“Yeah, but they don't believe that, and they don't want any marshals sticking their noses in their business.”
“What's their business?” Adam asked.
“Robbery and murder,” Earl answered simply.
Surprised by the candid reply, Adam said, “I heard there was a sheriff in Virginia City.”
“There is,” Earl replied, “somebody that calls himself the sheriff, and some of us think he's the biggest crook of them all. But don't tell anybody I said so. I don't want my place burned down.”
Adam found the little man's story hard to believe. “In a town this size?” he responded. “There must be thousands of people livin' here. Why don't you run the sheriff outta town and elect a new one?”
“It ain't that simple. Nobody elected Henry Plummer sheriff in the first place. He kinda appointed himself sheriff. There are an awful lot of decent folks here now, and we're trying our best to build a respectable town, but the outlaws came in with the prospectors and there was no law and order. The closest capital city of any size is Lewiston in Idaho, seven hundred miles away, and that's about the only place where they've got law and order. Oh, sure, we've got a sheriff, and he talks a good game, meeting with the business owners and the miners on a regular basis. There's a lot of gold in this gulch, but the trouble is trying to get it out after you've struck it rich. You see, it ain't just a few, like Fancher and Tolbert. There's hundreds of 'em, and some folks believe Plummer's the one calling the shots, just like he did in Bannack. The sheriff in Bannack is one of his men. Everybody knows those two you tangled with in the saloon are members of the gang holding up stagecoaches and freight wagons on every road out of here, but nobody can prove it. They don't usually leave witnesses, or they wear masks. And there isn't a gold shipment that leaves here that they don't know about ahead of time.”
The news was not entirely new to Adam. He had heard that road agents preyed on the trails between towns along the gulch, as well as the road to Salt Lake City, but he was amazed to hear they were as many as Earl claimed. He was immediately struck by an alarming thought. What if this had something to do with Jake's failure to arrive home from Bannack? He looked at Earl. “Between here and Bannack?”
Earl understood the question. “Sure,” he answered. “Bannack's about played out except for the bigger mining companies, but gold coming from here to buy supplies in Bannack is still hit regular. That's why army troops are sent to guard any large shipments from one of the bigger mines out to Salt Lake City.” He studied Adam's thoughtful expression for a few moments before commenting again. “I thought you needed to know the situation around here. You might have made more enemies tonight than those two in the saloon.”
Adam's concentration was on his brother and the fear that Jake might never have gotten out of Bannack. He felt an urgency now to get there as soon as possible. Jake was as good with a gun as anyone, and faster than most when it came to getting off a shot. But that didn't guarantee anything when the odds were too heavily stacked against you. To Earl, he said, “I appreciate your warnin', but I'm not hangin' around to make more enemies. I'm leavin' for Bannack at first light. Maybe I can keep from gettin' shot till then. What about this feller, Samson, that owns the stables?” Adam asked then. “Is he on the sheriff's list of road agents?”
“No, Jack's not in with Plummer's crowd. He'll deal fair with you,” Earl replied.
After Earl gave Adam directions to the road to Bannack, they parted company, Earl to his room in the rear of his store, and Adam heading to the stables to check on his horse. “You watch your back,” Earl called out as he stepped off the boardwalk and disappeared between the buildings.
This seemed to be the standard advice everybody offered. “I will,” Adam replied, “and thanks again.”
Â
He decided against staying in the hotel that night for two reasons. The first was the inflated costs for everything in the town; the second was a matter of caution. In light of his altercation with the two outlaws in the saloon, and his subsequent talk with Earl Foster, he decided it a prudent idea to sleep in the stable with his horse. That way, he'd be ready to ride before sunup, he hoped before the acquaintances he had made the night before decided to look for him.
He returned to the barn to find Samson already gone for the night and the stable door barred on the inside. Walking around the barn, he discovered a small shack behind it, which was obviously the stable owner's house. Judging by the light in the window, he figured that Samson was probably eating his supper. Adam considered disturbing him to inquire about sleeping in the stall with his horse, but only for a moment.
I'm paying him enough for Brownie's board
, he thought.
