The Man from Shenandoah (25 page)

“I’m mighty grateful for the information, Mr. Upshaw. We been following after Uncle Jonathan now for nigh on to a year.”

“Well, good luck, young man. Just go on up to the north fork of Clear Creek. Somebody up there can set you back on his trail, I figure.”

Carl dashed back up the street, looking for his father. He ran from door to door, poking his head in each one, dodging passers-by on the street until he located Rod.

“Pa!” Carl called into the dimness of a saloon. He started through the door in a rush, then remembered his manners and settled down to a walk to approach the table where his father sat with a small bald-headed man.

“Son, your feet will arrive ahead of your brains, if you don’t have a care. I reckon you found out something?” Rod grinned over his hat, which sat on the table in front of him. “Sam Whitney here gave me a good lead, too. Sit down and we’ll swap our news.”

Carl pulled back a chair and sat on the edge of it. “The assayer says Uncle Jonathan’s got a claim up to Central City, Pa.”

“I reckon that’s where we’ll head after we noon, boy. Sam, this is my son Carl. Carl, Sam Whitney from the mint. He says Jonathan has been a steady supplier for a brace of years now. At least, the stuff Sam’s been working with has come out of Jonathan’s claim.”

Carl took off his hat and nodded to the man. He turned to his father and said in a rush, “Shoot, Pa, can’t we leave now? We ain’t seen him for a long spell.”

Rod chuckled. “My brother-in-law was a favorite with the young’uns back home,” he told Sam. “I reckon that’s the way it’ll be out here, too. Boy, we got to gather up your brothers and have us some dinner. Go poke your head out into the street and see if you can spot ‘em. The sooner we eat, the sooner we’ll be on the road.” Rod adjusted his chair. “And Carl, no—”

“I know, Pa.” Carl cut him off and rose from the table. When he pushed through the door of the saloon, the light and uproar of the street engulfed him, and he looked around for Rulon and James.

After a moment, Rulon came out of a door two buildings down on the other side of the street. He saw Carl and waved to him, beckoning him to join him.

Carl stepped off the walk and waited on the edge of the street for a chance to safely cross. A party of horsemen trotted their mounts through the business district, leading pack mules loaded with supplies, presumably for their mining camp. Carl crossed after the mules had passed, and soon was at Rulon’s side.

“Carl, you know them cartridges you shoot in your Spencer? They got a pistol in here that uses them same things instead of cap and ball. You load them in the back of the pistol cylinder, fire ‘em off, then push out the casings and whang in another set of cartridges. Fastest reloading I ever seen in my life.”

Carl grinned. “I had one in my hands, once. It’s a marvel, all right.”

“The gun is for sale, little brother. You got any of that money Rand paid you? I mean just kinda burning away in your pocket?”

“I was saving it to get a load of goods for when Ida and I—” He stopped, scowling. “Let’s take a look.”

Rulon led the way into the dark store. The pistols were on display in a glass case under the hardware counter. Rulon pointed to the Smith and Wesson at the back, and addressed the clerk. “Show my brother the cartridge pistol,” he requested.

The clerk, a brown-haired man with an eyeshade, brought out the blued steel revolver and placed it into Carl’s palm. “This is a mighty fine gun,” he began.

Carl sighted down the octagonal barrel.

“You have six chambers, .32 caliber cartridges is what you use, and you can be sure it’s a mighty fine gun for a man to have out here,” the clerk continued.

Carl considered. “You got the cartridges?”

“Plenty. I figure to have a steady supply, now that the Army’s fixing to clear up the Indian problem. I’m an Army supplier, you know.”

“I didn’t, but I reckon I’ll take the gun.” Carl looked at Rulon. “Maybe if you treat me right, I’ll let you try it out from time to time.” A slow grin cracked his face. He paid, shoved the pistol down into his waistband, scooped up several boxes of cartridges, and whistled his way to the door. When he stepped through, he stopped with one foot in midair and froze.

