California Crackdown

1

Skye Fargo eased silently from behind the tree and studied the two men crouched in the bushes ten paces from him. Both had Colts filling their hands.

Their intent was clearly the gold wagon coming down the trail toward Sacramento. And Fargo’s business was to protect it.

Fargo knew there were three more gold rustlers on the other side of the wagon road that was the supply line up to Placerville and the mines in the area. It was also the only way to get the gold down to the banks and train lines in Sacramento. . . .

Cain Parker, owner of Sharon’s Dream, one of the bigger mines in the area, had begged Fargo to come help him protect his gold between the mine and Sacramento. Cain really didn’t need to beg, since he and Fargo had known each other for years and had been back-to-back in their share of fights together. Fargo figured he owed Cain his life a few times over, so anything Cain asked, Fargo would do.

The name of the mine, Sharon’s Dream, had come from Cain’s late wife, one of the nicer women Fargo had ever met. She had always talked about she and Cain going farther west to search for gold, but it wasn’t until after she died that Cain took his son, Daniel, then a teenager, and did just that.

Fargo had arrived at the Sharon’s Dream gold mine a little after eight in the morning. The main house was a two-story wood building that looked like it would fit better just outside Boston. It was freshly painted white and stood out in the warm, morning sun against the browns and grays of the dirt and rocks around it. Three long and low unpainted buildings near the edge of the hill looked like bunkhouses, one much larger than the others. The mine opening itself was about halfway up a rock-strewn hillside above and to the right of the bunkhouses, with the mine tailings spreading out below it like a woman’s fan.

Placerville had started and gotten its name from an intense gold rush of Placer mining in the streams in the area. But as with most Placers, the gold had to come from somewhere, and soon the miners were digging into the hills, following the veins, or just digging in hopes to find a vein.

From what Fargo understood, Cain had managed to stake a claim to a really rich and long vein that so far showed no signs of playing out. He said it was taking almost thirty men to work the mine in shifts, cooks to keep them fed, and a number of hired guns to guard the place.

As Fargo rode up, Cain came running out of the house.

“Fargo, you old trail hand,” Cain said, a huge smile on his face. “You are a sight for sore eyes.”

“Didn’t know you were having eye problems as well,” Fargo said, climbing down from his big Ovaro and shaking his old friend’s firm, solid hand. He had to admit, he had missed being around Cain. The two of them just seemed to fit together. Fargo knew a lot of people around the West, but he had very few close friends like Cain.

Cain stood about a fist shorter than Fargo, and was a good ten years older. But the age was only showing on his thinning hairline and the sun wrinkles on his face that disappeared completely when he smiled. The rest of him still looked as solid as a rock.

Cain could smile and laugh with the best of them. And he had the ability to inspire loyalty from those around him. Standing there with his old friend again brought back so many good memories of so many good times.

“How long has it been?” Cain asked, finally letting go of Fargo’s hand.

“Too long. Four years, maybe five.”

Cain laughed. “Yup, too long. How about we don’t let that happen again?” He swung his arm wide, gesturing toward the spread around them. “So, what do you think of Sharon’s Dream?”

“Big and impressive,” Fargo said, telling the truth. “Sharon would have been proud.”

Cain smiled at the memory of his wife. “Yeah, she would have been, wouldn’t she?”

“No doubt.”

Cain pointed up at the hill above the huge pile of tailings. “It’s still pouring out the high-quality ore. In fact, we have a shipment headed to Sacramento today.” He pointed to a wagon being loaded.

“Guess my timing is perfect,” Fargo said.

“As always,” Cain said. “You up for going to work?”

“No better time than the present,” Fargo said.

Cain laughed. “I don’t know. Some of my memories tell me the past was a pretty good time as well.”

Cain introduced Fargo as the Trailsman to his six men that were to guard the shipment, and made it clear that Fargo was in charge of getting the ore to the refinery, even though Cain himself was riding along. Not a one of them seemed to mind. In fact, most of them had heard of Fargo and looked downright relieved he was on the job.

He just hoped he could live up to whatever they had heard about him.

Fargo could tell that four of the men were hired trail hands and were comfortable with their guns. One carried Colts on both hips, and all of them had carbines in sheaths on their horses. The other two didn’t look so trail experienced. One, Cain introduced as Hank, his mine foreman. The other was Walt, a young kid with strong-looking arms, a ready smile, and an eagerness to do anything to help.

