Brighter than Gold (Western Rebels Book 1) (11 page)

“Mr. Van Hosten? Could you spare me a moment?”

Van Hosten turned around, mildly irritated at having his reverie so abruptly dispelled. Jack Adams was standing in the doorway, looking tanned and fit in faded dungarees and a blue flannel shirt. “Certainly, Adams,” said Van Hosten, forcing what he hoped was a congenial smile. “Come right on in. Are you prepared for today’s stage journey?”

“That’s why I’m here.” Jack did not take the chair that Van Hosten indicated, choosing instead to stand in the hope that their conversation would be brief. “You’ll recall, sir, that when I accepted this position, I told you that I might not be able to stay. Unfortunately, I’ve been called away much sooner than I expected. A problem has arisen that requires my attention.”

“Indeed?” Van Hosten feigned concern. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No, it’s a family matter. I’m the eldest son, you see, and certain responsibilities fall to me.”

“Well, I won’t say I’m not sorry to lose you, Adams. And Mr. Rush is due back from New York in a few days, and will be sorry to have missed meeting you. But then, perhaps you’ll be back?”

“Sir, I wouldn’t presume to think that you might hold this position open.” Jack rolled up his sleeves as he spoke. “And in any case, I don’t think I will be able to commit to settling anywhere for a long time. Perhaps I’ll pass through again one day, though, and I want to thank you for the opportunity you gave me here. I’ve learned a great deal.”

Van Hosten poured himself a whiskey and tossed it back. “Adams, couldn’t you make the trip with me today before you leave my employ? I was counting on you.”

“I wish I could, sir, but that’s impossible. Time is of the essence, I’m afraid.” He smiled. “I wouldn’t worry, though, if I were you. No doubt, after the success of his last robbery, the Griffin will lie low until he thinks you’ve forgotten about him. He’d be greedy and reckless to make another attempt while you are so carefully on guard.”

Sighing sharply, Van Hosten splashed more whiskey in his glass. “I hope you’re right, Adams... for
his
sake!”

* * *

“Katie, I’ve asked Lim Sung to help at the bar for a few days. I’m taking the stage to Sacramento to visit Mrs. Waldner.” Brian spoke in an offhand manner as he filled one last glass. “Could you take over until Lim arrives?”

Katie, who was exhausted after scrubbing the floors and then preparing a huge pot of stew, stared at her father. It always happened this way. His urges to visit Mrs. Waldner came upon him suddenly, and he never communicated his plans until the very last moment. Brian had met the attractive widow three years earlier during a trip to Sacramento for supplies, and though he never discussed their relationship with Katie, he made a point of traveling to see Mrs. Waldner two or three times a year.

It had never made sense to Katie before, but now comprehension was dawning. Her father worked as hard as a horse and was a wonderful parent and friend to her. If a private piece of him captured a bit of joy with Mrs. Waldner, Katie was happy for him. She’d experienced that fleeting, luminous bliss herself now and suddenly felt much older and wiser than before.

“Of course I’ll watch the saloon for you, Papa.” She rested her head against his shoulder and smiled. “You know you can depend upon me and Lim. Go to Sacramento, have a wonderful time, and give my regards to Mrs. Waldner.”

MacKenzie’s eyes twinkled as he wrapped her in a bear hug. “You’re my own gift from God. I love you dearly, you know.”

“I know, Papa, and I love you. Now, you’d better go or you’ll miss the stage!”

Laughing, he released her and wound his way through the dusty miners and mountain men who half-filled the saloon. On a hot day like this, business was good. Brian turned at the door to wave at his daughter and then exited into the sunlight.

* * *

“It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it? We were fortunate that there were no passengers from Sonora, or I’d be riding on top!” MacKenzie beamed first at Victoria Barnstaple and her sister Emily, who sat across from him in the stagecoach, and then at Harold Van Hosten, who was wedged into the seat beside him. “Fine day for a journey!”

