The Mother Lode (3 page)

“Nope,” Joe said, watching the bullwhip man. “And I mean what I said about either of you drawing iron against me. I hit what I shoot at pretty near every time and my next two bullets are gonna splatter your brains.”

“What the hell do you want? Is this a damned holdup?” the smaller man demanded. “ 'Cause if it is, you're shit out of luck, mister. We ain't carryin' no cash. Just a load of lumber from Truckee bound for a settlement down on the American River.”

Joe lowered the barrel of his rifle. “I got no room to brag on being kind to animals, but you men are the worst sonofabitches on stock that I've ever seen and I've seen a lot. What the hell are you skinnin' their backs for with that whip and why haven't you fed that team right?”

“Who are you?” the driver snarled. “A damned crazy animal lover? No, you can't be because that sorry mule you're riding looks like it ain't been treated all that well, either.”

“More to my shame,” Joe admitted. “But you don't see me whipping him bloody.”

“What do you want?” the smaller of the pair challenged, picking up his bullwhip and coiling it in his strong hands. “Or did you just damn near shoot Edgar's head off for the fun of it?”

Joe lowered his rifle a trifle and replied, “It's about that Palouse horse you're killin'.”

“You mean the spotted Appaloosa?”

“That's the one,” Joe said. “He's mine.”

“The hell you say!” the driver shouted. “We bought him from a miner! Paid him five dollars and that was too damn much. He's weak and is about to die.”

“Last week I left him on this trail not five miles from where we are right now,” Joe explained. “I thought he was dead because I'd run him too far and too hard. But now it fills my heart with some gladness to see that he lived. And I want to buy him from you today.”

The two freighters exchanged glances reflecting amazement. Then, the driver turned to Joe and said, “You are bat-tier than a bedbug, mister. And if you hadn't gotten the drop on us, we'd have run you down and it would have been good riddance to the world.”

“That's probably the first true thing I've heard come out of your mouth,” Joe agreed. “But it don't change the fact that I feel that I owe that Palouse horse a second chance and I had grown to admire the animal when it was fit and strong. That's why I need to buy him back.”

“Well, I'm tellin' you that he ain't for damned sale!” the man with the bullwhip screamed. “And you're wastin' our time!”

“How much?” Joe said, deciding to ignore the outburst. “State your price.”

“Only a hundred dollars,” the driver said, the corner of his mouth turning into a grin of contempt. “You want him, then that's what it'll cost you.”

“You're getting' five,” Joe said. “You told me that's what you paid for him and it was too much.”

“Go to hell! It ain't worth our time to unhitch him for that little amount of money, and besides that, we need him in the team.”

“It's all downhill for you boys from here on to Sacramento,” Joe reminded them. “But just to show that my heart is in the right place, I'm going to give you
ten
dollars. That way you double your money and have got hard use out of the Palouse in the bargain.”

The driver's smile died. “You got ten dollars in gold coin?”

“I do.”

“You probably got more than that, I'd guess.”

Joe pulled out his bag of gold coins and currency and selected a gold eagle. “Don't suppose you'd rather have a fine scalp to show off to your friends?” he asked hopefully.

The two men, looking down from the advantage of their high wagon perch, saw that Joe's sack was heavy with coins and cash, and something very deadly passed between them.

The man with the bullwhip shot his arm forward and the long, wicked whip sailed expertly over the beaten team and struck Joe's little mule between the eyes. The mule bolted in pain and fear, sending Joe and his wealth spilling to the ground. Then the driver made a grab for a shotgun placed between his feet. Joe saw the shotgun come up even as he rolled off the mule, came to his feet, and grabbed the tomahawk at his belt.

The driver would have killed him for certain, but the shotgun got tangled in the ends of his heavy reins and he couldn't get it quickly free and clear. Joe had no such of a problem, and he threw the tomahawk so that it sailed end over end in a silver blur until its sharp blade buried deep in the driver's chest.