Fargo had two of the experienced trail hands ride ahead of the wagon with carbines across their saddles, two behind, and Walt and Hank on the wagon. Cain was driving the wagon and Hank sat beside him. Walt sat on the gold boxes, riding backward to make sure no one came up behind them.

Cain said he had lost three good men so far in the last six shipments, but had managed to get the gold out every time. But the robbers had gained in numbers each time, and it seemed like the focus was on Cain’s shipments more than the other mines in the area.

Fargo didn’t much like the sound of that. Sure, Cain was doing well, but if he really was being targeted, that meant there was a lot more behind this than just a gang of robbers taking opportunities as they came down the trail.

As they pulled onto the main Placerville road from the Sharon’s Dream side road, Fargo had the wagon slow down. He wanted to give himself time to scout ahead on his big Ovaro stallion.

As the wagon moved slowly along, he was often a good distance from the road, moving along high ground to scout out what was ahead before circling back. He knew the Placerville road. He had been in the area a number of times as the gold boom exploded. With luck, he could clear this band of robbers out of the area in a few weeks, while enjoying some time with his old friend.

It was from a ridgeline to the north of the trail that he saw the five men taking up positions in a stand of tall trees and thick brush to ambush the gold shipment.

He had left his horse and moved silently down on them.

From the looks of the two men crouched in front of him, Cain had gotten Fargo on the job just in time. The wagon and the men guarding it didn’t stand a chance against five guns blazing a short distance from the narrow corridor between the trees.

The two thieves were dressed like miners. They wore stained and faded overalls over dirty white undershirts, rough work boots, and thin-brimmed hats. These men were not professional robbers. They had been hired by someone to do this, which meant Cain had a much bigger problem than these five. This was no gang of trail thieves and gun sharps. This sounded like another mine owner with money who was after the gold ore coming out of Sharon’s Dream.

The rumbling of the heavy wagon echoed ahead through the trees and brush, and the two men both raised their guns, their attention completely on the road. With his Colt in hand, Fargo stepped toward them.

Fargo could move silently like a mountain lion when he wanted to. He was within a step of the closest robber when the man glanced around and said, “What . . . ?”

It was his last word before Fargo smashed his fist into the man’s face, the punch slamming him back into a boulder. The man slid down, unconscious.

“No!” Fargo said, pointing his Colt at the other man, who was just now turning to fire on Fargo.

Fargo put two bullets into the man’s right shoulder. Fargo could see him teeter, then fall to the ground. But the man wasn’t done yet. Lying flat on his back, he fired as he brought his gun up, his shot smashing wide and splattering into a tree behind Fargo. Fargo put two quick shots into the miner, then ducked behind a tree to make sure he was out of the way of fire coming from across the trail.

“Harry!” someone shouted from across the road. This one was hiding in a stand of trees about thirty paces away and slightly up the road toward the wagon.

It seemed that one of the two men had been named Harry. Fargo didn’t much care which one. They had planned on bushwhacking and killing good men trying to do an honest day’s work. They didn’t even deserve names on the crosses over their graves. Actually, as far as Fargo was concerned, they were better served as buzzard meat.

One man eased out from behind a tree, glancing first up the road at the now stopped wagon and then over at where his friends were.

“Get back!” another robber said from his hiding place.

At least one of them had a slight bit of sense.

Taking no chances, Fargo aimed at the man who had left his cover and smashed his gun hand with a clean, quick shot. The man spun like he’d been dancing with a pretty girl in a saloon, then went over backward in a dance move no one would ever want to try to repeat.

Two guns opened up, splintering bark chest-high from the tree Fargo was using as a shield.

Fargo dropped to the ground, spotted where one gun was firing from, and patterned the area with three quick shots.

The shout of pain and then the sound of a body falling into the brush were clear as Fargo sat with his back against the tree and quickly reloaded all six cylinders.

For a moment, the forest was silent; then came the sound of a man crashing through the brush as the last ambusher ran for his life, trying to make it to where they had tied off their horses.

Fargo dashed across the road, his heavy boots pounding the dust.

Down the road he could see that Cain and his men had done exactly as he had told them to do when they heard gunfire. Cain had pulled the wagon off the road and into the closest shelter available. Everyone had dismounted and taken cover, their guns up and ready.

Up ahead of him, the ambusher was making a lot of noise as he scrambled up the open rock slope to the horses. Fargo burst out of the trees on the other side of the small grove just as the man worked to mount a reluctant steed. He also looked like a miner, but the horse and gear he rode didn’t fit him.

