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  Whiskey Springs was just a wide spot off the trail, brush and tangled vines crowding in on it as though thirsting for the water, the same as men. Clay pulled up next to the wagon that was stopped there, laden with ore, a tarp tied down fast over the bed.

  "Ho, there," Clay called. A man came out of the brush, carrying a scattergun.

  "Clay Brand! I'll be doggoned!"

  "Dawson? Sure, Lester Dawson. Heard you was around these parts."

  Clay dismounted and shook the man's hand. Dawson was a thin, wizened man of forty or so, who'd been a teamster on some of Clay's trains down the Mormon Trail. In fact, he was a Mormon himself, although he claimed only one wife.

  "First wagon out this spring," Dawson told him while Clay filled his canteen and watered his horse. "Been some burros out earlier. Snow's a-melting fast. You'll likely have to clean your horse's hocks some when you reach Holcomb Valley. There's a pretty fair-sized town there now they call Belleville. Named after the blacksmith's daughter Belle Van Dusen. Folks swarming all over the place. After the floods there ought to be plenty of color. Even got a few chunks myself."

  "You working your own claim now?"

  "Sure, some. Everybody is. I make wages driving the ore down bound for Selby, but when I'm not hauling, I'm shoveling and panning. Wife works it while I'm gone. Andy's up there, got a good spot. His daughter Kathleen's with him now and they're making out."

  "So I heard. I aim to look them up."

  "You were always sweet on her, I recall."

  "Anybody ride up today?" Clay asked, hanging his canteen over the saddlehorn.

  "Nary a soul. Pretty wet up that a ways still. You won't make it tonight. Get to the flats and hole up there till morning. Then over the hump to Bairdsville and up the Gold Fever Trail. Should make it by afternoon, you get started early."

  "Thanks, Lester. You going in to Barstow tonight?"

  "Won't make it, probably. Had a hangfire time trying to get this far through the mud. I'll camp a ways down. Agents don't bother ore so much. Too much trouble. Still, I have to be some careful." His tone was casual.

  "Water tastes pretty good here," said Clay. "How come they call it Whiskey Springs?"

  Dawson licked his lips. "We get short of provisions up there. Men coming up generally leave a jar or two of whiskey here for the teamsters coming down."

  Clay grinned at him and reached in his saddle bag. "That's what I heard. Of course it's well known that Mormons don't take liquor."

  "Well, this one does," Dawson said, taking the bottle. "It gets mighty cold on the desert after the sun goes down." He took a swig from the quart jar and then put the bottle next to the spring.

  "That's enough for me. Be some men out tomorrow who aren't Mormons. Best leave the rest of this for them."

  Clay swung up on his horse. The grade looked even steeper ahead. He touched the brim of his hat in good-bye to the teamster. Dawson gave him a wave and went back in the bushes. Clay figured he hadn't finished his business yet when he'd rode up. Dawson was always a polite man.

  The sun was gone by the time he rode through Cactus Flats, but there was light in the sky. The land had changed suddenly. Scrub pines and cedars, piñon trees mingled with cactus, Joshua trees, and oaks. It was a middle land between the desert and the mountains, retaining some of the life of each. The air thinned out and the chill grew stronger. The vegetation was thicker there and Clay rode through trees and past boulders until he came to a cave. It was tempting, but he passed it up. It was better to have a masked camp.

  He took his horse over rocks so as not to leave a trail and made a wide circle to high ground. He picketed his horse on the eastern slope of the camp, in a clump of trees where some grass grew. He could see part of the trail from his spot and when he moved away to where he had thrown his bedroll, he was hidden from view of anyone coming his way or going up the trail. It was a good enough spot for a dry camp. He wouldn't risk a fire, although he wanted some coffee bad. Morning would be soon enough for that. Night was coming on fast.

  He dipped hardtack in grease and soaked it, mixed it with jerky and choked down his meal as the last light in the sky disappeared to give way to sparkling stars. They looked almost close enough to touch. The night birds flew as the moon rose and coyotes belled in the hills above him. He went to sleep soon after he lay down, his sheepskin coat buttoned up tight. He was up before dawn, cold, building a fire for coffee.

