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“After we got out on the trail, Clark left us and said he would ride on ahead and locate the wagon train, then return to guide us to it. When Randy Ke
“It was all over. Clark had ridden up with two men and Michael, who had been expecting nothing, was dead. It was terrible! Randy was not dead yet when I got to the top of the hill, and I saw one of the men kick a pistol from his hand and shoot him again. There was nothing I could do, and I knew if I showed myself, they would kill me, too, so I lay there in the grass and waited.”
“But what happened to you? How did you get out here?” “There was nothing I could do at the wagon, so I started over the prairie toward the other wagon train. It was almost twenty miles away, but it was all I could do. When I’d only gone a few miles I saw old Nellie, Mike’s saddle mare. She must have become frightened and broke loose. Anyway, she knew me and when I called she came right up, so I rode her to the other wagon train.
“From Laramie I came on by stage.”
He looked at her uneasily.
“Then you knew all the time I was faking!”
“Yes, but when you stopped Walt that first night, I whispered to Costa not to tell.”
“He knew all the time, too?”
“Yes.” She was smiling at him. “I’d showed him my marriage license, which I’d been carrying in the pocket of my dress.”
“Why didn’t you tell?” he protested. “Here I was having a battle with my conscience, trying to decide what was right, and all the time I knew I had to explain sooner or later.”
“You were doing so much better with the ranch than Michael ever could have, and Costa liked it that way. Michael and I grew up together and were more like brother and sister than husband and wife, but when he heard from his Uncle George, we were married. We thought Uncle George would be pleased—and we liked each other.”
Suddenly it dawned on Jed that they were standing in the middle of the street and that he had his arm around Carol. He withdrew it hastily and they started toward the horses.
“Why didn’t you just claim the estate as Mike’s wife?” he asked.
“Costa was afraid Seever would kill me. We hadn’t decided what to do when you solved everything for the time being.” “What about these guns?”
“My father made them. He was a gunsmith, and he made guns for Uncle George, too. These were a present to Mike when we started West.”
His eyes avoided hers.
“Carol,” he said. “I’ll get my gear an’ move on. The ranch is yours now, and I’d better head out.”
“I don’t want you to go,” she murmured.
He thought his ears were deceiving him. “You— what?”
“Don’t go, Jed. Stay with us. I couldn’t manage the ranch alone, and Costa has been happy since you’ve been there. We need you, Jed. I—I need you.”
“Well,” he said hesitantly, “there’s those cattle to be sold, and there’s a quarter section near Willow Springs that could be irrigated.”
Pardo, watching, glanced at Flood. “I think he’s goin’ to stay, Pat.”
“Shore,” Flood said knowingly, “ships and women. They all like a handy man around the place!”
Carol caught Jed’s sleeve. “Then you’ll stay?”
He smiled. “What could Costa do without me?”
BIG MEDICINE
Old Billy Dunbar was down flat on his face in a dry wash swearing into his beard. The best gold-bearing gravel he had found in a year, and then the Apaches would have to show up!
It was like them, the mean, ornery critters. He hugged the ground for dear life and hoped they would not see him, tucked away as he was between some stones where an eddy of the water that once ran through the wash had dug a trench between the stones.
There were nine of them. Not many, but enough to take his scalp if they found him, and it would be just as bad if they saw his burros or any of the prospect holes he had been sinking.
He was sweating like a stuck hog bleeds, lying there with his beard in the sand, and the old Sharps .50 ready beside him. He wouldn’t have much of a chance if they found him, slithery fighters like they were, but if that old Sharps threw down on them he’d take at least one along to the Happy Hunting Ground with him.
He could hear them now, moving along the desert above the wash. Where in tarnation were they going? He wouldn’t be safe as long as they were in the country, and this was country where not many white men came. Those few who did come were just as miserable to run into as the Apaches.
There were nine of them, the leader a lean-muscled man with a hawk nose. All of them slim and brown without much meat on them the way Apaches were, and wearing nothing but breech clouts and headbands.
He lay perfectly still. Old Billy was too knowing in Indian ways to start moving until he was sure they were gone. He laid right there for almost a half hour after he had last heard them, and then came out of it cautious as a bear reaching for a honey tree.
When he got on his feet, he hightailed it for the edge of the wash and took a look. The Apaches had vanished. He turned and went down the wash, taking his time and keeping the old Sharps handy. It was a mile to his burros and to the place where his prospect holes were. Luckily, he had them back in a draw where there wasn’t much chance of them being found.
Billy Dunbar pulled his old gray felt hat down a little tighter and hurried on. Je
When he got to them he gathered up his tools and took them back up the draw to the rocks at the end. His canteens were full, and he had plenty of grub and ammunition. He was lucky that he hadn’t shot that rabbit when he saw it. The Apaches would have heard the bellow of the Old Sharps and come for him, sure. He was going to have to be careful.
If they would just kill a man it wouldn’t be so bad, but these Apaches liked to stake a man out on an ant hill and let the hot sun and ants do for him, or maybe the buzzards—if they got there soon enough.
This wash looked good, too. Not only because water had run there, but because it was actually cutting into the edge of an old river bed. If he could sink a couple of holes down to bedrock, he’d bet there’d be gold and gold aplenty.
When he awakened in the morning he took a careful look around his hiding place. One thing, the way he was located, if they caught him in camp they couldn’t get at him to do much. The hollow was perhaps sixty feet across, but over half of it was covered by shelving rock from above, and the cliff ran straight up from there for an easy fifty feet. There was water in a spring and enough grass to last the burros for quite some time.
After a careful scouting around, he made a fire of dead mesquite which made almost no smoke, and fixed some coffee. When he had eaten, Dunbar gathered up his pan, his pick, shovel and rifle and moved out. He was loaded more than he liked, but it couldn’t be helped.
The place he had selected to work was the inside of the little desert stream. The stream took a bend and left a gravel bank on the inside of the elbow. That gravel looked good. Putting his Sharps down within easy reach, Old Billy got busy.
Before sundown he had moved a lot of dirt, and tried several pans, loading them up and going over to the stream. Holding the pan under the water, he began to stir the gravel, breaking up the lumps of clay and stirring until every piece was wet. Then he picked out the larger stones and pebbles and threw them to one side. He put his hands on opposite sides of the pan and began to oscillate vigorously under water, moving the pan in a circular motion so the contents were shaken from side to side.