Longarm and the Horse Thief's Daughter (11 page)

The second mine was named the A.M., filed on and registered to a Jonas Morgan.

Once he became better oriented by finding the Jones outfit, Longarm had an easier time of finding the A.M.

It very quickly became apparent that this had nothing to do with Frank Nellis or the raiders who killed him. The M in the mine's name stood for Morgan and the A for his wife Alva.

The outfit was being worked by just the two of them, Jonas doing the digging and Alva providing what was really a fairly nice home for him there under the canvas of their tents, one for sleeping and the other for storage and cooking.

Alva had fixed it all up. She'd even found some decorative leafs somewhere on the hills around them and arranged those like they were flowers.

There were no windows to put curtains on, but Longarm was sure the lady would have hung some if she'd only had windows.

Jonas was a husky man, probably in his late thirties. His wife was short and scrawny. Both had coal-black hair. Longarm hesitated to guess Alva's age—it was something he did badly—but if held to, he would have pegged her at at least ten years younger than Jonas.

They were a friendly and welcoming couple, seemingly with no worry that they might be raided, just the two of them so far from any form of civilization.

Longarm was sure they had a rifle or a shotgun tucked away somewhere. After all, they had fresh meat that they were willing to share. But neither one of them reached for a weapon when he rode up on their camp.

He hoped that trust in their fellow man would not backfire on them sometime in the future.

“Light and set, mister,” Alva said. “I'll call my man down to meet you.” She smiled and wiped her hands on her apron. “We get to see so few folks out this way. Here, let me get him.”

She gathered up her skirts and scampered up the hillside to their mine, which even from down beside a thin, probably seasonal creek Longarm could see was properly shored up and well constructed. He noticed that Alva left their possessions unguarded and seemed to have no concern about that.

When Jonas came down with her to meet their visitor, the man was smiling and had his hand outstretched to shake before he was within ten paces of Longarm.

“You'll stay and eat with us, won't you?” the man said as soon as the introductions were complete. “Alva does wonders with venison pot roast and wild onions.” He smacked his lips and added, “Magnificent.”

“I'd be honored,” Longarm said. “Mind if I unsaddle and let the mare have a little relief.”

“Please do. Put her and the little fellow up the canyon with our boys, if you like. There's some wild hay that I gathered. Give them each an armful of that. You will stay the night, won't you?”

It was still no later than mid-afternoon, but Longarm found himself nodding agreement. He dropped his bedroll off his pack and considered what he might offer to them in exchange for their hospitality. He would have to decide that in the morning. This afternoon he probably could get an idea of what they lacked. Although at first look, Jonas and Alva Morgan seemed to have prepared themselves very well for a long and, he hoped, a prosperous stay.

The “boys” tied on a picket rope above a twist in the canyon proved to be three stout, handsome mules. Yes, Jonas had prepared well.

The mules gave him a curious look when he showed up leading the mare and the burro, but they did not offer to fight.

Longarm swept up an armload of wild hay from a large pile and dropped it in front of his animals, then stripped the saddle and the pack from the two of them.

He spent a few minutes currying them and checking their feet before returning to the Morgans' tent.

Alva already had a pot of coffee on the fire and a larger pot of meat simmering.

“Welcome,” Jonas said. “Now, sit, please, and tell us what is going on in the world outside. We haven't heard nor seen a thing in the past three months, so any news you can tell us would be greatly appreciated.”

“You might be surprised,” Jonas said over the rim of his coffee cup—crockery, not tin—as he squatted on a homemade stool. “There are more people in these hills and more minerals claims than you might think. And not all of the claims are ever filed. It is too far down to the nearest land office for folks to file papers unless they are sure of what they have. Sometimes not then too.”

He pursed his lips and looked at his wife. “So many of these finds don't prove worthwhile, you see. A man will dig for two, three months. Maybe the work will pay off. More often than not it's a waste. But if you don't try, well, you don't hit your strike. It's all a big gamble.”