And he clearly wasn’t used to mounting and riding fast as he struggled to hold the horse still enough for him to get in the saddle.

Fargo took a deep breath. No point in killing him. Fargo almost smiled. The way the man was riding— looking like he was ready to fall off his horse—maybe he’d kill himself anyway.

Carrying his Colt in a ready position, Fargo climbed up the hill the rest of the way to check on the remaining horses. They were well kept and the tack was expensive, the type you’d find the owner of a ranch using, not a fellow dressed like he was fresh out of a mine. Or, for that matter, the man down in the trees who looked like a typical rustler. Someone with money was behind this and had given them good horses for the job.

Marshal Tal Davis pushed his way through the batwings and strode into the saloon. He recognized just about everybody in the place.

He was looking for faces he didn’t recognize. The burly, red-haired man behind the bar who went by the name of Irish was pouring a couple of miners rye when he glanced up and exchanged a familiar look with the lawman. Like all the bartenders in town, Irish was on notice to report any stranger who might be a hired gun. While paid killers didn’t all look the same— nor were they the same in age or nationality—they tended to be cocky about their calling. Davis always laughed about how many hired guns got themselves killed in saloon shoot-outs by some local. It wasn’t that the locals were so fast on the draw; it was simply that hired guns tended to have mouths as big as their reputations. They often got drunk and got into arguments that left them dead at the hands of a talented— and more sober—amateur.

Irish had sent a runner to tell the marshal that a suspicious-looking man was sitting in the back of the place playing poker and bullying the other four men sitting in.

A long bar of crude pine ran along the west wall. A small stage ran the length of the back wall. The tables filled up the eastern part of the place. A low fog of tobacco smoke hovered over everything.

Davis didn’t have any trouble figuring out who the probable gunny was. At the moment the man was slamming his wide fist down against the table, making it dance, toppling poker chips. His harsh voice was made even harsher by his drunkenness and anger. “You think I don’t know when a bunch of rubes are cheatin’ me?” he said.

The other players watched in shock and fear as the gunny suddenly produced a shiny Colt .45 and pointed it at the face of a bald man.

“You been cheatin’ me all along,” the gunny said, “and now you’re gonna pay.”

“This is an honest game, Kelly,” the bald man said. He managed to sound calm. “You’re havin’ a run of bad luck is all. And to be honest, it don’t help that you managed to put away all them drinks while we’ve been playin’. Now my advice to you—”

“I don’t want no advice from you!”

The few drinkers who hadn’t been watching the card game now swung their attention to the man holding the gun on the cardplayers. They also paid attention to Davis. He now stood no more than six feet in back of the gunny, his own Colt drawn.

“I don’t want trouble, mister. I’m the marshal here and as anybody’ll tell you, I don’t enjoy shootin’ people. Now I just want you to turn around slow and easy and hand me your gun without me having to kill you to get it.”

The gunny’s shoulders and head jerked at Davis’s words. His broad back, covered in an expensive white shirt—getting a better grade of gunnies in town, the lawman noted wryly—hunched some and his elbow rose. He was getting ready to turn on Davis and fire.

But the marshal, despite rheumatism, arthritis, and advancing age, moved with surprising speed. In four quick steps he was standing within inches of the gunny. Just as the man started to turn, Davis slammed his Colt into the back of the gunny’s head. He was still a powerful man. The gunny stayed conscious long enough to spin half around. But by then the lawman’s fist had exploded on the side of the man’s face. The gun dropped to the floor and the man followed seconds later.

“We sure do appreciate it, Marshal,” the bald card-player said. Even though he’d sounded calm when the gun was on him, his voice now sounded shaky. Sweat gleamed on his forehead. Sometimes a man didn’t get scared until afterward.

“Just doin’ my job, boys. But you could do me a favor by cartin’ this one over to the jail and throwin’ him into a cell. There’ll be a deputy there to help you.”

“Hell, yes, we will,” the bald one said. He glanced down at the unconscious gunny. “Be our pleasure, matter of fact.”

The other players voiced agreement.

Davis went back to the bar. Irish shoved a glass of beer at him.

“Thanks for letting me know about him,” Davis said. “At least that’s one less I have to worry about.”

