“I've been thinking about where we'll take 'em,” Holt said. “And how we'll do it. Joe Moss is probably armed, and he and his woman won't go down without a fight to the death.”
“But we can't let that happen,” Redman said. “Because they're far more valuable to Peabody alive.”
“Exactly. So we have to try to take them both alive.”
“How?”
“I'm thinking on it, breed. I'm thinking on it. And you know what?”
“What?”
“There's no reason for us to take 'em down for a week or two. I mean, we know their destination is Virginia City to collect their daughter. So instead of us catching Joe and his wife right away and then having all the headache of watching over them constantly, we can just tag along a few miles behind and wait until they've crossed the desert.”
“Makes sense,” Redman said. “Unless they're attacked and killed by the Paiutes.”
“I'd bet money that Joe has cut some kind of deal for safe passage across this desert,” Holt said. “He speaks Injun and he can do sign language. So my gut tells me that they'll do just fine along the Humboldt.”
“So,” Redman said, “when we do decide to take them, how will we do it?”
“I'm not sure,” Holt said. “But seein' as how we've got a week or two to decide, I'll be making us a plan for the capture.”
“You do that,” Redman told the giant. “And by the way, you never did tell me what happened to Eli.”
“Aw,” Holt said, “he lost his nerve and decided to go back to whatever hole he climbed out of.”
“He just up and left, not caring about the Comstock reward anymore?”
“That's right,” Holt said. “After he lost his brother, he wasn't the same man that I'd hired, so I was glad to have him quit. It just makes the bounty all the larger for you and me to split.”
“Yeah,” Redman said, watching the Moss couple as they reached the Humboldt and then disappeared down a cut-back toward the water, where they would most likely spend this first night by the river.
“You're quiet a lot of the time,” Holt said. “I like that fine. Eli and Dalton were always jabbering and that got on my nerves.”
Redman had no comment.
“But you know something, breed? There are times like right now when I'd really like to know your thoughts.”
“I was thinking about how Joe Moss and his wife got hold of that black Indian pony and wondering what kind of rifle and pistols he has and how much ammunition.”
“Yeah, I was wondering about the Indian pony myself. Joe probably stole the little bastard.”
“Maybe.”
“I've seen you shoot that pistol and use your knife,” Holt was saying, “but I'm wondering how good a rifle shot you are.”
“I can hit what I aim for,” Redman said without elaborating.
“Can you shoot well enough to maybe crease Joe Moss in the head and knock him out cold?”
Redman turned to look at the giant as if he were insane. “No.”
“Hmmm, too bad. That would sure make things easier.”
“Taking Joe Moss isn't going to be easy,” Redman replied. “And it might get one or both of us killed.”
“Not if we use our heads and do things right,” Holt argued. “If it was Moss all by himself, then I'd be a bit worried. But the key to taking him alive is his wife. Joe has shown us that he'll do most anything to save that skinny red-haired woman.”
“Yeah,” Redman said, “he has.”
“So if we could sneak up into his camp after a week or so . . . you know, at night when the frogs and crickets are loud and block out all sounds of our comin', then we could grab Fiona and we'd have Joe right where we want him again . . . which is in shackles and chains.”
When Johnny Redman didn't show any enthusiasm for this plan, Holt grew irritated. “Well, dammit, what do you think of that for a plan?”
Johnny didn't dare tell the giant what he really thought about him . . . or his plan to capture the Moss woman. But in time he would tell Ransom Holt a whole lot of things, none of which the giant would like to hear.
“Breed, I'm talking to you!”
“It's a plan that might work,” Redman said.
“Well, it had better. And you bein' a half-breed, I expect that you could sneak up on them about any time you wanted some dark night. Couldn't you?”
“If everything was right I could,” Redman said.
“Well, when the night comes when you think that everything is right, you damn sure tell me so.”
“I will.”
“Any other thoughts?” Holt asked, his irritation still rankling him.
“Nope.”
