the outer ranges of the Pitchfork L. Soon huddled shapes of cattle confirmed his opinion, lying with their backs to the wind and the slanting rain. The ground was already heavy under the horses’ hoofs. The mustang was big and strong but Jordan’s palomino was showing signs of tiring. It came as something of a relief to both of them when they eventually had their first glimpse of the Pitchfork L.
The ranch house was long and low, dominated by the outbuildings behind it. A large shade tree spread its branches over the roof on one side where the ground was slightly raised. What struck Tulane was the strangely deserted aspect of the place. The windows were shuttered and the corrals empty of horses. There was nobody around. They came to a halt.
‘What do you think?’ Tulane said.
‘It don’t look normal,’ the ostler replied.
They fell silent, reflecting on the situation, till Tulane spoke again.
‘Whatever’s goin’ on down there doesn’t affect what we came here for. We’re wastin’ time. Let’s just carry on.’
Jordan nodded and they started forward again, more than ever alert to the possibility of danger. They rode into the yard and had just dismounted when two figures appeared from an angle of the ranch house, carrying rifles which were pointed at them.
‘Hold it right there and throw down your guns,’ one of the men rapped.
‘We come in peace,’ Tulane replied.
‘Just do it. And don’t think of makin’ any fancy moves.’
As they complied the ranch house door was flung open and another man emerged. He advanced to the veranda and looked closely at Jordan before he spoke.
‘Don’t I know you?’ he said.
‘Yup, I guess so. And I recognize you.’ Jordan turned to Tulane. ‘This is Mr Loman, the owner of the Pitchfork L.’ He faced the man on the veranda. ‘I’m Jordan, the owner of the livery stables in Water Pocket. And this is my good friend, Mr Clay Tulane.’
The rancher looked uneasily from Jordan to Tulane before seeming to come to a decision. ‘It’ll be OK, boys,’ he said. ‘Mr Jordan is an acquaintance of mine. You’ve done a good job. Take their horses and then get back to your stations.’
The two men lowered their rifles and took hold of the horses’ reins. As they did so, Loman turned to Jordan.
‘Perhaps you’d better come inside out of the rain and tell me your business.’
He led the way and they followed him into the ranch house. It was quite dark inside because the shutters were closed. Boxes of ammunition stood near by and rifles were stacked against the walls.
‘Looks like you’re gettin’ ready for a siege,’ Tulane commented.
‘That’s exactly what we’re doin’,’ Loman replied.
Tulane had thrown out the remark flippantly but he quickly realized that Loman was in deadly earnest. ‘It wouldn’t be the Bar Nothing you got in mind?’ he said.
The rancher turned on him. ‘What made you say that?’ he asked. ‘What do you know about all this?’
‘That’s what we’re here for,’ Jordan cut in.
The rancher looked from one to the other. ‘Take off your slickers and make yourselves comfortable while I get us all a drink,’ he said. ‘Then you’d better explain what’s goin’ on. And if you don’t mind, I’ll get my foreman Mr Hellawell to join us.’
He poured the drinks and then went out of the room. They cou
ld hear him talking with someone. He returned and soon afterwards they heard a back door open and close. A man appeared.
‘You want me, boss?’ he said. He glanced at Tulane and Jordan.
‘Come in. Have a drink,’ Loman replied. He made the introductions. ‘Mr Jordan and Mr Tulane have something to tell us and I think you should hear.’ The tumblers refreshed, he took up his seat again. ‘Go ahead, then, gentlemen. We’re real interested in what you have to say.’
When Tulane, with help from the ostler, had finished his tale, Loman got to his feet and began to stride up and down the room.
‘I knew it,’ he said to his foreman, ‘I just knew that Rockwell was about to take matters into his own hands.’
‘Mr Tulane’s story certainly seems to confirm what we already assumed,’ Hellawell replied.
Loman turned to his visitors. ‘You’re sure about wantin’ to join us?’ he said. ‘It seems like Rockwell can muster a considerably bigger force than we can. And he’s got hardened gunslicks like Spade ridin’ for him.’
‘We’ve made a decision,’ Tulane replied. ‘Like Jordan said just now, that’s why we’re here. We’re just glad we arrived in time. Rockwell could be on his way right now.’
‘Well, I sure appreciate it,’ Loman replied. ‘I reckon we’re gonna need all the help we can get.’ Suddenly, unexpectedly, his face creased in a shamefaced grin. ‘Oh, and by the way,’ he said, ‘I apologize for what happened to you, Tulane. Seems like a couple of our boys went too far, assumin’ you must be Spade.’
‘Kind of ironic isn’t it,’ Tulane replied, ‘that I’ve got the Bar Nothing to thank for comin’ to my rescue.’
‘Don’t forget the horse,’ Jordan chipped in. ‘It looks like he might have saved your bacon, wading in like he did and buffaloing you with his hoofs.’
‘No thanks to old Skip Malloy,’ Tulane said.
Loman chuckled as he resumed his seat. They finished their drinks and sat for a moment in silence. Tulane glanced about him at the stacked rifles and boxes of ammunition.
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