Leadville (4 page)

“Did the marshal buy my story?”

“After I vouched for you and explained the rest. Those two had made a nuisance of themselves around town, and a witness saw them hanging around outside the café until they saw you alone. I don’t think you’ll have a problem, but this ain’t Pickhandle. They got real law here.”

In Pickhandle Gulch, I had also killed two men in a street fight, but the town was so lawless that no one even questioned me. Before that incident, I had never even shot at a man before. I had learned to handle firearms growing up in my father’s New York City gun shop. After he died, I ran the high-end shop and practiced or tested new models several hours a day. I became proficient with handguns, rifles, and shotguns.

“Are you going to introduce your friend?” I asked.

McAllen reined up and waited for all four of us to gather in a rough circle. “Jeff Sharp and Steve Dancy, I’d like to introduce Alfred Mathers, but he prefers to go by Red.”

Red wore his black hair short, and his high cheekbones and sturdy-looking chin made him look formidable.

“Half-breed?” Sharp asked.

“My father was Shoshone, but I speak Ute. My Indian name is Red Oriole.”

Sharp laughed. “That explains the absence of red hair.” He reached out his hand. “Welcome to our little band.” After handshakes all around, Sharp asked, “Known our cordial leader long?”

“I track for the Pinkertons. The captain an’ I have done a few assignments together.”

“What were you doing this morning?” I was curious, because I knew McAllen never allowed his men to sit idle.

“The captain—”

“Steve, you asked for an introduction. You got it. We’re wasting time. I’ll explain after we’ve made camp tonight.” To punctuate his point, McAllen wheeled his horse around and resumed riding southwest.

Chapter 6

Because of the shooting at the café, we didn’t reach our destination before nightfall. Red had ridden on ahead to scout the terrain, and by the time we caught up with him at dusk, he had trout cooking on sticks extended over a welcoming fire. We ate in near silence and bedded down early to escape the chill.

The next morning, we rode hard, and in about four hours, we arrived at the location in the San Juan basin where the girl was believed to have been snatched. McAllen had already explained that Maggie boarded her horse at her aunt’s ranch, which we had passed an hour previously. Ever since she had finished her schooling, her father would occasionally ride her out in a buckboard so she could stay a week or so at his sister’s place. Maggie loved her aunt, the ranch, and her horse. When the weather was clear, she would often go riding after her chores.

One of the early posses had found tracks in a broad meadow, and they believed that those tracks indicated the likely place where she had been abducted. We relied on their description and rode directly to the meadow. When we reached the spot, McAllen pulled up and lifted a hand to stop us. He nodded at Red, who dismounted and walked the ground ahead of us.

I looked around the pleasant field. It was ghostly still. In fact, the meadow seemed so peaceful that it felt like a place of worship. It was hard to believe that an abduction of a young girl had disturbed this tranquility.

“This may take a bit,” McAllen said. “Unsaddle and let our horses graze free. Picket the packhorses in good grass … don’t unload them.”

Conversation had been minimal during the ride, and no one grew chatty now that we had stopped. Sharp and I pulled a western-style saddle off Red’s horse, while McAllen kept a careful eye on his friend’s investigation of the scene.

In less than an hour, Red quick-paced back toward us. “Useless. Too many horses trampled the site.” He pointed. “The last posse headed southwest, along the mesas.”

McAllen hefted his saddle by the horn. “Let’s go. Without tracks, we follow the posse. Hopefully, their tracker knows what he’s about. Steve, you ride with Red along the south side. Jeff and I will take the packhorses and scout the north. Stay within sight. If anyone sees a trail not left by one of those dunderfooted posses, yell out.”

“And if we get attacked by Utes?” I asked, meaning it as a joke.

“Shoot back,” McAllen ordered without humor. With no further ado, McAllen set off.

As we rode, Red focused on the ground in front of us. I couldn’t tell the difference between posse tracks and a herd of elk, so I watched the cliffs. I thought I spotted something unusual high up in a cliff in one of the side canyons. The natural lines seemed disturbed by a squared pattern that appeared man-made. I couldn’t be sure, because everything along the cliff line was the same color. I dug into my saddlebag and pulled out the field glasses that Sharp had bought. On closer inspection, I had no doubt that men had used rock blocks to build a shelter under a crescent-shaped overhang.