He swore gently. “I bet I’m in trouble with Pa,” he said, slowly putting down his foot. “I just now recollected why I came out to get you. Pa’s waiting back at the Blue Belle Saloon.” He gestured with his head. “Could you—nah, I’d best look for James right quick, and you’d best scurry over and get washed up for dinner. Pa’s anxious to ride soon as we get our bellies full.” Carl walked down the street beside Rulon.

“What’s the hurry?”

“That’s what I forgot to tell you. Him and me both got word on Uncle Jonathan.” Carl stopped in front of the saloon. “You go on in. I’ll look for James.”

Carl walked down the street toward the hotel, where he pushed his way next to his horse and loaded the shell boxes into his saddlebags. He patted Sherando, then continued down the dusty road.

He caught up with James on the outskirts of the town, where he was asking after Jonathan at the livery stable.

“Come on,” he told James, his voice rough and his face set. “Pa’s raring to get on the road. We got word about Jonathan. He’s up north a piece, has some workings at Central City.”

“Where’s Central City?” James asked gruffly, waving his thanks to the stableman. He followed Carl back up the street.

“Northwest of here, at a place called Gregory Gulch. It’s on the north branch of Clear Creek.”

The brothers stepped around opposite sides of a wagon and entered the saloon, maintaining a polite distance from each other. Rod and Rulon sat at the table with Sam Whitney. As Carl and James came up, the man stood.

“I’ll be going along, Mr. Owen. It’s been a pleasure to meet you.” He shook hands with Rod. “I hope you find Jonathan doing well. So long, boys.” Sam retrieved his hat from the table, put it on, and nodding to the barkeeper, left the saloon.

Carl and James pulled out chairs on opposite sides of Rulon and sat. Rod looked at Carl, and a grin creased his beard. “Rulon says you got you a gun that shoots cartridges, same as a rifle. He says it’s the coming thing.”

Carl chuckled. “Up to date, Pa. A sure-thing, modern invention.”

“Well, I reckon it’s fine to keep up with the times, if you can afford it. Just now, I figure we should put something besides a pistol under that belt of yours. How about it?”

