Demon's Pass (7 page)

“What?” Parker said. “No, that isn't true. I mean, we were just . . . uh . . . that is . . .”

“Parker, you don't have to explain anything to us,” Ira said. “We like the pretty ladies as much as you seem to.”

“She's too young,” Parker said. “I was just being nice to her, that's all.”

Clay and Ira laughed at Parker's obvious discomfort. At that moment a loud, piercing whistle caught their attention and when they looked toward the sound, they saw Sue Reynolds's father, Josh, in the middle of the street. He was mounted on a fine chestnut horse, standing in the stirrups and looking up and down the line of wagons.

“Drivers, to your wagons!” he called.

There was a sudden flurry of commotion as those who were gathered around the wagons shouted their final good-byes, then backed out of the way. Within seconds the street was completely cleared of everyone and everything but the Reynolds wagons.

There was a moment of anticipation, and during that moment Sue, who was sitting on the seat of the lead wagon, turned one more time to look back at Parker. With a dimpled smile, she waved, and Parker self-consciously waved back. At that moment he wished he were going with them.

“Head 'em out!” Captain Reynolds called.

Reynolds's command was followed by whistles, shouts, and the pistol pops of snapped whips as the train started forward. As it rolled slowly toward the west end of town, the sound was like a symphony on the march, a cacophony of clopping hooves, clanking pots and pans, squeaking wheels, creaking axles, and canvas snapping in the wind.

“Will we see them again?” Parker asked as the wagon trail grew smaller in the distance.

“I hope not,” Clay said. “If we do, it means they had trouble. They're going to be on the trail a good week before we even get started.”

“Oh.”

In a brotherly way, Clay playfully ran his hand through Parker's hair. “You know what they say, don't you?”

“What?”

“Sue Reynolds is a pretty little girl, but she isn't the only flower in the desert. You'll find others.”

“I wasn't even thinking that,” Parker said, though his burning cheeks belied his denial.

“I'm sure you weren't,” Clay said.

 

One week after the Reynolds party left, Clay was in the Brown Dirt Cowboy having a beer with Larry Beeker, the merchant from whom he had bought much of his trade goods. Beeker had been watching settlers leaving Independence since the days of the behemoth wagon parties, and he was considered a source of expert knowledge for anyone who would make the trek West. Beeker took a drink of his beer, wiped the foam from his lips with the back of his hand, then looked at Clay.

“I been thinkin' on this for the last week,” he said. “All the signs are that we're goin' to have an early winter this year. That bein' the case, you'd be best advised to wait till next spring before startin' out.”

“What?” Clay asked, surprised by the pronouncement. “Are you serious?”

“Yep. Fact is, I'm not sure the Reynolds party will even make it, and they done got a week to ten days head start on you.” Beeker said. “Late as it is now, and with winter comin' sooner than later this year, there's a good chance you'll get caught on this side of the Wasatch Mountains with the first snowfall.”

“Now is a hell of a time to tell me . . . after you've sold me all the goods.”

“I'd be happy to take 'em back,” Beeker offered.

“You might take back what you sold me, but what about the other stuff I bought?”

Beeker shook his head. “Can't do nothin' ‘bout them things.”

“No, nor would I expect you to,” Clay said. He stroked his chin. “Well, there's nothing I can do about it now. I thank you for your concern, Mr. Beeker, but I don't figure I've got any choice. I'm going to have to go on.”

“I'm just givin' you a friendly word of advice, is all,” Beeker said.

“Yes, well, I'm well experienced on the wagon trail, and so is one of my drivers, Marcus Pearson. Even the boy has spent some time on the trail. I think we will make it through, all right. My partner and I have too much money invested in it to wait. We have to go now, or we may wind up losing everything.”

“Well, do what you got to do. Ain't no real concern o' mine,” Beeker said, taking another swallow.