“What about you?” Longarm asked. “Is this find going to pay out for you?”

Again Jonas looked at his wife, but this time he did not immediately answer.

Longarm smiled, suspecting what it was that made the man hesitate. “I haven't seen cause to mention it before now,” Longarm said, “but I'm a deputy U.S. marshal. I ain't after gold or silver or anything else that comes out o' the ground.”

“Do you have credentials to prove that?” Jonas asked.

“Sure.” Longarm dug into his pocket and produced his wallet and badge. He handed them across the fire to Jonas and accepted a refill of coffee from Alva. He stirred some canned milk and a little wild honey into the coffee.

Jonas looked at Alva and got a nod from her before he handed the wallet back. Then he smiled. “This one will pay out,” he said. “In another year or so we'll need to put a road in so we can haul ore down to a crusher and smelter. But that won't be for a while, of course.”

“You seem to know your business,” Longarm observed.

“I should. I studied geology and mineral sciences at Pennsylvania State College,” Jonas said proudly.

“That's where you're from? Pennsylvania?” Longarm asked. He still had a nagging disregard for Pennsylvania due to his West Virginia roots.

“Both of us are,” Jonas said. “We're from a small burg, more of a hamlet really, called Needmore.” He grinned. “Nobody's ever heard of it except us and the folks who still live there.”

“Oh, that ain't so. I heard of it. Used to know a fella that came from there.”

Jonas raised an eyebrow, so Longarm added, “His name was . . . let me think, it's been a while . . . his name was Beavers. Loyce Beavers.”

“I don't know anybody named Loyce, but I went to grammar school with a boy named Charlie Beavers. Likely they'd be kin. So tell us what you're doing up here, Deputy.”

“Lookin' for some men that raided a mining camp. They kidnapped a girl an' likely killed the owner.”

“Oh? I don't like the sound of that,” Jonas said.

“What are their names?” Alva put in.

“Nellis,” Longarm said. “The man's name is Frank Nellis.”

“Does he have a wife named Jane?” Alva asked.

“Matter o' fact, yes. She got away. Right now she's down in Silver Plume recovering from a gunshot wound,” Longarm said.

“Oh, the poor dear. Jonas, you remember them, don't you? Frank and Jane? I'm pretty sure their name is Nellis.”

“You've met them?” Longarm began to feel a flutter of excitement in his gut, the excitement of the chase.

“Yes, we have,” Jonas said. “They passed through here a couple months back.”

“A lovely couple,” Alva said. “And that girl.” She did not sound so enthusiastic when she mentioned Sybil.

“Nice folks, Frank and Jane,” Jonas affirmed. But he did not mention the daughter at all.

“Do you have any idea where they were bound?” Longarm asked.

Jonas shook his head. “I'm sorry, no. They were on their way in when we met them. I can tell you where we advised them to go.”

“But we don't know if they went there,” Alva said.

“It's worth a try,” Longarm told them. He leaned back and accepted the steaming bowl of stew that Alva handed him. The scent rising from it made his mouth water. And the taste of it bettered the scent. “Ma'am, this has to be the best stew this side o' Denver.” He grinned. “Maybe the best this side o' Needmore, Pennsylvania.”

He meant every word of it.

After supper, Longarm walked with Jonas into the side canyon so they could water the livestock and see that there was plenty of hay available to them. Then the two men sat beside the creek and smoked a pair of Longarm's cheroots.

They sat there smoking and idly talking about Pennsylvania and West Virginia—neither had been back in years, Longarm not in considerably longer a time than Jonas—while the evening came down over the mountains.

A herd of seven mule deer drifted down to drink from the thin run of water.

“There isn't an evening,” Jonas said in a subdued voice, “that I couldn't knock down a deer or an elk or sometimes one of those curly horned mountain sheep. It's fine up here. The only thing we lack is roads and people.” He smiled. “Which is one of the best things about it.”

He finished his cigar and tossed the butt into the water, then stood, brushing off his britches. “Ready?”

