Comstock Cross Fire (9 page)

“An old mountain man like Moss knows damned good and well that Utes and all other Indians for that matter generally steal their horses from white families.”

Eli glared at Joe. “Isn't it a fact that the Utes are especially proud of their horse-stealing ability?”

“It is for a fact,” Joe admitted. “But after they steal 'em, they generally don't curry and grain 'em. Looks t' me that the black has been brushed often and grain-fed.”

Eli's face darkened. “Moss, are you callin' me a liar?”

“I reckon you're a lot worse'n that,” Joe said.

Eli hit Joe with his fist right square in the face. Joe staggered, and would have fallen if Fiona had not grabbed and held him erect.

“Enough!” Holt commanded. “But Joe, just how could you tell if that black has been regularly grained?”

Joe's eyes were locked on Eli, and there was something burning deep in them that made the rifleman swallow hard.

“I asked you a question, Moss. Answer me or when I punch you, that will be all you'll remember until tomorrow.”

Joe turned his attention back to Holt. “It's easy to see that the black has been well taken care of and there's more than grass fat on his ribs.”

“Well, how about the likelihood that the black was just recently stolen from some Mormon farmer?” Eli demanded. “You ever think of that?”

“I have,” Joe said. “And it's possible, but not likely. My money says you're a lyin' sonofabitch, Eli.”

Eli balled his fists and started to come at Joe, whose hands were shackled behind his back, but Holt stepped between them. “Eli,” he said, “Joe has lost a lot of blood and we need to get him to Virginia City
alive
. Understand?”

“Yeah,” Eli said bitterly, “but I am used to killing people who call me a liar.”

“You can't kill Joe Moss or touch his wife,” Holt ordered.

“Because they're like money in our bank. Is that clearly understood?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Holt turned to Joe, and said, “Eli may be a low-down murdering back-shooter, but it was obvious that he and his brother Dalton were close. So let's just put this in the past and get things moving.”

“Someday I'll come back here and I'll find those murdering Utes,” Eli pledged, rage shaking in his voice. “And I'll kill every last one of them.”

“Well,” Moss said, “I suppose you can at least try. But that big buffalo rifle that you are so good with? Well, the Utes know exactly how much time it takes to reload, and they'll get your scalp before you could fire a second round. So you might get one Indian down . . . but then they'd be on you like a bird on a bug.”

Eli started to say something out of anger, but he checked his words and then headed off to the fire to eat and drink some water before they left this place of death and headed for the Comstock Lode.

9

JOE MOSS WAS feeling mighty bad as they rode down into the broken foothills of the Wasatch Range. He had always loved the high green mountains, and even in bad circumstances, mountains had always given him hope and strength. For it was the high mountains that had brought him westward to trap for beaver in the lonely streams, creeks, and rivers. He'd trapped beaver all through the Rockies, then traveled on to the Wasatch, the Big Horns, the Rubys, and even the Cascades up in the Pacific Northwest country. He'd nearly frozen to death dozens of times and he'd faced death on all its cruel terms, and never once had his spirits fallen so low as they were now.

It was Fiona, of course. Joe could stand the thought of his own death because he just figured it was part of the life cycle. He firmly believed, like many of his Indian friends, that there was a Great Spirit and that when a man died, his small spirit lifted out of his body and joined the Great Spirit. And like the Indians of many tribes, he believed that spirits were everywhere and in most everything in this world. All the earth's living animals had spirits, and so, too, did the sky, the earth, and the trees and all the water. To Joe's simple way of thinking, the spirit world that he would one day join had to be a whole lot happier than the earthly world that he'd been struggling through since as long as he could remember.