  Dawn light found him back on the trail, beans and bacon rumbling in his stomach, his mouth tasting of scalded coffee. He was no more than a half hour away from camp when his horse's ears jerked forward, twisting around. The chestnut snorted and stiffened his forelegs. Clay moved off the trail behind a small piñon and listened.

  Somewhere above him he thought he heard a rock rattle down the slope. He slipped the Hawken out of its scabbard and eased around the piñon tree, looking for sign above him. The trail twisted out of sight just ahead, but there was a high point to the right where a man could hide, if he was on his belly. To the left, he could see Cactus Flats and the place where he had camped. It was very still when he decided he was not concealed nearly well enough.

  He dismounted and stood to the left of his horse. Then he walked him, keeping low, listening between every step.

  There was only a split second's warning, a miniature landslide just above him. He ducked just as he heard the muffled boom from a big calibered rifle. A ball whistled over his head, causing the hairs on his neck to stiffen. He slapped his horse on the rump and backpedaled to the piñon, cocking the Hawken. He could still see the smoke on the slope, breaking up in the faint morning breeze.

  He drew a bead on the spot he thought the ambusher might be and pulled the trigger of his Hawken. The kick slammed his shoulder hard. He was pouring powder into it before the smoke had cleared and ramming a minie ball home as he scrambled away from the tree to a clump of rocks behind and to the right of him. He capped the nipple and looked up the slope. More rocks fell, but he couldn't see anything.

  The stench of black powder hung in the air. Had he found his target? He didn't think so. It was just too damned quiet. A ball like that would tear a hole in a man, make him yell out. Likely, the man who shot at him had done as he had and rolled away after firing, over the crest of the hill.

  Clay's horse stood at the bend of the trail, the reins on the saddlehorn holding his head up. The horse looked back at him and snorted. That's when another shot boomed out, farther to the right this time, and chunks of rock stung Clay's face. Blood streamed from a cut over his eyebrow, temporarily blinding him. He wiped it away and hugged the rock, pulling himself up into a ball.

  The man up above had the advantage. He was like a sitting duck down there. He looked around carefully, to see if there was any way he could flank the bushwhacker without getting blown apart. The brush was scrubby and there was not a riffle in the slope to hide a man trying to go up. The only thing he could do was make a run for his horse and ride fast to the other side and put the jutting hill behind him. That was taking a chance, too.

  It might be a better one than just sitting here waiting for whoever was up there to make out which was rock and which was pants. It wouldn't take him long while he was pinned down in this awkward position. Clay knew he had to move fast.

  The man had probably moved again. Where would he go? To the left or to the right? The left would be to his disadvantage. He couldn't see as much from there and he could get trapped there himself. Clay decided he'd move back and come around on his right flank. It would be deadly for him.

  He slid around to his left, keeping his legs tucked up out of the way. He made noise. It couldn't be helped. Peering over the rock, he tried to find a target. He saw nothing. He did see a place where a man might keep out of sight, though, and that's where he decided to shoot before he broke from cover and ran.

  He slid the Hawken over the rock and rested the sight just below the top of the rock he was aiming at, where he figured the ball would chip off enough dust to give him e
nough of an edge in case the man up there tried to jump up and get a quick shot. It was a slim chance, but he had to take it. He squeezed off his shot and was running as the hammer hit the cap.

  He raced for his horse, expecting at any moment that a ball would cut him down. There was no shot, however.

  Too late, he realized his mistake. He had been tricked and before he could correct his error, the landslide was on him. Rock poured over the top of the spur. He saw his horse bolt and go over the opposite edge of the trail, still on its feet. He tried to run himself, but was knocked to his knees just before sand, dirt, and rock from the slope poured over him, burying him in a crushing avalanche.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  "That'll cook his stew," said Nat Leffler, leering down at the heap of rock on the trail. Dust motes sparkled in the sunlight as they settled.

  "Maybe," said Jingo. "We can't wait around to find out."

  "We had him cold. That's a lot of rock on his back."

  "Maybe," said Jingo, turning away from the edge of the spur. "I wanted to take him out myself. My way."

  "Aw, Jingo, cheer up. I did you a favor. You had your chance at the Mohave and Brand made a monkey out of you."