Irish scanned the place, making sure that business was getting back to normal. Didn’t want to lose any money just because a gunny raised a little hell. Then his eyes returned to Davis. “It’s the damned gold shipments. No easier way to make money than to hire some gunnies to hijack the gold.”

“Yeah, and no easier way to take over somebody else’s mine than by stealing all their profits.” He took a deep swig of beer. Irish knew who he was talking about. Nothing more needed to be said.

“I’m your first stop?”

“Yep. Now I check out the other saloons and hotels. They’re not all as cooperative as you. Easiest way to deal with gunnies is to get to them before they can do anything. But to do that I need people to keep an eye out. Most folks just don’t want to be bothered.”

“Or they’re afraid.”

Davis sighed. “Yeah, I guess I forgot about poor old Millard.”

Ab Millard had run a saloon a block down Main Street. He’d sent a runner telling the lawman that a drifter who looked a lot like a gunny was doing some drinking and bragging in his saloon. Davis showed up and arrested the man without incident. He held him for five days, then sent him packing without any guns or weapons. Unfortunately, this particular gunny held a grudge. Three days after his release, now armed, he snuck back into town and killed poor Ab for cooperating with Davis.

“Glad you killed that little bastard when you caught him, Marshal,” Irish said bitterly. “If you hadn’t, I would’ve.”

And Davis reckoned he would have at that.

“Thank the heavens you were with us today,” Walt said to Fargo as he and two others piled the bodies on a tarp on top of the gold boxes in the wagon. Fargo and another man had already rounded up the robbers’ horses. It looked like Cain was not only going to get his gold into Sacramento, he was going to gain some nice horses for his stable.

“You men would have done all right against these idiots,” Fargo said as he dismounted. Then he turned to Cain. “You recognize any of this gear or the horses?”

Cain shook his head. “None of it, but they don’t go with these men. At least the four miners.”

“Noticed that, huh?”

Cain laughed. “Yeah. Don’t miss a detail, do I?”

Fargo glanced around at the other guards. “Anyone recognize any of these jokers or the horses?”

One of the guards said he might know one of the men, but he wasn’t sure. He thought he’d seen him in town, and he more than likely worked for another mine in the Placerville area. He didn’t know which one though.

No help at all.

But it made sense that Cain and his men didn’t know the robbers. The Placerville area had exploded in size to a small city, and the men working in each mine tended to stay together and drink together and not mix much with others from other mines. The mine owners liked it that way as well and tended to demand as much loyalty out of their men as they dared.

What Fargo wanted to know was how men from another mine knew when Cain was planning an ore shipment into town. There was a leak in Cain’s organization, and Fargo intended to plug it, more than likely with lead. But bringing up that subject standing in the hot sun with dead bodies in the wagon and guards listening didn’t seem like a good idea.

Fargo had the wagon wait twenty minutes before starting back up to give himself time to scout ahead. But he didn’t find any problems, and they reached Sacramento just before sunset.

They dropped the bodies off with the undertaker and reported in to the marshal, then took care of the gold ore. After that, Cain got rooms for his men in a boarding house on the edge of town and stabled all the horses together. Cain and Fargo had to take rooms in a cheap hotel because the expensive hotel was all booked up.

Fargo’s room was being cleaned when he reached it. He saw a slim but shapely bottom clothed in blue gingham as a young woman was bent over the bed tugging the covers into place. When she heard him and faced him, he saw she had the freckle-faced prettiness of a lot of pioneer girls.

“I’m just about done here,” she said in a sweet little voice.

“No hurry,” Fargo said. “It’s a pleasure to watch you work.”

She blushed but then allowed herself a tiny smile. “Well, that’s not a very polite thing to say, but I appreciate it.”

Fargo dumped his saddlebags in a corner and surveyed the room. Not that there was much to see. One cheap hotel room was the same as another no matter where you were. Bed, chair, bureau, washbasin, pitcher. It was a step up from a prison cell and a step down from where respectable folks stayed. At that he had to laugh at himself. That was one of the few things he’d never been called—respectable.

“My name’s Fargo. What’s yours?” he asked her as she moved to dust off the bureau.

“Sally DeWitt. My uncle owns this hotel.”

The sunlight streaming through the window made her reddish blond hair glow. The deep blue eyes glowed too. He watched the rise and fall of her fetching breasts. He felt himself stir in a pleasant way.

He crossed the room to the bed. He sat down and began to pull his boots off. He was pleased to see her come over to him. “Here, I can get those off for you.”

“Part of the service?”