“Then let's ride on down to the river and make our own damn camp about two miles from Moss and his woman.”
Johnny Redman let the giant lead off. It was amusing how the big man wanted to know his inner thoughts. What a fool! And wouldn't he be surprised to learn that it was in Johnny Redman's mind to kill Ransom Holt so that he could collect all the Comstock bounty money for himself and his half-starved reservation people.
23
“HIS IS THE longest, most stinky and ugly river I have ever seen!” Fiona told Joe after they had been following the Humboldt for over a week. “How much farther does it go?”
“We're almost to where this river peters out and just sinks into the sand,” Joe replied. “After the river dies, what is next is called the Humboldt Sink, and it's where a lot of good people traveling west with wagons got their hearts broken and lost everything they owned. When we get to the sink, you're going to see a lot of heartbreak.”
Fiona shook her head. “To have come this far in a wagon . . . probably from St. Louis or even farther . . . and then to have to throw out everything because your animals were too weak to pull your wagons across a bad stretch of deep sand . . . that is heartbreaking.”
“Yeah,” Joe agreed. “As near as I remember, it's about forty miles of hell and its sands are littered with abandoned wagons, the bones of animals, and just about everything else you can imagine. When I went across five years ago, I saw pianos, beds, fine maple dressers, tools, everything and anything they could toss to lighten the load for their wagon teams.”
Fiona shook her head. “I'm not looking forward to seeing all that heartache lyin' in the sand.”
“And there are plenty of graves, too,” Joe told her. “A lot of the folks just got sick and tired of the sand and hardship, so they gave up and died in that stretch between us and Lake Crossin'.”
“But we'll be fine, won't we?”
“Yep,” Joe said. “It's the cooler time of the year and we'll water up these horses and fill our canteens one last time with this stinkin' bad water before we make the crossin'. And once we get to Reno, as they're startin' to call 'er, we'll almost be to the Comstock Lode.”
Twice, even with all of Joe's experience, they had gotten bogged down in quicksand, and once they'd had to rope and pull the black mare out or she would have floundered and sunk. As a result, the Paiute pony was hurt and lamed, so they set her free to forage along the grassy bed of the river. Paiutes or pilgrims would capture her sooner or later. Since that time, they had been riding the strawberry roan double, or else Fiona was walking because Joe's feet still weren't completely healed.
Now they were almost to the end of the Humboldt, and suddenly, Fiona was afraid again. They had not hooked up with any wagon trains, and Fiona was thinking about how they would soon be in Reno among other women.
“Joe,” she said, “I know you want me to stay in Reno, but I just don't think I can do that when you ride up to Virginia City.”
“It'd sure be for the best,” Joe said. “I'm gonna have to face Peabody and either have a meeting of the minds or else kill him. After that, I figure to grab Jessica out of that Catholic church and then come back down to Reno to get you. It could all happen sorta sudden, Fiona. It might not work as good if you come up to the Comstock Lode with me. After all, you're wanted for murder in Virginia City and your face is better known up there than mine.”
“I know. I know!” Fiona took a deep breath and expelled it in frustration. “But what if things go wrong for you in Virginia City? What if . . . God forbid . . . Mr. Peabody and his men kill or arrest you?”
“I won't let that happen,” Joe said stubbornly.
“But it
could
happen! And there I'd be, sitting and worried sick down in Reno and you up there in jail . . . or worse . . . and I wouldn't be able to help you at all.”
Joe nodded with understanding because everything that his wife was saying was true. Bad things could happen to him. He might very well be shot to death . . . or, even worse, arrested and hanged.
“The thing of it is, Fiona. If I fail up there, then you're still safe in Reno and you could still figure out some way to get our daughter back. So you see, if you and I don't go up on the Comstock Lode together, it's like we'll have
two
chances to get Jessica instead of just one.”
“All right, Joe. I trust your judgment, but I'm awfully worried.”