Fortunately, the bullwhip man wasn't a quick thinker, or he might have either surrendered or used the gun on his hip. Instead, the fool tried to use his bullwhip a second time against Joe. But the whip was only leather, while Joe's bowie knife was made of the finest steel. He slashed at the bullwhip and cut it off short, then threw the knife aiming for the heart, but missing a little and hitting the throat.

“Eeegghhh!” the smaller man gagged, blood gushing like a fountain from his severed carotid artery.

“Easy, mule.” Joe calmed his little mule and dismounted while the frightened team struggled to drag the freight wagon against the force of its set brake. The mule had a deep nick in its forehead and was bleeding, but at least it had not lost an eye to the bullwhip.

“Whoa up there,” he said. The freight wagon skidded a foot or two, and then Joe was reaching for the Palouse, calming it down and rubbing its cheek like he had done in the past.

The freighters were both dead, and Joe pulled them off their perches and then dragged them deep into the forest. They were carrying about fifty dollars between them, and that was a nice bonus. Joe pocketed their money and collected their weapons, which he could resell on the Comstock.

“Ain't got time to properly bury you fools,” Joe explained. “But I want you to know that I've enjoyed doin' business with the both of you. Sorry it ended up so bad, but it was
your
fault, not mine.”

Joe kicked pine needles over their bodies until they were well covered. He started to leave, and then said, “Oh, boys. I want you to know that I'll take a lot better care of your poor team than you did. But I think I'll turn 'em around and over another pass and down into the Carson Valley. I don't want to run into any of your friends and have to kill 'em too.”

Joe didn't look back at the two piles of pine needles. He regretted having to skewer that pair, but they'd needed killing and it was brought on by their own foolishness, not his. And after all, he had offered them a five-dollar profit in good faith.

After that, what else could a fighting man be expected to do?

W
HEN JOE REACHED Donner Pass, he expertly turned the freight wagon loaded with prime lumber down a little-used southern road that eventually brought him to the western shore of Lake Tahoe. There was considerable traffic along the lakeshore, but he was certain that the wagon and its mixed team had not traveled this road before and would not be recognized.

He rested the team that night beside the lake where there was a lush meadow, and he cut ropes to make them all hobbles so that they could graze to their heart's delight.

Joe shot two squirrels and skinned, gutted, then roasted them over a little campfire. The stars were so bright overhead, you felt as if you could reach out and tickle their bellies. Up this high, the night sky was amazingly bright, and there were boats out on the lake dragging logs along the moonlit lake's vast surface to sawmills.

Joe wandered over to the Palouse horse and spent a half hour just rubbing its head, neck, and shoulders. “You know,” he told the half-starved and badly abused animal, “I have done many things that I've been ashamed of and most I could not take back. But finding and marrying Fiona and giving our child my name is something I can do right. And helping you get back to your old powerful self is another that I aim to do as a way of righting a wrong. I'll sell the mule and the others in the team when we get down into the Carson Valley. I won't get much for 'em, but they cost me nothing so that is okay. But you, spotted horse, I'm going to hang onto and you'll carry me up to the Comstock Lode. Once there, I'll find and marry Fiona and I'll make sure you never again suffer abuse. How is that for fair and square?”

As if the big gelding understood, it nodded its head and then went back to devouring the sweet alpine meadow grass. Joe returned to his campfire and finished off the squirrel meat, then picked his teeth with the bowie that had killed a man earlier that day.

He'd carried about seven hundred dollars before he'd met the freight wagon that had instantly made him a relatively prosperous man. Because with the wagon filled with sawn pine boards fit for immediate use in building, Joe figured he was now worth a thousand dollars . . . easy. Maybe twelve hundred if he got much of anything at all for his mule and the team.

Twelve hundred dollars was more money than he'd ever had in his lifetime. Why, the most he'd made trappin' beaver in a season was only about six hundred. Still, he reckoned that prices would be expensive on the Comstock Lode. They always were in the roaring gold camps.