To hell with it
. He continued his walk around the barn, looking for a means of entrance, but the only other door he found was at the back, and it had a padlock on it. Back to the front of the building after finding no likely way to get inside, he looked up at the hayloft door. It was closed, but didn't appear to be barred. “I could reach that if I had my horse,” he murmured. “Too bad he's inside the damn barn.” Then a rain barrel at the corner of the building caught his eye. He studied it for a few moments, shifting his gaze back and forth between the barrel and the hayloft door, estimating the distance. It was worth a try, he decided.
After taking a look around to make sure no one of the noisy crowd of saloon patrons down the street had noticed him lurking around the stables, he went to the rain barrel and quickly pushed it over on its side, dumping its full contents on the ground. From the impression left in the soil, he guessed that it had been in place for quite some time, causing him to hope the bottom had not become too rotten to support his weight. When all the water had emptied, he rolled the barrel over to the stable doors and stood it upside down beneath the hayloft.
I don't know . . . ,
he thought as he cautiously climbed upon the weathered bottom of the barrel.
If this damn bottom is rotten, I'll end up in the barrel.
On his knees, he rose very gingerly to his feet with no indication of failure other than a creaking, cracking sound of the weathered bottom.
Standing as tall as he could on tiptoes, he found that the sill of the hayloft door was still inches above his reach. “Damn!” he swore in frustration. A sudden increase in the creaking from the barrel bottom informed him that he had to do something quickly. Looking up at the door above him, he determined that there was a few inches' gap between the bottom of the door and the doorsill. With no more time to decide, he flexed his knees and jumped just as the barrel bottom broke in two. He managed to catch hold of the sill, but was now dangling by his fingertips, and wondering if the whole endeavor was worth it to save a few dollars.
By sliding his hands, one at a time, under the edge of one of the double doors, he succeeded in pushing it open. Feeling the toll on his arms from hanging there, he wondered if he had enough strength left to pull himself up, but at this point, he determined that he had no choice. With a maximum of exertion, and by walking his boots up the face of the barn, he was able to scramble up into the hayloft. The noise of his frantic clambering should have been enough to alert anyone in the house behind the stables, but had evidently not. Safely up in the loft, he sat down in the hay for a few moments to catch his breath. “I ain't ever gonna tell anybody I did this,” he said.
On his feet then, he made his way back through the dark loft to find the ladder, and climbed down. There was barely enough light in the stable for him to see, but he was able to make his way to the front doors without stumbling on anything. Lifting the bar, he opened the doors, took a quick look up and down the street, then rolled the broken barrel back to its original position at the corner of the building. Barring the doors again, he went back to the stall where Brownie stood waiting. Intent upon getting a few hours of sleep before leaving for Bannack, he prepared his bed.
Lying on his saddle blanket, spread on the hay, he was soon asleep, oblivious of the gentle sounds of the red roan standing over him, or the distant sounds of the saloons near the lower end of the street. Morning came sooner than he expected, and he awoke with a start to discover thin slivers of light peeking through the cracks in the sides of the stable. “Damn,” he cursed, for he had intended to be on his way before first light. Moving as rapidly as he could, he threw his saddle on the roan and led him to the front door. He had just removed the bar from the doors when he heard Samson come in the back door. “What the hellâ” Samson started before Adam interrupted him.
“Good mornin',” Adam called out cheerfully. “Thought I'd pick up my horse and get an early start.”
“How the hell did you get in here?” Samson wanted to know.
Adam looked at him as if surprised he should ask. “Why, through the front door. I figured you'd left it unbarred in case I came by early. I appreciate it.”
“Not barred?” Samson replied, confused. “You tellin' me the doors were not locked?”
“Why, I reckon not. How else would I have gotten in? You musta forgot to slip the bar on. Sounds like the kinda thing I might do.” He pointed Brownie's head toward the open door. “Well, no harm done, and I best be movin' along.” He nudged the roan with his heels and was out the door, leaving a thoroughly confused stable owner behind scratching his head.