“You have every right to be,” he told her. “Now let's get moving. I'd like to hit that long stretch of deep sand about sundown so we can make our crossing in the night and most of tomorrow. If all goes well, we'll be in Reno tomorrow night and we can wash the salt and alkali away until we cross this damn desert again with our daughter.”
“All right, Joe.”
Joe reached down from the strawberry and held his wife's sunburned face in his rough hands. “Forty miles of heartache next, then another twenty miles to our daughter. That's all we have yet to go.”
“So near and yet she seems so very far. Do you think Jessica will still remember me, Joe?”
“Of course!”
“She hasn't seen me in months now and she's only four years old.”
“She'll remember her own mother,” Joe promised. “She won't know me 'cause I only got to see her for a minute or two, but we'll have years to get to know each other after we put all this bloody Comstock bounty business behind us.”
“I know. I know.”
Â
“Well,” Ransom Holt said, his anger at the boiling point. “We got the damned buckboard stuck in quicksand and we lost a day's time. Then Paiutes stole my four good Missouri mules and all we've got are our horses and weapons. I hate this desert and, by damned, I'll never cross it again!”
“That's for sure,” Redman said, knowing that the big man would miss the point he was making.
“My guts have been growling for a week and I've had the shits from all this bad water.”
“It cleans a man out,” Redman agreed. “But we're plenty lucky to be alive, given the Paiutes that snuck into our camp and took those mules. And we'd better make some good time today or we'll never even catch up with Joe Moss and his wife before they reach the Comstock Lode.”
“Dammit!” Holt's big face was bright red and peeling. His lips were cracked and bloody from the sun and the hot wind and he had lost at least fifty pounds in this crossing. “You think that I don't know that? You're the damned Indian. How far ahead of us is Joe and Fiona, judging from these tracks?”
“Less than five miles now.”
“Then let's go!”
Ransom Holt whipped his skinny, faltering horse into a gallop, but Johnny Redman followed at an easy, sensible trot. Their mounts had been considerably weakened by the desert crossing and, like the men that rode them, had been afflicted with diarrhea. They were terribly thin and without strength, and Holt ought to have realized that running their poor horses before that stretch of deep sand ahead was a foolish, foolish thing to do. If he killed his horse, then Holt would have to walk across forty miles of deep, waterless sand and Redman doubted that the white man could make it.
Â
Fiona and Joe left the dying Humboldt River and forged into the deep sand. Despite Fiona's protests, Joe insisted on walking while his wife rode and led their burro into the deadly Humboldt Sink. Darkness fell and the air became cooler. The river sank into the sand, and soon after that they began to see the reminders of past heartaches that Joe had foretold. Entire wagons abandoned, skeletons of mules, horses, dogs, and even cattle that had come so far and then had died of thirst and exhaustion.
Coyotes howled in the darkness, gnawing on the freshest bones, and Fiona saw sun-cracked pianos and furniture that had probably once been some pioneer woman's pride and joy. She even saw a once-beautiful harp, probably a family heirloom from Ireland, and realized how devastating it must have been to throw it off a wagon like a piece of firewood.
“Oh,” she said to Joe as they struggled through the deep sand, passing three crude crosses tilted by wind, eerie and luminous in the half moonlight, “this is a heartbreaking, killing place!”
“It might be a good idea just to keep your eyes straight ahead,” Joe told her. “A lot of bad things to see here. That's another reason why I wanted to take you through it at nighttime.”
Fiona clutched her lead rope to the burro and the leather reins. She could feel the strawberry roan sink and struggle with each step, and she felt bad for the animal. Behind her, the little burro sometimes had to buck as if through water when the sand was deepest; both of the animals were gasping with their supreme effort.
Forty miles of hell.
Up until now, Fiona had thought that crossing below the Great Salt Lake had been terrible with its blowing salt and alkali dust . . . but this crossing was nightmarish and a hundred times worse. No, a
thousand
times worse. At least out on the great salt flats there had been nothing. But this . . . this was a hideous graveyard of death, shattered hopes, and destroyed dreams.