I pointed and asked Red, “What’s that shelter built into the cliff?”

He didn’t bother to look where I was pointing. “Ruins.”

“How old?”

“Don’t know.” I thought this was all he was going to say, but then he added, “Bigger ones deeper in those canyons.”

I wanted to go and explore, but I knew better. I’d have to come back after we rescued Maggie and hire a guide. “What’s the name of that place? The bigger ones?”

“Don’t know.”

“Who lived in those cliff dwellings?”

“Indians.”

“What tribe?”

“Don’t know.”

“What happened to them?”

“No one knows.”

I belatedly took the hint and kept my remaining questions to myself. As a writer, I appreciate solitude, but I don’t mind a little conversation on occasion. No wonder Red and McAllen were friends. I could see the two of them regaling each other with silence on those long rides into the wilderness. If either Sharp or I had tracking skills, we could have ridden together and talked as much as we liked. On second thought, Sharp would have harassed me about Jenny. Better to be teamed up with Red and his
Don’t knows
.

In a couple hours, the sun had set, and twilight made it increasingly difficult to see. I was also hungry. Breakfast had been slight, and our noonday meal had been apples eaten in the saddle. Suddenly, out of the gathering gloom, I saw McAllen and Sharp ride toward us. I hoped we were still distant enough from our prey that we could have a campfire to ward off the chill. I needed to get used to the hardship ahead, but I liked comforts. City upbringing, I guess.

“Anything?” McAllen asked.

“No.” That was the eighteenth word Red had spoken since we had separated. I had been so bored, I had counted.

“How about that chasm for the night?”

We all looked where McAllen pointed, but it was getting so dark I could barely make out two rocky ridges protruding into the narrowing valley about a quarter mile ahead.

“I’ll scout it.” With that, Red galloped away to secure us a cozy abode.

“Do Indians attack at night?” I asked as we walked our horses leisurely behind Red’s dust trail.

McAllen gave me an irritated look. “Only Easterners and dime novelists think Indians quit fighting when the sun goes down.” After a few paces, McAllen added, “They do like to use the cover of darkness to sneak up and attack at first light. Probably where the myth came from. But don’t worry. We’re only hours out of Durango. The Utes are far away.”

McAllen walked for another minute before saying, “Most men bed down deep in a canyon, thinking they’ve found safe haven. Problem is, Indians can scurry alongside the ridgeline and catch you unawares. I prefer to encamp at the mouth. Good line of sight, but you can fall back if attacked.”

This almost amounted to a speech for McAllen, so I presumed he took seriously his promise to teach me wilderness skills. I had to ask. “Fire tonight?”

“No, but it should be safe to have a small fire in the morning for coffee.”

Just as I had feared. At least we would have hot coffee to wake up to. As soon as the sun went down, the autumn air in these foothills turned brisk. I decided to sleep in the fleece coat Sharp had bought.

When we caught up with Red, he merely nodded to signal that no danger lurked nearby. In short order, we had unpacked and unsaddled the horses and used loose brush and branches to fence the end of the chasm as a crude pen. I had no fear of Chestnut wandering away, but McAllen explained that our rented packhorses might head back to the livery if we failed to corral or picket them.

After we had laid out our bedrolls, Sharp made my night. He got permission from McAllen to cook some beans at the back of our little gulch.

“Can I help?” I asked.

“Ever done much cooking?”

“No.”

He threw me two cans. “Then carry these tins. Ain’t no boys for hire out here.”

I laughed and started off, but Sharp began digging around in the burlap sacks, so I ended up waiting awhile. When he stood, he had a paper-wrapped parcel, a small bottle, and a heavy sack. He shoved them all in a cast iron pot and hung it over my arm.

After he had given me the entire load, Sharp said, “McAllen may know how to track dangerous men, but he can’t cook worth a shit. Let’s go.”

Sharp arranged rocks in a small circle and then piled wood on top and set the whole thing ablaze. As the fire burned, he opened the tins with his knife and poured them into the pot. The paper parcel hid bacon, and he tore six slices into tiny bits and threw them in with the beans. He took a fistful of sugar from the heavy sack and dumped that into the pot. The small bottle held Lea & Perrins Worcestershire Sauce, and Sharp splashed the surface with a generous covering. After making a self-satisfied grunt, he used his knife to stir the concoction.

“Looks like we get our pig, after all,” I said.