  Jingo wheeled on his partner, his hands flickering above his twin gun butts. "Don't you ever say that again!" he spat.

  Nat's face went white and he looked away. "Aw, I was just joshing, man. Come on, let's get up to Holcomb and see the girls at Octagon House before the miners get to 'em."

  Jingo regained his composure and gave one last look down at the pile of rock. Nothing stirred. A man couldn't breathe under all that rock and grit. He hated Nat for bringing it off this way, but if Brand were dead, then things would be a lot easier from then on. They couldn't come up with another man like him on short notice. There weren't many of his kind out this way—not yet anyway. He walked back to the edge and spat, his spittle arcing over the edge of the spur and down onto the rocks where the tall man lay buried. He walked to his horse, spurs jingling loudly in the silence.

  He and Nat rode off, looking back only once at the top of the Cushenbery Grade to see if there was any stir under the rubble of rocks. There was no movement back there at all.

  * * *

  Pops Spinard cracked his whip over the four-horse team that pulled the Concord coach. The riggings creaked with newness still, and he liked the way she rode, high and proud. It was a far cry from most of the buckboards and wagons he'd driven in his time. The coach seemed like a ship on the sea behind the four big dray horses, rolling atop the springs that helped flatten out some of the rocks on the grade. Inside the coach, Garrison Morfit ought to feel like a king with that kind of ride.

  The wind had risen since the noon stop, drying out the road, riffling across the high country, melting the heavy snow on ermine peaks, hardening the wagon ruts made in mud, dropping the temperature as it rose above the desert but soaking up moisture like a sponge. Pops felt it sting his face through his beard and pry at the openings in his coat. He brought his shoulders up and his head down, to keep out the wind chill.

  When he rounded the bend, heading for the series of switchbacks over the hump, he pulled his team up short.

  "Whoa, there," he shouted.

  Morfit leaned out of the coach, jolted by the sudden stop. "What's up, Pops?"

  " 'Pears to be a landslide. We'll have some work clearing it away."

  Miffed by the inconvenience, Morfit climbed out of the coach. He stubbed out his cigar and took off his coat. Pops had already snubbed the team and set the brake. The old man jumped down and looked at the jumbled pile of rocks.

  A horse's winny caught the men's attention. They both looked and saw the horse at the same time, just over the edge of the road on the Cactus Flats side.

  "Hey, ain't that Brand's horse?" Pops said.

  "Why, I believe it is. He rode a chestnut gelding out of town yesterday."

  "Something mighty wrong here," muttered Spinard. "We'd best get to clearing these rocks off the road."

  The two men began slinging boulders over the edge. They grunted and strained, cursing and sweating in the wind that whipped them. Pops saw a boot first and then a trouser leg. "Looky here," he exclaimed to Morfit. "His head must be at the other end." They threw rocks aside in a mad scramble to find Brand's head. In a moment, Pops had it cradled in his arms.

  "He's still alive, I'm thinkin', but he's battered up," said the teamster. In a few moments they had Brand laid out on the road. He was breathing, gulping in air in huge draughts.

  Pops grinned and looked at Morfit. "He ain't too bad off," he said. "Head caught in an air pocket like that, let him breathe. The big rocks piled up enough so that he wasn't crushed right off. Lucky, I'd say."

  "Yes, Pops. He could have been smashed like a bug. Let's get the road cleared enough to go on and get Brand to Belleville. We can doctor him there. I'll get his horse and tie him to the coach."

  Clay sat up as Pops and Morfit were ready to lift him into the coach.

  "You comin' 'round, Clay?" asked Spinard. "You look a might woozy."

  Clay blinked his eyes and focused them on the two men. "Looks like I owe you fellows one," he said, his voice a rasp in his throat.

  "What happened?" Morfit asked.

  "Landslide. Human caused." Spinard and Morfit looked at each other.

  "Know who done it?" Pops asked him.

  Clay shook his head and got to his feet. Gingerly, he stepped around, letting feeling pour back into his legs. He was wobbly and Pops cackled in glee.

  "No bones broke, but you look like a colt jest a-gittin' his first legs," the old man said.

  "Ride in the coach with me, Brand," suggested Morfit. "We can get better acquainted and I can point out the country to you."