But dying himself was one thing; allowing Fiona to die was a whole 'nother thing entirely. And if they both swung from a hangman's noose as Holt kept saying, then their little girl, Jessica, would never learn a thing about either of them from the nuns who were taking care of her right now. And sure, Joe knew there were a lot of things about himself and Fiona that their daughter ought not to know, but there were things that he had hoped they could pass on to their child. Fiona, despite all the bad things she'd suffered, was still a fine, brave woman. He'd never had the time to really talk to her about what she thought about Heaven and Hell, but he suspected his wife believed strongly in God, Jesus, and the Holy Bible. That was fine with Joe; their child needed that kind of teaching, which he couldn't give her. But dammit, he could teach her plenty about nature and the outdoors, and even about the Indians and their way of sizin' up the world. He would even teach her how to shoot so that she would be able to protect herself in an emergency . . . or when he grew old, too weak to fight, and died.

Yes, Joe thought as they faced out onto the Great Salt Lake and the vast, shimmering deserts beyond, he could teach little Jessica many, many things and so could his poor wife.

If they survived
.

“There it is,” Holt said, drawing up his reins and letting his horse stand. “The Great Salt Lake. We'll round it on the north, then hit the desert and head straight southwest toward the Humboldt River.” He looked over at Joe. “Did you ever follow that desert basin river?”

“Just once, and that was enough,” Joe replied. “It tastes like piss and there ain't no beaver there and probably never was. It's the sorriest excuse for a river I ever saw.”

“I've never followed it even once,” Holt confessed, “but I've heard from plenty of men that have. They all agree it's the worst river in the West. It tastes alkali, and you have to fear quicksand, with poison snakes and scorpions thick all along its banks. Most of the river's cottonwood trees are long gone, chopped down by the wagon trains for firewood and new axles.”

“The Humboldt is a pisser,” Joe agreed. “But it's the only water all the way across the desert nearly to Lake Crossin' and the Sierras.”

“How far from where the Humboldt vanishes into the sand is it to the Sierras and good water?” Eli asked.

“About sixty miles,” Joe reckoned. “Sixty miles of death for wagon trains, whose stock is already thin, weak, and played out. That last sixty miles across the sand with no water is filled with broken wagons, skeletons, and all sorts of treasures that folks had to throw overboard trying to make it out of the desert alive.”

“But at least when you get that far, you don't have to worry about the damned Paiutes anymore,” Eli said.

“Is that true, Joe?” Holt asked.

“Nope. The Paiutes will jump and kill you right up to Lake Crossin', or Reno, as they're startin' to call it. For that matter, the Paiutes have killed miners workin' just off the Comstock Lode when they think they can get away with it.”

“That's also what I've heard,” Holt said, making it plain that Joe's word and knowledge were far more valuable than Eli's. “And that's why I think we need to get plenty of supplies and ammunition somewhere down below. I might even hire another man or two to go the distance to the Comstock.”

“To hell with that!” Eli exploded. “I figure that I'll be gettin' Dalton's one thousand dollars as well as my own thousand, and I damn sure ain't about to split it up with some new sonsabitches you hire.”

“Oh, you'll get what's coming to you, Eli. Don't worry for a single second about that!”

Eli licked his lips and his right hand inched closer to the gun on his hip. “Now, Mr. Holt, I sure do hope you don't have any bad plans in mind for me. Because if you do, we might just as well settle things right here and now between us.”

Holt didn't seem the least bit intimidated. “Eli,” he said with smooth assurance, “you lost your brother fighting to get a buckboard and supplies that I want and need. You lost Dalton, and then you were honest and forthright enough to return to me with every last dollar of my supply money. That tells me that you are an honorable and brave man.”

Holt paused and let his compliments sink in, and saw a smile on Eli's face start to grow. “Now, Eli, why in the world . . . given all the dangers we face crossing the desert up ahead . . . would I have any plans to do you wrong?”

His words were spoken with such utter sincerity that even Joe Moss halfway believed the big man.

Eli flushed and stammered, “Sorry to doubt you, Mr. Holt. You'll have to forgive me for speakin' harshly just now. It's just that I sure do miss my kid brother.”

Holt was a model of sympathy. “Of course you do! He was the only family you had in this world. Right?”

“That's right, Mr. Holt. My folks both died of dysentery and I raised little Dalton myself. Protected him until he was strong and fast enough to protect himself.” Eli choked with emotion. “I . . . I taught Dalton everything he ever knew and then he got himself killed.”