“Yep. Ya kinda ruined our noonday meal yesterday. That woman was so scared, she’s gonna be useless in the kitchen for weeks.”

“I’ll try to behave more civilized in the future.”

Sharp used his knife to knock all the embers inside his small rock circle and added a few more pieces of kindling. Next, he settled the pot on his makeshift rock grill.

“Will that work?” I asked.

“Hell, them rocks an’ embers are hotter than a stove top. Done this lots of times. Later, we’ll bury the rocks under our bedrolls to help keep us warm.”

A couple of small boulders served as convenient seats to watch his handiwork. We were inside the pen, but the horses ignored us as they tried to find their own meal between the rocky outcroppings. We both pulled out tobacco, Sharp to roll a cigarette and me to tamp a load into my pipe.

Sharp licked the edge of the paper and sealed an expertly rolled cigarette. After watching his beans for a while, he hooked a thumb behind him. “Chestnut handles this wilderness like he was born to it.”

“He feels different under me since we ventured off the road.” I grinned at Sharp. “Fancy-free and unfettered, I guess.”

“Probably bored ridin’ them dull roads ya hold him to.”

“I suspect you’re right.” I drew on my pipe. “Chestnut probably thinks I’m too citified as well.”

“Well, do me a favor … don’t start behaving civilized just yet.”

Chapter 7

I had lugged the fixings for dinner to the back of our sheltering outcrop, but Sharp proudly carried the pot containing his concoction back to camp. Using his handkerchief to hold the hot handle, he reminded me of a priest swinging a censer before an expectant congregation. I, of course, brought along the sugar, bacon, and Worcestershire sauce. When we got back, McAllen was sitting alone on his bedroll with his back against his saddle.

“Took long enough.”

“After ya taste these beans, ya’ll quit eatin’ ’em cold out of the can,” Sharp retorted. “Where’s Red?”

“He said he was going to scout around, but he took paper with him, so I suppose he had other duties.”

The reminder of our primitive facilities did not delight me. While Sharp got out some tin plates and forks, I stuffed the sundries back into the gunnysacks and found the hardtack. Soon, we were ready for our feast.

Red returned wordlessly, and we all set upon eating. I may have been overly hungry, but I devoured the beans, which tasted better than I had expected. After I emptied my plate, I went back to the pot and was disappointed to see it empty.

“Since you finished first, you wash the pot,” Sharp said with a malicious grin.

Evidently the newcomer got the menial tasks. I started toward the canteen, but Sharp yelled, “Hey, use dirt.”

“Dirt?”

“Yep. Just grab handfuls of dirt an’ rub ’em around the pot till the dirt falls out dry. Use yer ’kerchief to finish the job.”

I looked at McAllen, but his nod told me this was not some tenderfoot joke. I did as Sharp said and was surprised when the pot appeared clean after I had finished.

When I handed the pot to Sharp for inspection, he whistled and said it looked just dandy for the morning coffee. That didn’t sound appealing, but Sharp had already proved his skill around a campfire, so his coffee would probably be good as well. I guess a little dirt never hurt anyone. As I snapped my handkerchief in the air to rid it of dust, my three companions started laughing uproariously.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“You did just right,” McAllen said. “Tell me, when you were on your own, did you use precious water to wash up after a meal?”

When I left New York, I had traveled by train to Denver and then bought myself a horse and appropriate gear for the road. I rode alone from Denver through the Rockies and Utah until I reached Nevada. The trip taught me how much I didn’t know about how to live outdoors. “Mostly I found towns or inns, but if I couldn’t, I ate cold—right out of the tin.”

“Stayed on roads, I bet.”

I couldn’t understand why McAllen found this amusing. “I came to explore the frontier, not the wilderness.”

“Our quarry prefers the backcountry,” McAllen said.

“Indians don’t like to be penned like horses,” Red muttered to himself. This comment caught me by surprise. The sentence could almost have counted as a soliloquy for Red.

McAllen made a guttural noise to pull our attention back to him. “This morning I had Red send a few telegrams to get the story about a Ute uprising that happened up north last week. The White River Utes attacked an army troop. Killed plenty. Then it appears that yesterday they wiped out the Indian Agency on the reservation, murdering a man named Meeker and seven of his staff. More to the point, they stole Meeker’s daughter—a sixteen-year-old girl—and her two children.”