 

Unaware that Clay and Beeker were, at that very moment, discussing the possibility of disaster for their freighting venture, Parker stepped into the saloon. His forays into such establishments were relatively rare, thus he was unaccustomed to the noise and the smells that hit him as he walked through the bat-wings, not only of beer and whiskey, but of expectorated tobacco quids, pipe smoke, and body odor. He spotted Clay standing near the bar.

“Hello, Parker,” Clay called out, cheerily. “Why don't you come and join me? Barkeep, a sarsaparilla for my friend.”

“Thanks,” Parker said.

“Mr. Beeker here has been telling me we are too late,” Clay said.

“Too late for what?”

“To go to Salt Lake City this year. He claims we're going to get caught on this side of the Wasatch Range before the first snow falls.”

“”Will we?” Parker said.

“I don't know,” Clay answered candidly. “I have to confess that I have never started this late, and I've never gone that far.”

“What about the Reynolds company?” Parker asked. “It hasn't been all that long since they left. If we can catch up with them we'd be no farther behind than they are.”

“It may be that the Reynolds party started too late as well,” Beeker said. “Though, as they are going no farther than Denver, they may not have any trouble.”

“I hope they don't have any trouble,” Parker said, thinking of the young Reynolds girl.

“I'm sure they won't,” Clay said, reading his young friend's mind.

“If you are bound and determined to leave anyway, I can tell you a way to go,” Beeker said.

“What way is that?”

“Most folks go north from Pueblo up to Denver, then through the Rockies by Bridger Pass.”

“That's the way I'm planning to go.”

“There is another, shorter way.”

“What way is that?”

“When you get to Pueblo, instead of turning north to Denver, go straight west.”

“You can't go straight west from Pueblo. You can get through the Sangre de Cristo Mountains all right, but after that you have the La Garitas, and they are impassable.”

“I can see you've been looking at the map,” Beeker said.

“Looking at it? I've got it memorized.”

“Uh huh. Did you see a place called Demon's Pass?”

“Don't be talkin' foolish, Beeker,” the bartender said. He had been listening to the conversation while he was busily wiping glasses. “People have been talkin' about Demon's Pass for years, but even the mountain men say it ain't smart to take it.”

“Maybe it ain't smart in normal times, but these here fellas are gettin' started way late. Asides which, this ain't some big train we're a'talkin' about. They don't have but three wagons.”

“Demon's Pass? What is it? I've been freighting ever since the war,” Clay said, “and I've never heard of it.”

“I think it was used a couple of times back when the wagon trains leavin' here was real big,” Beeker said. “But it ain't been used in a long time. Everyone agrees that it is real hardgoin', but they also say it'll save purt near three hundred miles to anyone as might use it.”

“I'm not about to try anything unless I hear it from someone who actually knows something about this Demon's Pass,” Clay said. “Do you know of any such person who has actually been through it?”

“Matter of fact, I do know somebody,” Beeker said. He pointed toward the back of the room.

“That mountain man back there has been through it a couple of times. Not with any wagons, mind you, but he has been through it.”

Clay picked up his beer. “Come on, Parker, what do you say you and I go over there and have a little confab with him?”

“All right,” Parker agreed, picking up his sarsaparilla to take it with him.

“Good luck talking to him,” the bartender said.

“Is there any reason I shouldn't talk to him?” Clay asked.

The bartender snorted, holding in a laugh. “That all depends on how long you can hold your breath.”

“Hold my breath?”

“I've run across skunks that smelled sweeter,” the bartender said.

Clay, noticing that the mountain man's own drink was nearly gone, ordered another and carried it with him to the table. He set the beer down in front of the grizzled man and, without so much as a word of thanks, the mountain man quaffed half of it down. Then, wiping his greasy, matted beard, he looked up at Clay and Parker.

“Sit you down, pilgrims,” he invited. “Never let it be said that Lou Daws don't share his table with strangers.”

The bartender was right. The man's odor was tremendous.