“Let’s go eat!” Carl said.

~~~

Central City was a raw, wide-open town set in the midst of scarred earth and muddy water. Devotion was offered to only one god here: gold was the ruler, and the offerings were single-minded efforts to acquire possession of it. Some of the worshippers spent their days wresting it from the soil; others made their prayers on the altars of whiskey-soaked bars in tents along the creek.

Here was a town built in haste. Tents and half-shelters answered the need for basic housing, with only an occasional log house thrown up by a miner with vision. Every man’s energy was directed to his particular rectangle of ravaged earth. None was spared to build beyond a primitive level.

“Can you imagine Ma in a pesthole like this?” James wrinkled his nose in disgust. “I’m a dad-blamed fool if I ever take up mining as regular work. ‘Taint fit labor for a horseman.”

“Where do you reckon we should start looking for Uncle Jonathan?” Rulon craned his neck to take in all the sights of the miserable camp.

“Assay office ought to do it, I reckon,” Rod said. He took off his hat and reseated it on his head. “Carl, see if yonder gent can direct us to the assayer.”

Carl pulled Sherando off the trail and walked him up to a miner hurrying along in the same direction. “Begging your pardon, can you direct us to the assay office?”

The man stopped and pointed to a trail leading up the hill to the left. “Ye can’t miss it. Last tent on the path, or so it was last week.”

“Still lots of folks coming in?”

“Every day some new Cousin Jack comes over the hill.” He spat into the dirt. “Ye haven’t the look of miners.”

“We’re fixing to visit kin.”

The miner laughed, expelling a hoarse, croaking sound. “That’s a new story. Mighty original. Good luck.” He hurried off, glancing over his shoulder at the four horsemen, as if he expected them to follow him with ill intent.

“Obliging fellow, but almighty suspicious,” Carl reported. “The office is up the trail.”

Rod kneed his horse up the path and the others followed. When the way became too steep for riding, they dismounted and led the horses, and Carl took the position of guide.

Another fifty yards up the path, they came upon the assay office, half dugout, half tent, burrowed into the hill at the trail’s end. A mild breeze stirred the door flap as they walked up to it.

Rod called out, “Hello. Anybody inside?”

“Raise the flap and dump your sample. I can’t get to it tonight,” a raspy voice answered.

“No samples here. We want information. Do you have a minute to spare?”

A sandy-haired man with mutton-chop whiskers and a black vest over his shirtsleeves opened the tent flap. He looked around at the four men, then fixed his gaze on Rod. “Well?” he challenged.

“I’m Roderick Owen from down south of Pueblo City. These here are my sons. We’ve come inquiring for my wife’s brother, and figured you’d be the likely man to know his whereabouts. His name is Jonathan Helm.”

The man’s face darkened. He put his hands on his waist. “You come a long way, but you’re a week too late. His shaft fell in last Tuesday. They dug him out and replanted him in the graveyard yonder.”

Chapter 17

Julia caught sight of the men just as they entered the meadow. They were leading a mule loaded with mining gear, and her heart began to flutter. Even at a distance, she could sense an air of dejection and pain in the slump of her husband’s shoulders. Something was terrible wrong, and she counted the horsemen over and over to be sure there were four, all sitting their saddles. Her body steeled itself, back straightening, shoulders stiffening, as the men came nearer and she recognized Jonathan’s leather strongbox strapped to the mule’s back.

Then she ran toward the riders, clutching the over-sized wooden paddle she’d been using to stir boiling clothes. Her washing-day apron flapped in the wind of her hurry, making a whit-whit noise that momentarily distracted her from her goal. She stopped and glanced around for the source of the noise, then looked to where Rod was stepping wearily down from his horse.

She inhaled, sharp and short, dropped the paddle, and ran again toward the men, confused by how old her husband looked. Their sons drew the animals up beside Rod, shutting off the world with a semi-circle of horseflesh.

She was gathered into the strong arms she had missed this last month, and his beard scratched her neck as he engulfed her, burying his face in the hollow between chin and shoulder.

“Oh, Julie,” he sighed.

“He’s dead?” Soft, and low, and horror-struck.

“Oh, my girl.” Rod turned, and with a look dismissed the boys, and they gigged their horses toward the house.

“It’s not possible,” she said.

Rod nodded.

“No!” she cried, and he held her, soothed her in the meadow as she sobbed.

She couldn’t bear to look at the box, not for several days. Then Rod gently reminded her that it was hers, and that she should open it.

“I don’t have the key. I left it on the mantle.”

He carried it out into the yard and put in on the chopping block. Two shots from his .44 mangled the lock enough to pry it loose. Setting it before her at the table, he stepped back and waited.

Julia looked up at Rod. “He always took care of me, especially after Pa died.” Her eyes brightened with tears, but she blinked them back and looked upon the box once more. “Ain’t it strange? In all the years I didn’t see him, I never missed him. I knew he was doing fine. Now he’s gone, the hurt is powerful. Powerful.” She sighed and gazed at the box, then lifted the lid.

A letter lay on a cloth, which covered the other contents of the box. Julia sighed again and picked up the letter. She glanced around at her family, took a deep breath, let it out, and broke the seal of wax that closed the flap of the envelope. The brittle wax shattered, falling onto the tabletop and into her lap. She paused for a moment, then removed the folded sheet.

“Dear Julia,” she read aloud. “When Pa died, I worried sick about you for years, until Rod Owen came along. I wasn’t happy to hand you over when you two decided to tie the knot, but only because you was such a dear little sister.” She paused to wipe her eyes with the corner of her apron.

“Rod’s been good to you, but I’m still your big brother, so I’m leaving you a little something to remember me by. Lady Colorado yielded up her secrets to me, and I’m passing them on to you. The contents of this box are from my first strike, and it’s all yours. Here’s the deed and all, so whatever I leave in the hole is yours after I’m gone. Your loving big brother, Jonathan.”

Julia removed the cloth from the box. Inside lay five leather pouches, tied up with rawhide laces. She lifted one of them, surprised at its weight, and put it before her on the table. With shaking hands she untied the laces and opened the mouth of the bag.