us yet.”
One of the other men—a short, barrel-chested man with a broad, friendly face—was
looking at me. Suddenly he said, “Speaking of Sacketts, there was one come into
this country some years back. Had him a claim up on the Vallecitos. He was
hell-on-wheels with a pistol.”
“You don’t say?” I said, innocently. “Well, I figure if you leave those folks
alone they’ll leave you alone.
“There’s something else, though,” I added. “If any of you know anybody who was
around here about twenty years back, I’d like to talk to him … or them.”
“Ask Ragan or Galloway Sackett. They’re new in the country but they’ve got an
old Indian working for them who has been in this country since those mountains
were holes in the ground—goes by the name of Powder-Face.”
We finished our coffee and drifted outside. It was a warm, pleasant morning with
a blue sky overhead and a scattering of white clouds here and there, a real
picture-book sky, typical of that country.
“I’ve got an uneasy feelin’,” I told Orrin.
He nodded. “Reason I wanted to get out of there. No use mixing innocent people
in our troubles.”
“That one man knew me, or figured he did.”
We stood there looking up and down the street. Animas City wasn’t much of a
town, but it was growing, and it looked like there would be business enough with
the mining, ranching, and all.
The Tinker strolled over and joined us. “Man just rode in,” he said. “Tied his
horse over yonder by the drugstore.”
The Newman, Chestnut, and Stevens Drugstore was right along the street. We
walked out and went down to the blacksmith shop run by the Naegelin Brothers,
and we glanced across at the horse.
The brand was visible from there, and it was 888.
“Charley McCaire’s brand,” I said. “What do you make of that?”
Orrin shrugged. “Let’s ride out.”
We walked back to the Tinker and then the three of us went to where Nell and
Judas Priest were setting on the bank by the river. We all mounted up and rode
out. As we glanced back we saw a man come out of the drugstore and look after
us.
A short time later we stopped near the Twin Buttes and waited, studying our back
trail, but nobody showed so we rode on, walking our horses as it was mostly
uphill, although the grade was not too steep.
The town of Shalako lay on a flat bench with a looming backdrop of the La Plata
Mountains behind it. On past the town a trail went on up La Plata Canyon,
following the La Plata River. There were very few buildings in the town—one of
them was a saloon.
The man behind the bar was a big Swede. He sized me up as I came through the
door. Orrin and the others were following me.
He grinned and came around the bar. “Tell! Tell Sackett! Well, I’ll be damned!
The boys said you’d be coming up sooner or later, but this is great! Have a
drink on the house!”
“We’d rather eat,” I said. “We’ve just come in from Animas City.” I drew back a
chair and sat down.
“Orrin, this here is Swede Berglund, a good man anywhere you find him.”
They shook hands, and then he greeted Judas, Nell, and the Tinker and went to
the kitchen to stir up the grub. I wiped the sweat from my hatband and squinted
out the open door. Across the street was a supply outfit—general store, miners’
supplies, and whatever, and next to that was a livery stable.
When I looked across the street again two men were getting down in front of the
store. They looked like they’d come a far piece, and one of them stayed beside
the horses while the other went into the store.
The flank of one horse was turned toward me and I could read the brand.
Three Eights …
“Orrin,” I said, “looks like we’ve got comp’ny.”
CHAPTER XIX
“Could be chance,” he said, glancing out the window. “I doubt if Charley
McCaire’s mad enough to follow us here.”
“Suppose he tied up with Baston an’ them?”
He shrugged. “Unlikely, but it could be.”
There was no use asking for trouble. We’d had a mite of difficulty with McCaire
back yonder in New Mexico, and he was truly a hard, stubborn man. Of course,
this was good cattle country, with water aplenty and grass. A desert or
dry-plains country rancher will ride a far piece for range country like there
was hereabouts.
Berglund was putting some bowls of stew on the table, and slabs of bread made
from stone-ground wheat. “Eat up, the coffee’s gettin’ hot.”
“That peak yonder,” I said, indicating a smooth-domed mountain that seemed to be
covered with green growth right over the top, “what peak is that?”
“Baldy,” Berglund said. “That’s Parrott Peak on the other side of the canyon.”
“That’s La Plata Canyon?”
“Sure is. The river comes right down from the top. That’s rough country up
yonder, rough and beautiful.”
“Heard about it,” I said. “The river heads up in a big glacial basin?”
“What they call a cirque. Yeah, that’s right. She picks up some other little
streams on the way down. I’ve only been part way up. Lots of elk and deer up
there, and bear, too.
“Last time I was up there I stopped to pick wild strawberries and saw a grizzly
doing the same thing. I just backed off and left him alone. He was a good
hundred yards off, but that wasn’t far enough for me. It’s wonderful how cramped
a country can get when it’s you and a grizzly in the same neighborhood.”
Pa had taken off from Treasure Mountain and come down. Chances were he came this
far, for he knew the La Plata country as well as that west of here. He might
have stopped in the Animas Valley, but, knowing him, I doubted it.
“Orrin, tomorrow you ought to scout around for a place, something ma would like
to pass her days in, where we could raise up some cattle.”
“What about you?”
“I’m going to find old Powder-Face and make talk with him. If pa came into this
country you can bet those Indians knew about it.”
The stew was good, and, as I ate, my mind went a-wandering into those far-up
hills, seeking out the way pa might have taken. The minds of men are not so
different, and the mountains do not allow for much changing of direction.
If a body takes out to follow a made trail down over the hills, he’d best hold
to that trail, for there are not too many ways to go. Most of the trouble a man
finds in the mountains is when he tries shortcuts or leaves a known way.
Trails are usually made by game or by Indians, then used by latecomers, but the
trails are there because somebody has found—through trial and error—the best way
to get somewhere. If you see an easier looking way in the mountains, don’t take
it. You may walk two or three miles and find yourself standing on the edge of a
cliff with no way down.
When a body sets out to find another man’s trail, he has to sort of ease his way
into that man’s thoughts and try to reason out what he might have done.
Now pa was a man knew wild country. We had to look at it two ways. He had gold
or he didn’t, and first off I was going to figure it the hard way: he had him
some gold, and he had the problem of getting it out of there.
First off, he’d head for some place he knew, and that was here. He would have
extra horses, no need to worry about that, but he would have heavy packs, and
folks can be almighty curious. And a man has to sleep.
He’d be tired, and he’d want to get out of this country and back home.
Had he been followed? The chances were he had. Baston and Swan had left
Pettigrew for dead … but had they left Treasure Mountain right after that, or
weeks later? We had little information on that score and what little we had came
from Pettigrew himself.
Somebody had followed and killed Pierre Bontemps, and most likely that same
somebody had followed pa, waiting for a chance. That somebody knew, or thought
he knew, where all the gold was, and he didn’t want anybody around to dig it up
before he had a chance.
Suddenly, I got up. “Orrin, I got a sight of travelin’ to do, and I want to do
it without having to watch my back trail too much. I just think I’ll walk yonder
to the store and buy something. If any of those riders are wishful of talking to
me they can have at it.”