This time she didn’t blush. This time, unspoken, she’d clearly decided that she was as intrigued with him as he was with her.

“I do this for just about everybody, actually. My uncle says guests come back if we kind of coddle them a bit.”

He stuck his right leg out and she pulled his boot off. She was close enough that he could smell the natural perfumes of her body, of her hair. It was difficult to keep from grabbing her.

Left foot. She leaned over, slid his boot off. But this time, whether by accident or design, she lost her balance momentarily and started to pitch forward.

Right into Fargo’s arms. He held her there for a moment. Her face was so close, her lips so ripe, he didn’t want to let her go. She must have shared the same feeling because she gently pushed him back on the bed, her open mouth on his even before his spine touched the covers.

She was no innocent, which pleased him. She quickly found the buttons on his trousers and brought forth the stern proof of his desire. She put her lips to it and made him twist and gasp in pleasure. No innocent at all. She knew exactly what she was doing.

He rolled on his side so that while she was bringing him to even greater need, he was able to unbutton the back side of her dress. As he’d suspected, she was naked beneath. Now it was his turn to push her flat on the bed. Her turn to twist and gasp in pleasure as his mouth found the pink nubs of her nipples and his fingers found the hot dampness of her sex. Her hips began to wriggle as his finger found her most sensitive spot. Her breath came in warm bursts. He wanted to move his face down her body but she stopped him moments later. Her own fingers found him, made him even more needful of her. She guided him up into her, giving a small cry when he was fully in her. A cry of both pleasure and pain because of his size.

They made love as if they were participating in an intricate dance, tiny, expert thrusts and touches and shifting positions. The dance became increasingly frenzied, his hands clutching her buttocks, her fingers clawing his back with such urgency that it was as if she wanted his entire body inside her.

Then her legs were up over his shoulders and he was riding both of them home. Deeper and deeper he drove as she clung to him with a desperation that bordered on madness. And then he felt her entire body lurch with great, profound, overwhelming pleasure as she began thrashing left, thrashing right in completion. And he was only thirty seconds right behind her.

They lay, temporarily exhausted, on the bed in silence until Fargo said: “I can see why your guests keep coming back.”

“You’re the only guest I’ve ever done it with. The others are—” She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to. Fargo had seen for himself the shabby drinkers and broken-down criminal types who were sitting in the lobby when he came in.

She touched him, found he was getting ready for more. “Darn.”

“What?”

“I have to get back to work.”

“You couldn’t just—”

“Afraid not. If my uncle doesn’t see me for fifteen minutes, he comes looking for me. And this would be a little awkward.” She grinned and kissed him on the nose.

Then, with amazing speed and grace, she got up off the bed and into her clothes.

“You tell your uncle I’ll definitely come back,” Fargo said as she opened the door. She left him with a girlish giggle.

Since last time Fargo had been there, Sacramento had settled into the feeling of a large city. It was nestled along the edge of the Sacramento River and the place often had the smell of the river floating among the buildings. Not only were there a lot of two-story buildings now, but many were made of stone and brick instead of wood. The town was starting to gain a level of respectability, even with the thousands of miners who poured in and out of the area every day.

He was particularly interested in a gilded, imposing hotel called the Gold Strike. A liveried coachman helped a rich lady from a hansom cab. A doorman in a foppish military coat gave instructions to a Negro worker. A fat man in a cape, dark suit, and spats stood on the front steps looking around imperiously as if he owned all he saw.

It had been a long time since Fargo had seen a hotel like this one. He decided to go inside.

The lobby of the Gold Strike had a high ceiling, plush furniture that Fargo thought looked uncomfortable, and a carved-wood banister that ran up a grand staircase to the right of the front desk. Fargo glanced up the steps to see a stunning woman in an emerald linen dress descend the stairs.

She had freshly scrubbed skin that glowed almost pink, dark eyes, pitch-black hair, and a body that shouted to be looked at, especially with her bosom pressed upward by the tightness of the dress.

And did she know how to move, taking every step down the staircase slowly as if showing off her features to a crowd, even though Fargo knew he was the only one looking.

He didn’t mind being an audience of one. He could appreciate a woman’s beauty just as much as the next man, and this woman had beauty to spare. So he just stared, letting the faint click of her heels on the staircase lull him into her charms.

She smiled at him as she neared the bottom of the steps, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. That was enough to send his warning bells ringing and snap him out of the enjoyment of watching a beautiful woman.