Chapter 3
Climbing up out of Virginia City, he set out along the hills that formed Alder Gulch, intent upon striking the road leading west toward Bannack. It was late enough in the summer for a brisk chill in the early morning, but it looked promising for a good day to travel. The air was fresh and a welcome change from that of Jack Samson's stable. Adam would have enjoyed the ride had it not been for the serious concern for Jake that weighed heavily on his mind. He hadn't ridden far, however, when the lack of breakfast reminded him that there had been no supper, either. So when he came to a tiny stream making its way down toward Alder Creek through a grove of nut pine and juniper, he decided to remedy the problem. He soon had a fire going and his coffeepot working up a strong brew. In short order, he had a pan full of jerky frying. The roan decided upon a breakfast of violets, which grew in wild profusion on the hills, and of which he had a choice of white, blue, or yellow. “You'd better eat fast,” he told the horse, “'cause I ain't plannin' to be here long. I'll give you a longer rest later.”
After his brief breakfast stop, he rode along a high ridge, dotted with pines and dwarf cedars. Judging by the cleared patches and the many stumps, he could see that it had once been a thickly wooded hillside. It was now evidently home to any number of animals, for he saw striped badgers everywhere as he descended the slope, causing him to watch carefully as he guided Brownie toward the road he could now see in the distance below him. Earl's directions were easy to follow, and he was sure it was the road he was looking for. Descending a particularly steep section of the slope, Brownie started to slide and braced his front legs to keep from going head over heels, causing Adam to lean back, almost touching the horse's croup. Brownie maintained his balance just fine, but just then a badger, seeing the horse and rider sliding down toward it, bolted for cover. It was barely a few feet from Brownie's front hooves when it bolted. The startled horse reacted by trying to sidestep the frightened varmint, throwing Adam off balance in the saddle. As soon as it happened, Adam knew it was a tragic piece of bad luck, for he clearly heard the loud snap of Brownie's cannon bone in his right front leg when it found the badger hole. Man and horse tumbled down the hillside and Adam was thrown from the saddle, narrowly escaping being crushed by Brownie.
When he finally managed to collect himself at the bottom of the slope, he scrambled to his feet cursing his luck, for he knew Brownie's leg was broken. A dozen yards above him, he saw the injured horse trying to get to his feet, but unable to. Adam hurried to reach the suffering roan, knowing already there was only one way he could help him, but hating like hell to do it. When he reached Brownie, the horse was lying still, somehow sensing that it was all over for him. The leg was as badly broken as Adam had feared, with a clean break in the cannon bone, just above the fetlock joint. Brownie's eyes were wild and wide open as Adam gently stroked his face and neck. After a few seconds, Adam pulled his .44 from his holster and quickly relieved the suffering horse of its misery.
He stood there for a long moment, looking down at the roan. “You were a damn good horse,” he said in way of eulogy. “It ain't no fittin' way for you to go.” Looking around him then, he was forced to take stock of this unexpected situation. “You left me in a helluva fix,” he added. He was going to have to find another horse somewhere, but the prospects of that being anywhere close to where he now stood were pretty slim. “Well,” he sighed, “I'd better save what I can. No use to sit here all day waitin' for somethin' to happen.” He eyed the road stretching out before him. It was sixty miles to Bannack. “It's gonna be a helluva walk if I don't find someplace to buy a horse.”
It took a great deal of effort to pull his saddle off Brownie's carcass, even with the help of a sizable pine limb he used for leverage, but he was finally able to free the stirrup and cinch from beneath the carcass. Next, he stood looking at the supplies he had packed, wishing he had brought a packhorse as his father had suggested. There was no way he could carry everything with him, so he resigned himself to keeping his saddle and bridle, his weapons and ammunition, as well as some jerky in his saddlebags. He left his coffeepot and frying pan, plus anything else he thought he could do without, hidden in a pile of rocks, knowing he would most likely never return for them. Hefting his saddle on his shoulder, he started walking down the road to Bannack, his mind occupied with the predicament he now found himself in. He had not gone more than a hundred yards when he suddenly stopped, dumped his saddle on the ground, and walked back to the pile of rocks to retrieve his battered old coffeepot and a sack of coffee beans. “Hell,” he swore, “I can't do without these.”