I dozed off, and when next I awakened the sky was getting bright. I rolled my bed and led the horses in, gave them an easy bait of water, and had all three horses saddled before Galloway came out of the inn.
“They’re a-fixing to eat in there,” he said. “It smells almighty nice.”
Cap Rountree came from the stable, leading a raw-boned roan gelding, under a worn-out saddle packing two rifle scabbards. He glanced at me and I grinned at him.
“I take it your visitor wasn’t talking much,” I said.
“Didn’t see me,” Cap said, “an’ just as well. I had my old Bowie to hand, and had he offered trouble I’d have split his brisket. I don’t take to folks prowlin’ about in the dark.”
“Fetchen men?” Galloway asked.
“I reckon. Leastways, they were hunting somebody. They went on up the road.”
Rountree tied his horse alongside ours. “You boys new to this country? I rode through here in the fall of 1830, my first time. And a time or two after that.” He nodded toward the mountains. “I brought a load of fur out of those mountains two jumps ahead of a pack o’ Utes.
“Ran into Bridger and some of his outfit, holed in behind a stream bank. I made it to them, and those Utes never knew what hit ’em. They’d no idea there was another white man in miles, nor did I … Good fighters, them Utes.”
He started across the street toward the inn. “Point is,” he stopped to say, “I can take you right up to Costello’s outfit without usin’ no trail.”
Judith was waiting for us, looking pretty as a bay pony with three white stockings. We all sat up, and the bartender, innkeeper, or whatever, brought on the eggs and bacon. We put away six eggs apiece and most of a side of bacon, it seemed like. At least, Galloway and me ate that many eggs. Judith was content with three, and Cap about the same.
An hour later we were up in the pines, hearing the wind rushing through them like the sound of the sea on a beach. Cap Rountree led the way, following no trail that a body could see, yet he rode sure and true, up and through mountains that reminded us of home.
Presently Cap turned in his saddle. “These Fetchens, now. You said they rustled the Hawkes herd. You ever hear talk of them hunting gold?”
“We had no converse with them,” Galloway said, “but I know there was some talk of a Fetchen going to the western mountains many years back.”
“Fetchen?” Cap Rountree puzzled over the name. “I figured I knowed most of the old-timers, but I recall no Fetchen. Reason I mentioned it, this here country is full of lost mines. The way folks tell it, there’s lost mines or caches of gold all over this country.”
He pointed toward the west and south. “There lie the Spanish Peaks, with many a legend about them of sun gods an’ rain gods, and of gold, hidden or found.
“North of here there’s a cave in Marble Mountain, called the Caverna del Oro, where there’s supposed to be gold. I never did hear of gold in a natural cave unless it was cached there, but that’s possible. Those old Spanish men rode all over this country.
“There’s a man named Sharp lives over there yonder,” he went on. “Got him a place called Buzzard Roost Ranch and he’s made friends with the Utes. He probably knows more about those old mines than anybody, although I don’t rec’lect him wastin’ time a-huntin’ for them.”
Half a mile further he drew up to let the horses take a blow. “I was thinkin’ that maybe the Fetchen outfit knew something you boys don’t,” he said. He threw a sharp glance at Judith. “You ever hear your grandpa talk of any gold mines or such?” he asked her.
Then he said to us, “You told me the Fetchens murdered him. D’ you suppose they wanted something besides this here girl? Or the horses?”
He grinned slyly at Judith. “Meanin’ no offense, ma’am, for was I a younger man I might do murder myself for such a pretty girl.”
“That’s all right,” Judith said. “I’m used to it.” After a moment, she shook her head. “No, there’s nothing that I can recall.”
“Now, think of this a mite. Yours is a horse-tradin’ family, and they stick together. I know about the Irish traders – I spent time in country where they traded. Seems unusual one of them would cut off from the rest like your pa done. D’ you suppose he knew something? Maybe when he got to swappin’ around, he took something in trade he didn’t talk about.”
The more I considered what Cap was saying the more I wondered if he hadn’t made a good guess. That Fetchen outfit were a murdering lot by all accounts, but why should they kill Costello? What could they hope to gain?
It was possible, trading around like they had done, that one of the Costellos might have picked up a map or a treasure story in trade. Maybe thrown in as boot by somebody who did not believe it themselves.
Now here was a new idea that would account for a lot.
“You consider it,” I said to Judith. “Come morning, you may recall something said or seen.”
There were a lot of folks scattered through the East who had gone west and then returned to the States – some to get married, some because they liked the easier life, some because they figured the risk of getting their hair lifted by a Comanche was too great. It might be that one of them had known something; or maybe some western man, dying, had sent a map to some of his kinfolk.
We had been following Rountree up an old Indian trail through the high country, but now we saw a valley before us, still some distance off. He drew up again and pointed ahead.
“Right down there is Sharp’s trading post, the Buzzard Roost. Closer to us, but out of sight, is the town of Badito.
“Some of the finest horseflesh you ever did see, right down in that valley,” he added.
“Costello’s?”
“His an’ Sharp’s. Tom Sharp went back to Missouri in seventy-one and bought himself about thirty, forty head o’ stock, a thoroughbred racer among them. Then he sent north into Idaho and bought about two hundred head of appaloosa’s from the Nez Percé. He’s bred them together for some tough, hardy stock.”
“That’s what Pa and Grandpa were doing,” Judith said.
Well, I looked over at her. “Judith, was your pa in Missouri in seventy-one? I mean, it might have been him or some of his kinfolk who made a deal with Sharp. The tie-up might be right there.”
“I don’t know,” she said doubtfully. “I was just a little girl. We were in Missouri in that year or the next, I think, but I never paid much attention … we were always moving.”
We camped in the woods that night, smelling the pines, and eating venison we’d killed ourselves. It was a good night, and we sat late around the fire, just talking and yarning of this and that. Galloway and me, we sang a mite, for all we mountain boys take to singing, specially those of Welsh extraction like us.
It was a fine, beautiful night, and one I’d not soon forget, and for once we felt safe. Not that one or the other of us didn’t get up once in a while and move away from the fire to prowl around and listen.
Tomorrow we were heading down into the valley, for we had decided to talk to Tom Sharp. Cap knew him, and he had been a friend to Costello. If there was anything to be found out, we would learn it from him.
But I was uneasy. I’d got to thinking about that girl too much, and it worried me. When a man gets mixed up in a shooting affair he’d best keep his mind about him, and not be contemplating a girl’s face and a pair of lovely lips.
When we tangled with the Fetchens again they would be out for blood. They had got where they were going, but we had won several hands from them … now they would try to make us pay for it. We were few, and there was nowhere about that we could look for help.
Cap gestured off toward the western mountains. “Just over there Tell Sackett an’ me had quite a shindig a while back. Believe me, they know the name of Sackett in that country.”
I knew about Tell. I’d heard all that talk down in the Mogollon. The trouble was, mostly we Sacketts were noted for our fighting ways, except maybe for Tyrel, who had become a rancher, and Orrin, who was in politics. It was time some of us did something worthwhile, time we made a mark in the country for something besides gunplay.