He had always believed that the real beauty in a woman was in her eyes. Sure, beautiful bodies helped, but what showed in the eyes was what mattered.

He was still watching her when he heard a familiar voice behind him. “I was right behind you in the street. You and that cleaning gal made a lot of noise.” Cain’s grizzled laugh spoke of tobacco and whiskey.

As the woman neared them, she glanced at Cain and seemed to stutter in her perfect stride just slightly. She recovered quickly, but her eyes seemed to take on a level of anger Fargo wanted nothing to do with, even though her overall expression never changed. The woman would be deadly in a poker game if you didn’t have a read on her and had fallen for her ample, mostly exposed charms.

At that moment Cain glanced up. “Miss Brant,” he said, nodding slightly.

Fargo could tell that his old friend had no love for this woman. Hatred seemed to come closer to the emotion dripping from his words.

“Mr. Parker,” she said, nodding and stopping beside the desk, staying one step up on the staircase as if to keep the upper hand in the conversation. “It is a surprise to see you here.”

Cain said nothing, ignoring her and turning to Fargo. He cursed under his breath loudly enough for the woman to hear him. Then Cain walked away.

The woman ignored the snub as if expecting it. She put out her hand to Fargo. “Sarah Brant. I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.”

Fargo knew a seductive look in a woman when he saw one, and this woman had the look going like a lighthouse trying to light up a foggy night. He took her offered hand, not really enjoying the moistness of her skin. He nodded slightly while looking into the dark pools of her eyes. “Skye Fargo.”

“The Trailsman?” she said, yanking her hand away like she’d touched a hot stove. Now the surprise at seeing Cain had turned to worry in those dark, soulless eyes.

Fargo smiled. “Some people call me that. Some call me other names.”

“Are you working for Cain now, Mr. Fargo?” she asked, her voice cold and low with clear disgust.

“He’s my friend,” Fargo said. “My close friend.”

Her fair skin seemed to pale even further. With only a glance at Cain, she stepped down off the staircase and headed for the front door, no longer moving slowly. The way she was stomping, her dress was going to be lucky to hold her bosom in place.

“Nice meeting you, Miss Brant,” Fargo said to the back of her head and her swishing dress, holding his laughter until she slammed the front door behind her.

Fargo turned back to his friend. “I see you have a way with women. Some history there?” Fargo knew that Cain’s wife, Sharon, had been dead for ten years now. The man deserved to move on, but he hoped not with a woman like that one.

“That’s not a woman,” Cain said. “That’s pure rattlesnake, the daughter of Henry Brant, the owner of the mine around the ridge from Sharon’s Dream. And from what I hear, she’s my son’s fiancée.”

Now it was Fargo’s turn to be surprised. “You haven’t been talking to Daniel?”

The last time Fargo had seen Cain and Daniel, the kid had been maybe fifteen. He and his dad had been trying to get a mine started.

“Not for six months, since he tangled up with that thing,” Cain said, nodding at the door where Sarah Brant had gone. “She poisoned him against me and Sharon’s Dream and now he’s working for the Brants.”

“No wonder she was surprised to see you,” Fargo said.

“She shouldn’t have been,” Cain said, shrugging. “She knows I stay in Sacramento after every gold shipment.” Then he said: “And her old man’s been hiring gunnies like Mick Rule to help him.”

Mick Rule, Fargo thought. Gunnies didn’t come any meaner than Mick Rule. But Fargo said nothing as they headed back to their hotel. There was no doubt she had been genuinely surprised to see Cain. And that could mean only one thing. This time she hadn’t expected him to make it to Sacramento with his gold.

Fargo wasn’t certain, but he had a hunch now which stable those horses had come from. And who had hired those men. But with Cain’s son working for them, he just wouldn’t let himself believe that yet.

At least not until he had a little chat with Daniel.

Daniel Parker sighted, then pitched his horseshoe. The shot was bad enough that the two men he was playing with laughed even while the shoe was in midair.

Daniel swore, shook his head. Ned Hughes snorted. “You don’t have no concentration, kid. That’s your problem.”

Bill Peck grinned. “It’s all that lovin’ he’s getting from the Brant woman. Can’t think of nothing else.”

Hughes and Peck were some more of Brant’s hired guns. Every time things quieted down, they set up for horseshoes. Now they played in a patch of grass that ran between two birch trees. The Brant mine was down the hill. They always played for money but never for much, so Daniel joined in. He’d always considered himself good at the game but in recent days he’d played badly. Maybe they were right. Maybe it was Sarah and how much she’d changed him.