Van Hosten merely grunted and raised his
Harper’s Weekly
a little higher. The stage had slowed to climb a grade on the other side of the Stanislaus River, so for the moment he could hold the paper still. “I find nothing beautiful about this oppressive heat, Mr. MacKenzie.”

“Is there any news of the war?” Mrs. Barnstaple inquired in a small voice.

“Very little, my good lady,” Van Hosten replied impatiently. “General Grant’s troops are still being held in their trenches at Petersburg by Lee’s army. One can only hope that Sherman will have better luck farther south. There is also a long piece about the June Eighth re-nomination of President Lincoln for a second term.” And with a decisive snap, the paper barricade was erected once more.

Brian raised his eyebrows at the ladies. Casting about for another topic, he said, “There was a fellow passing through from San Francisco the other day who came over to the saloon for a whiskey. Said that Miss Lotta Crabtree’s gone off to New York in search of world fame.” Sighing, he shook his head. “Well, I wish her well, but I don’t think she’ll be any happier than she was dancing and singing for the miners at the Fallon House Theatre.”

Victoria and Emily glanced at one another, their cheeks pink under wide-brimmed chip straw bonnets. “I daresay,” Victoria murmured politely.

The stagecoach was picking up speed now, rumbling downhill and raising clouds of dust that settled over the already grimy travelers. Whenever they rounded a particularly hazardous curve, Emily let out a little squeal and clung to her sister’s arm. Brian peered out the window at the hills, covered with a carpet of dry, summer-gold grass and scrub oak trees. California was brown in summer and green in winter, just the opposite of Pennsylvania, where he had lived from early manhood until the age of forty. MacKenzie was offering a silent prayer that the foothills might be spared a fire this summer when the stagecoach approached a turn so sharp that it slowed to a near stop. The sound of a man’s raised voice caused Brian to crane his neck out the window and Van Hosten to abruptly fold his
Harper’s Weekly
.

“Would you mind stopping for a moment, driver?” The voice was deep and unremarkable, but the words left no doubt as to the man’s identity.

Calling out to the horses, the driver halted the coach, then pulled up on the brake. By now Brian could see the Griffin standing in front of a tangle of brush that had apparently served as his hiding place. He was tall and broad-shouldered, but all other physical characteristics were hidden beneath a long linen duster and a hood that covered his head except for two eyeholes in the middle. He carried a fine double-barreled shotgun, which was currently aimed at the hapless driver.

“Kindly throw down the box—and your gun, sir,” the Griffin requested, his voice slightly muffled by the hood. When the driver had complied, he turned his attention to the passengers inside the coach. “I apologize for having disrupted your journey. Would you men do me the favor of disembarking for a few minutes?”

Emily was swooning, and as Brian opened the door Victoria threw out her beaded reticule. “All my money is inside!” she cried. “Please don’t harm us!”

The Griffin seemed amused. He caught the purse with one hand and returned it to her with a courtly flourish. “I don’t want your money, madame. Rest easy, no one will be harmed.”

Van Hosten glared at the outlaw as he followed Brian out into the scorching sunlight. “Devil!” he spat.

“I suggest that you judge not lest ye be judged,” the Griffin replied lightly, motioning with the barrel of his shotgun. The two men stepped behind the coach. “Now then, I would appreciate it if you would hand over any valuables that you have concealed on your person, Mr. Van Hosten. Mr. MacKenzie, I would like you to search him.”

Brian felt no fear at all. He would not venture an opinion as to the Griffin’s character or morality, but of one thing he was certain: the man meant him no harm. Clearly his quarrel was not with Brian or Wells Fargo or the stage driver, or any of the passengers who happened to be present during a hold-up. The Griffin was calmly and deliberately settling a score with Harold Van Hosten and Aaron Rush. Brian looked squarely at the eyeholes in the outlaw’s hood, then stepped toward Van Hosten. As he reached into the taller man’s coat pocket, Van Hosten suddenly shouted up at the driver.

“You have another gun—I saw to it! Shoot this criminal, now!”

The stage driver’s only reply was a slow smile. Incensed, Van Hosten butted at Brian with his head and shoulder, then reached inside his coat to pull a Colt .36 revolver from the waistband of his trousers.