Joe wondered if Fiona would want to stay up in Virginia City after they were married. She might, but he hoped not. Joe had never been up on barren Sun Mountain where the mines were all deep and hard rock and there was little wood or water. And he wasn't exactly excited about going there now, much less remaining if that should be Fiona's wish. But by gawd, this mountain man would become a miner or whatever else that woman wanted him to be.

“I'm no spring chicken anymore,” he said to the fire. “But I'm still more man than most and I can outwork, out-fight, and outdrink most any fella.”

Joe ran his fingers through his long, tangled hair and then his full, bushy beard, which was greasy and unkempt. In the firelight, he studied his soiled and worn-out buckskins and knew that he was a wild and undesirable-looking specimen of manhood.

“I will get a haircut and shave before I call upon Fiona,” he vowed to the flames. “And I'll buy myself a whole set of new clothes . . . a fine hat and a new pair of boots . . . if I can stand to wear 'em instead of these comfortable old moccasins. That way, when Fiona sees me after so many years apart, she will not think me unclean and unfit for marriage.”

Joe lit his pipe with a twig from the fire and inhaled the raw tobacco he'd bought in California. He'd smoked better, and he wished he had some whiskey to drink as he lay under these beautiful stars. But he didn't feel for a serious lack of anything, really. He was close to Fiona and his child now . . . he could almost feel their presence less than a hundred miles to the east.

“I'm a'comin',” he whispered up at the stars while wondering if Fiona might also be looking at these very same celestial bodies. If so, maybe their souls would connect right now and she would know that he was so very near and hear his fervent promise.

“I'm a'comin', my love,” he vowed. “Ain't nothin' can stop me.”

Joe fell asleep sometime around midnight, and when he awoke in the morning, the air was so cold and clean to his lungs that he snorted like a colt and felt just as frisky.

The team of mules and horses, however, didn't look much better for their night of grazing and resting. Joe knew that once livestock were far down on their natural weight, it took weeks or even months to fatten them. These animals had been long abused and overworked, and it would take quite some time for them to fully recover.

Joe hitched the sorry-looking team to his new freight wagon, not caring that he was getting a late start. He followed the wagon road south along the edge of Lake Tahoe, admiring the view every step of the way. This lake, more than any other he'd seen, was deep, deep blue. So blue and clear that you could see big rocks fifty or maybe even a hundred feet under the surface. Oh, Lord, but it was cold, clear water. So cold that it made your bones ache just to put your feet into it.

“It'll be warmer down in the Carson Valley,” he told the team with their cut and scabby backs laid waste by the bullwhip, which he had thrown into the brush. “And down in the valley the grass will be tall and green and you'll get fat and handsome . . . every last one of you. Even you, mule!” he called over his shoulder to the faithful beast that he'd tied to the tailgate.

Joe grinned up at the sun and felt very good. When he came upon a traveler, he said, “How far is the pass down to the valley?”

“Which one?”

“Ain't there a road down to Carson City not far away?”

“There is but it ain't hardly fit for travel. Real steep and rutty. If I was you and had as poor a team as the one that you're driving, I'd go just a ways farther and take the road leading down into the little town of Genoa.”

“Where is that?” Joe asked.

“It's only twenty miles or so south of Carson City. It's a Mormon community and they say it's the first settlement in Nevada. Them Mormons are clannish, but they sure know how to cook a meal for a travelin' man. They'll feed up those animals, too. Like I said, they're clannish as clams, but always deal with outsiders fair and square. They are hardworking and honorable people.”

“Are they miners?” Joe asked.

“Hell, no,” the man said with a friendly smile. “All farmers. They got some good farming and grazing land down around Genoa. You go there and you'll see what I mean.”

“I wouldn't mind selling this wagon, team, and the lumber to those Mormons.”

“They'll buy it . . . if your price is fair.”

“It'll be fair, all right,” Joe vowed. He liked the idea of selling everything to a small town off the beaten path where no one was likely to recognize the wagon or livestock. “How far to the road that will take me down to Genoa?”