And how much she’d confused him.

His old man had never had money till lately. Like too many others in this state, his father could have turned outlaw. That was a much easier way to make money than honest labor. But the old man never did. And he spent his time with his son trying to persuade the boy to follow the same lawful path.

“Hey, your throw again,” Hughes said. “Lessen you’re off with your lady somewhere.”

Both Hughes and Peck laughed. But it was just joshing. No mean intent. A lot of the other gunnies made sarcastic remarks about how a beautiful woman like that could sure do a lot better than Daniel. He knew they were jealous but that didn’t make their comments any easier to take. Hughes and Peck were older. They seemed more tolerant of Daniel and his situation.

Daniel forced a smile. “Hang on to your money, boys. Just you watch this.”

He took his time. He sighted carefully. He almost threw but then stopped himself. He didn’t really care what they thought of his playing. It was himself he wanted to impress. He wanted to feel he was in control of his life again. Being with a woman like Sarah and turning bad had completely changed him. He felt different now and he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. He wished thoughts of his old man would leave him alone. He knew what his father would think of what he was doing.

“You did it again, kid.” This time Hughes’s laugh had an edge to it. “Your mind started driftin’ away again. Now you want to play this game or not?”

And damned if it wasn’t true. One moment he’d been concentrating on throwing a masterful pitch, and the next his attention was wrenched away to mull his situation again. It was worse than being drunk.

He grinned. People liked his grin. “I was just thinkin’ about how I’m gonna embarrass you two with this one.” He held up the iron shoe for them to see. “You ready?”

“We’re ready,” Peck said. “But are you?”

This time Daniel made quick work of it. He took careful aim, angled his elbow the way he always did, and then let fly.

The horseshoe rose in the air and then began its descent. A soft mountain breeze cooled Daniel’s face as he watched it. And then came the clink, the satisfying sound of victory.

“Well, looks like the kid’s got his brain back,” Hughes said.

The playing went smoothly from then on. Hughes and Peck were good at it but Daniel was better. But he could tell that they appreciated the competition. He was uncomfortable around gunnies—maybe you got used to people who killed in cold blood after you’d done it a few times yourself—but these two didn’t brag and threaten the way the others did. They might have been his uncles.

The game was winding down when a stout man came uptrail and stood there for a time watching them. He looked amused. Hughes saw him first. He said, “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Brant himself.”

Peck and Daniel now turned to face Brant. None of the gunnies liked the man. He was too cold, too arrogant. Even killers liked a little friendliness in their relationships.

“Hell of a way to waste your lives,” Brant said.

“You a preacher now, are you, Brant?” Hughes snapped. “Tell us how to spend our time.”

“I believe in bettering your lot. That’s why people came west. To improve their lot. And you don’t do that by pitching horseshoes all day.”

“Yeah.” Peck laughed. “We should be fritterin’ our time away in whorehouses. That’d be better now, wouldn’t it, Mr. Brant?”

Daniel was surprised at how openly sarcastic the gunnies were around Brant. He might be their boss in the short term but their guns made them more powerful and more dangerous than he could ever be no matter how much money he had. For Brant it had to be like keeping panthers on a leash. He just had to hope they never slipped that leash and attacked him.

“You probably had a halfway decent reason for comin’ up here, Brant,” Hughes said. He winked at Peck. “Maybe you’d like to share it with us.”

Brant shook his head in disgust. Locally he was a man who brooked no insolence. Townspeople feared him financially and his mine guards physically. But these drifters, these lowborn killers, they had no respect for who Brant was—or at least who he planned to be after he took things over around here.

“I want to have a meeting down at the mine. And I want you down there.”

“I hope it doesn’t run as long as that last meeting,” Peck said. “I damned near went to sleep.”

Brant’s face flushed deep red. He looked out of place up here in his city suit. Out of place and at the moment completely at the mercy of the mocking men he badly needed right now. “I’ll expect you along in ten minutes. And not one minute later.”

He turned and tromped back down the hill.

Hughes and Peck ridiculed Brant, of course. Daniel made a good audience. His laughter was deep and genuine.

But as the jokes kept coming, he thought how strange his life had become. A man hires you and you make fun of him. And he hires you to kill other people.

Yes, indeed. How strange Daniel Parker’s life had become.