MacKenzie, who was as solid as an oak, was surprised but unshaken. Standing his ground, he raised bushy white brows at the sight of gun in the mine owner’s hand. “There’s no need for this,” he cautioned.

“Get out of my way, MacKenzie! This is no business of yours!” Van Hosten snarled, and cocked the revolver. “I mean to see this outlaw dead once and for all!”

“Put that away! You’ll get yourself killed!” Brian shouted, conscious of the strong smell of whiskey on Van Hosten’s breath. Desperate to restore order and avoid bloodshed, Brian grabbed for the revolver, forcing the barrel toward the ground. Something in Van Hosten’s eyes ignited his fiery Irish temper, fueling all the feelings of anger and frustration and plain dislike he had suppressed in the past. “You’re the worst sort of vermin, VanHosten!” Brian grunted as they struggled over the gun. “You never think of anyone’s well-being but your own!”

“Leave it, MacKenzie!” the Griffin ordered, his voice tight. “Get out of the way! This is my score to settle.” He had taken a step forward, aiming his own shotgun, but Brian held on like a bulldog. “Go on back with the driver—now! Do you hear me?”

Brian knew only that he could not let go of the revolver, or someone would be shot. The stage driver, alarmed by this time, began to climb down from his perch. MacKenzie felt his strength ebbing; sweat dripped down his brow, stinging his eyes, blurring his vision. He heard the Griffin shouting at him to get out of the way but still clung tenaciously to the revolver, praying that he could somehow prevent a tragedy.

Suddenly a shot rang out and Brian moaned, releasing his grip on the smoking gun at last. Wild-eyed with triumph, Van Hosten shoved the wounded man aside, pulled back the revolver hammer with shaking fingers, and pointed it at the Griffin.

In the split second before he could pull the trigger, a shotgun blast hurled Harold Van Hosten backward against the stagecoach. One arm caught in the spokes of the wheel, twisting behind him at an unnatural angle, while a red stain spread rapidly from the gaping hole in his chest. He was dead even before he slumped to the ground. Peeking out from the passenger seat, Mrs. Barnstaple beheld his glassy, unfocused eyes staring up at her. Too horrified even to scream, she paled and slumped against her already prostrate sister.

The stage driver ran forward to find the Griffin crouching beside Brian MacKenzie, who had been shot through the heart. The driver hardly knew what action to take. If he tried to take the Griffin prisoner, the odds were that he’d end up shot himself. Besides, he had always secretly admired the outlaw, sharing the common opinion that Van Hosten deserved to be preyed upon.

“This man is dead,” the Griffin said in a hoarse voice, adding as if to himself, “It never should have happened....”He reached out and gently closed MacKenzie’s eyes.

“As God is my judge,” the driver said, “this is the worst day of my life! I sure as hell can’t deal with
this
”—he waved a hand at the two dead men—“and you, too. Someone else can have the job of capturin’ you—but you can’t stay around here, for God’s sake! What’ll those women tell the San Andreas sheriff?” He stared at the outlaw, who continued to kneel beside Brian MacKenzie’s still form. “Look, you can’t bring him back. Please...” he pleaded desperately. “D’you want me to shoot you, too? If you don’t get away from here, I’ll be forced to!”

“More than enough blood has been shed,” the Griffin murmured, getting to his feet. “I am... sorry. It shouldn’t have happened. Why didn’t he listen to me? Why was he here?”

The driver hissed, “It don’t matter now! Just get the hell outta here!”

Chapter 8

July 3, 1864

Although the afternoon was waning, the heat remained oppressive. Katie wiped a thin rivulet of perspiration from her temple as she surveyed the saloon. Two old miners dozed under the south windows, while at a large, circular table, half a dozen men engaged in a friendly game of poker. From time to time they called to Abby for more beer, patting her backside when she hovered at the table. Abby didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she didn’t seem to be particularly aware of her surroundings. All day she had been gazing off into space, her limpid brown eyes pitiful to behold.