“Thanks,” Clay said as he and Parker steeled themselves against the stench long enough to accept his invitation.

Daws studied them for a moment, looking at them with eyes that were more yellow than brown. Parker had no idea what the natural color of his hair might be, because it was so matted and dirty. There were lines in his face . . . maybe more than just a few, though some of them may have been covered by dirt.

“You the pilgrims plannin' on takin' a train out to Utah?” the mountain man asked.

“Yes. You know about us?”

“Heard someone was doin' it. Then I seen you talkin' to Beeker. So I figure he must've told you about Demon's Pass, and now you're wantin' to talk to me about it.”

“Yes,” Clay said. “Is that really to save time going to Utah?”

“No, it ain't.”

Clay was surprised by Daws's answer.

“Oh? I must have misunderstood. I was told Demon's Pass would save three hundred miles. And I was told you had seen it.”

“I have seen it. Been through it, too.”

Clay looked at him in confusion. “But I just asked you if one exists and you said no.”

“That ain't what you ask, pilgrim. What you ask was, could you save some time, an' what I said was no. Demon's Pass does cut through the Rockies just west of Pueblo, but you can't save no time by usin' it.”

“So then, it doesn't cut off three hundred miles?”

“Yes, it does.”

“Then, what is the problem? Indians?”

“Nope.”

“I don't understand. Why can't we use it?”

“It would be too hard for you to get your wagons through.”

“Surely that isn't an insurmountable problem. We only have three freight wagons to get through, and I have the utmost confidence in my men.”

“Pilgrim, that there mountain pass would stop a skinny goat. And you're talkin' about crossin' it in wagons loaded down with pots and pans and all sorts of goods. Plus if you do get through it, you'll run into desert that a lizard packin' water couldn't get through.”

Clay waved his hand. “Disregard the difficulty for a moment. Is it physically possible for someone to get through?”

“It can be done, I reckon, if you're talkin' 'bout no more than two or three men travelin' with mules,” Daws agreed. “The thing is, they's some damn fool folks believe wagons can use it.”

“Well, someone must've taken some wagons through, or else people wouldn't be talking about it.”

“That's 'cause more'n thirty years ago, some fool wrote a book saying it could be done.”

“Did he take wagons through the cutoff?”

Daws shook his head. “You ask me, I don't think the dumb son of a bitch ever even
seen
the cutoff, let alone take wagons or anything else through it.”

“Surely, if he wrote a book about it, it was adequately researched. I mean, he wouldn't make such a claim in writing unless he knew for certain that it's true, would he?”

Daws glared at Clay. “Pilgrim, I don't know nothin' 'bout no book,” he said. “I ain't never learned to read. But I do know that cutoff, 'cause I'm one of the few folks that's ever took it and lived to tell about it. If it was worth usin', don't you think folks would be usin' it all the time now? I'm tellin' you that, book or no, that there cutoff is a killer. If you try an' take it, you're goin' to leave some bones bleachin' in the sun.”

“I see,” Clay said, standing up. “Well, I thank you for your advice.”

“Advice ain't worth a pitcher of warm piss, pilgrim, if'n you don't use it,” Daws said.

“We'll keep that in mind. Thanks for your time. Parker, we'd best be goin'.”

“What do you think?” Parker asked after he and Clay left the saloon.

“He was pretty adamant about not using it, wasn't he? Doesn't sound to me like the cutoff is anything we can rely on,” Clay replied.

“Yeah, I guess not.”

“Still, he has seen it,” Clay suggested.

“That's true,” Parker said, sensing that Clay was still considering it.

“He's not only seen it, he's actually come through it,” Clay said. “And the way I look at it, if he can make it through, we can too. I figure you and I are as good a man as he is.”

Chapter 5

Clay had not yet selected the mules, but he had bought the wagons, and they were lined up on the street in front of the wagon yard. Although they were used, the purchase contract guaranteed that the wagons were in top condition, ready to make the long trip out to Salt Lake City.