  Clay nodded. He was weak and sore all over. He felt like he'd been thrown from a mustang, as he had been when he once broke wild horses up in Oregon.

  Morfit helped him unsaddle his horse and tie him to the coach. The saddle thrown inside, Clay and Morfit climbed in. Pops rolled the team with a mighty yell and a crack of his whip. Garrison gave Clay some beef in a roll and he washed it down with whiskey, feeling better after filling his belly with warmth and food. "Thanks, Mr. Morfit."

  The wagon cleared the summit at 6,000 feet above sea level and wound down toward Bairdsville by Baldwin Lake where Doble townsite was, moving fast on the flats and slowing again when they took the switchbacks up past the Lucky Baldwin mine and onto the Gold Fever Road. Morfit described everything to Clay as they rode in comfort. Pops was an expert, and he loved his job. The team responded to his every command as though they were born to it.

  "I heard there were 3,000 people up in Holcomb," Clay said.

  Morfit shook his head. "Nowhere near that many, yet. All through these mountains, maybe. After the floods, we're lucky to have a thousand. More will come. Trouble is, not all of the people up here are miners. There are idlers and horse thieves, card sharks and whores. Just like any mining town. It's building up. Summer will bring more people. In lower Holcomb there's Clapboard Town and Julius Store, a double log hotel, Hamilton House, and Dan Lan's got his Clapboard Restaurant there. Charlie Mogeau even has a brewery, Sylvester has a store up in Holcomb and so do Fleischer and Green. That's why freight is so important. We haul supplies back up for a lot of people. Two of my wagons will be coming up tomorrow, loaded up full."

  "Prices bad up here?"

  "No more than anywhere else, probably. Board runs five to eight dollars a week. Beef sells for five to eight cents a pound, mutton's about the same. Venison sells for eight to ten cents and bear will run you twelve to fifteen cents a pound."

  "I've had bear meat," said Clay. "A lot like pork."

  "Plenty of bear up here and deer too. If you hunt, you can do yourself good when you're not guarding one of my wagons."

  When Morfit tried to question him about the landslide, Clay kept his true thoughts to himself. He didn't want to speculate about who might have done it, or who might have taken pot
shots at him on his way up. No use bringing accusations until he knew for sure. Besides, the land was full of horse thieves and men with little who would kill for little more.

  Belleville spread out before them on Osborne Flats, a jumble of cabins, pineboard shacks, stores, saloons, and placer claims. The place was bustling with activity. Clay heard the sounds of hammers, square nails being driven into sluice boxes, men hollering at mules turning the arrastre crushers, children laughing and mothers yelling. Washes were hung out to dry and the earth was still soggy from the floods. As far as he could see, men were at work, like beavers.

  Pops pulled up at Van Dusen's blacksmith shop and livery stable, where Clay disembarked. They had passed Octagon House and the large juniper in the center of the flats that served as the hanging tree. Ropes cut short hung from branches growing out of its two large trunks. It was the first thing a man saw coming into town, by far the most noticeable tree on the flats.

  "We'll leave you here," Morfit said, "and you can find your bunk for the night. We have to unload and check the freight schedule for the week. See you tomorrow at Octagon House."

  Clay unhitched his horse and carried his saddle into the stable. "Grain my horse and stable him," he told the boy there.

  "Corn's extra," said the lad.

  "Then corn him, too. I'll be back later for him."

  Octagon House was not crowded when he walked to it. It was the most prominent building in town, just past the hanging tree, dominating the road. Its shape was interesting and unusual, inside and out. Clay walked in to find a saloon and dance hall with a long bar on one side, a dance floor in the center. There were rooms leading off from the dance floor and he could guess their purpose when he saw some of the glitter gals sitting at tables or eyeing him from the bar.

  He ordered a drink from the bartender, a man from Alaska named Ken McElves. McElves, he noticed, had a vicious dog back of the bar that looked to be part husky, part wolf. He kept calling it "Coco," and whenever he did, the girls laughed. It was, Clay thought, a silly name for such a dog. No one got back of the bar without the dog's permission, and his growl was heard more than once when a man reached an arm over to cadge a drink when Ken's back was turned.