“I'm very, very sorry,” Holt said. “Truly I am, and you will most certainly get not only your promised one thousand dollars, but also that which would have gone to poor Dalton.”

“It's only right I do,” Eli agreed, his voice choked with gratitude.

“Of course it is!” Holt pointed out toward the vast lake and desert. “Can you see that little settlement way out yonder near the salt lake?”

“I certainly do,” Eli replied.

“Well, I'll just bet we can buy a buckboard, water barrels, grain, ammunition, and all our supplies right there before we leave the good water and strike out for the bad.”

Eli's voice took on a pleading tone. “I
sure
could use some whiskey, Mr. Holt. A bottle of whiskey and a good drunk would help me deal with losin' poor Dalton. Most certainly it would!”

“Then you shall have a bottle of the best that can be found!”

Eli brightened up, and so did Joe Moss. If Eli got roaring drunk, that meant he would be worthless and make it easier for Joe and Fiona to make their escape.

“What about you, Joe Moss?” Holt asked.

“What about me?” Joe asked suspiciously.

“Would you like a little red-eye?”

“I never turned whiskey down, good nor bad.”

“Well, I'm not an entirely unkind man. If you and your woman will promise me no grief, I might even see if we can find a doctor to examine that shoulder wound.”

“Fiona has tended it well and it's on the mend,” Joe replied.

“Maybe Fiona needs some medicines and even . . . a bath and a clean dress.”

Fiona's eyes widened with surprise and something almost akin to hope. Joe was glad to see both, but he didn't trust Ransom Holt as far as he could have thrown the giant with one arm. And promising them whiskey, a bath, and a new dress for Fiona? Well, that would happen the day that fat pigs flew over the moon.

“Would you like a bath and a new dress?” Holt asked.

Before she could answer, Joe snapped, “Don't be makin' promises to my good wife, Mr. Holt. The only promises to be made to her will come from
me
.”

Holt laughed with derision. “Why, Joe Moss, the only thing that you can promise her is more suffering, and after that the hard hemp of a noose around her skinny neck! So why shouldn't she have something nice before she hangs?”

Fiona lifted her chin. “I don't want anything from you, sir!”

“Of course you do. And to be honest, I don't want to drag you into Virginia City looking dirty and nearly dead. Those Comstock miners will expect to see a white woman hang who actually looks like a white woman. A pretty white woman will bring a big, paying crowd. A poor, skinny wretch like you won't bring much of a crowd, and may even earn some sympathy, which is definitely not what Peabody wants.”

“I get it,” Joe said. “You want Fiona lookin' clean and pretty so the crowd will be bigger and pay more to watch.”

“Yes,” Holt said. “That's the way it was explained to me by Mr. Peabody, and I certainly do see his point. That's the reason, Mrs. Moss, why your life is going to improve somewhat. A new dress or two before we get to Virginia City. Maybe even a comb for your hair, which is now so tangled and filthy that I find it repulsive.”

“Find it what?” Joe asked, not knowing the meaning of that word.

“Repulsive. Disgusting. Joe, your wife's red hair looks like the red ass end of a sick fox,” Holt explained. “It needs to be washed and then brushed to a shine. Didn't she have beautiful, shining hair when you first met her?”

“Well, yeah, she did,” Joe said, “but—”

“But nothing,” Holt interrupted. “Although she looks like hell right now, I expect that she was once quite striking. And why shouldn't you want her to look nice again?”

“Because she don't need anything from you,” Joe said.

“Well, I think you're wrong to feel that way. What about you, Fiona? Wouldn't you like a bath and a clean dress? Maybe a comb for your hair and even shoes to cover your poor feet?”

Joe glanced at his wife, waiting for her to tell Holt that he could just go straight to hell. But instead, Fiona managed a smile and said, “I'd like that very much. If I have to die, I want to die looking my best.”

“Ha!” Holt barked. “Even after all that you've suffered, you still retain some pride and even vanity.”