The thought of the insufferable Mr. Kaederman smearing saddle galls in his fancy backside cheered Skeeter no end. Kaederman’s performance for the press at their departure had been enough to earn Skeeter’s enmity for life, standing there sucking up to that overweening toad, Caddrick, calmly assuring the newsies that he would personally see Jenna Caddrick safely back to her father’s care, a job clearly beyond the capabilities of the station’s search team.
Skeeter would’ve given a great deal to jab a straight pin in the man’s rump during that so-called press briefing, just to watch him yelp. He already dreaded the hullaballoo waiting for their return. The next newsie who stuck a microphone in Skeeter’s face and shouted, “Is it true you’re running a con-game on the senator, taking advantage of his bereavement?” would get a mouthful of unpleasantness, courtesy of the nearest object not fastened to the floor.
Meanwhile . . .
There were two ways to reach the dud mines at Mount MacIntyre, from Colorado Springs. They could loop around to the north, through Woodland Park Divide then down through Florissant toward Cripple Creek, or they could ride south past Victor, then swing north around the flank of mountains in the way. Either route would take time, but the northern trail was longer, so Meinrad chose the route down past Victor. They’d left the Colorado Springs rail station near midmorning, moving at a steady lope that wouldn’t put too great a strain on the horses. By the time the sun was low over the shoulders of the Rockies, Skeeter was bushed, far worse than their tough mountain ponies. The canyon they’d been following finally opened out into a moonscape of blasted, barren hillsides where nothing but scrub grew along deep, eroded gullies. Gold mining country.