Longarm got up too and the two men walked back to the camp.

Longarm spread his bedroll on the ground inside Alva's cooking tent and told his hosts good night, then lay down and was instantly asleep.

Come morning he asked Jonas, “Which way did the Nellis family head from here?”

Jonas pointed. “I don't know exactly where they went, but that's the direction we advised them to go. We prospected up there a little bit last fall. Found a little molybdenum and what might have been a trace of copper. This find seems the better of the two, so we told Nellis about the moly. I . . . The truth is, I don't think Frank Nellis knew enough about minerals to recognize molybdenum, but he might have figured out the copper.”

“Don't even think about leaving us before you have some breakfast,” Alva warned.

Longarm grinned. “Wouldn't think of it, ma'am.”

Breakfast was more of the excellent venison stew. Longarm had two bowls of it and would have eaten more if he'd thought he could hold it without incurring a bellyache from overstuffing himself.

“If I was a rich man,” he said, “I'd hire you t' do my cooking.”

“What about me?” Jonas asked.

The grin returned. “You could wash the lady's dishes.”

“I see where I stand,” Jonas said, smiling.

Longarm stood and dropped his bowl into the washbasin. “Folks, you're both wonderful. Thank you for all you done.”

“Head off like I told you,” Jonas said. “I'm thinking you might find Frank Nellis's diggings up that way.”

“I'm fixing to find out,” Longarm said. He rolled and tied his bedroll, then carried it to the mare and the burro, Jonas coming with him to toss some feed to his mules.

Once Longarm was saddled and his pack reloaded onto the burro, the two shook hands and Longarm got onto the trail.

He was several miles away before he remembered that he had not offered Jonas Morgan anything in exchange for the food and hospitality.

He kicked himself much of that morning for the oversight.

The sky clouded up with rain-laden gray that afternoon, and a wind kicked up out of the northwest. A sudden chill made Longarm dismount and fetch his heavy coat from its perch atop the burro. The temperature must have dropped a good thirty degrees, he suspected.

Standing in his stirrups and craning his neck, he sent worried glances into the face of the wind.

There was a storm brewing, and it would be on him soon.

Colorado mountain storms could be violent if often brief, and Longarm saw no point in riding through this one.

He thought wistfully of Alva Morgan's cook tent, where he had spent the past night, but it was many miles and many hours behind him now.

Instead he thought it sensible to look for a place where he could hole up until the storm blew itself out.

Fat raindrops and a scattering of hailstones were falling by the time be spotted a deep overhang on the rock face above him. He reined the mare into a stand of young aspen and tied her there, then untied the burro from his saddle horn and tied it separately.

“Now, you children mind your manners till I get back,” he admonished them, before he scrambled up the loose rock slope to the shelter offered by that overhang.

The niche was deeper than it had first appeared. About four feet high at the mouth, it leveled off about two feet tall and extended so far back into the rock that he could not see the back wall.

Longarm chose a spot close to the lip and settled into a comfortable, cross-legged position. From there he could stay out of the storm while at the same time keeping an eye on his animals.

Having not bothered to stop for lunch, he munched on a handful of jerky while he watched the quick flurry of hail and listened to the strong drumming of large raindrops.

Both mare and burro turned their butts to the wind and tucked their tails in tight. Had his niche in the rock been more accessible, Longarm would gladly have shared his shelter with the animals, but that was not possible here.

When he was finished eating, he gathered up a handful of hailstones that had bounced inside his shelter. He popped them into his mouth one by one and let them melt to wash his lunch down. A man could hardly find purer water than that.

Finally he lighted a cheroot and sat back to enjoy the show of nature's fury.

The cigar, it turned out, may well have been a mistake. Perhaps the smoke, but then possibly the cheroot had nothing to do with it.

Whatever the cause, Longarm heard a low, rolling rumble somewhat like the purring of a cat.

A very
big
cat.

Then the mountain lion hit him from behind and bowled him over, the two of them in a tangle tumbling end over end down the rocky slope.