The marshal looked confused. “Why?”
Fargo spent the next few minutes telling the marshal everything he knew about Henry and Sarah Brant, and all the details, including Daniel’s presence among the robbers.
“The kid’s using the neighbor’s mine to make a play on his father,” the marshal said, clearly disgusted.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Fargo said. “Before he joined in with the Brants, Daniel was a good kid. A little gold hungry, but still a good kid. I think Sarah Brant is the one pulling his strings.”
“Henry Brant is known for cutting corners and taking shortcuts. And I’ve heard his mine is starting to play out. It would make sense he’s using the kid.”
“I heard the same thing about the mine,” Fargo said. “And there are rumors that they’re digging underground toward Cain’s tunnels. But to confirm all that, I have to find Daniel.”
“If he’s still alive,” Marshal Davis said. “If Henry Brant thinks that Cain is dead, it would be simple to kill Daniel and take over the Cain mine.”
“My thinking exactly,” Fargo said. That was his biggest worry outside of Cain living. Daniel didn’t have a very long life ahead of him if Fargo didn’t get this cleared up.
“So what can I do to help?” Marshal Davis asked.
Fargo had been hoping the marshal would ask that question. “I’ve got some ore to recover, so I could really use your help looking through town for Daniel, if you know what he looks like.”
“I’ve met him. You think he’s here?”
“I’m not sure, but one of the robbers left the wagon and came into town. I’m guessing it was Daniel. If I don’t find him with the gold, he’s either here or already dead.”
“What do you want us to do with him if we find him?”
“Don’t arrest him,” Fargo said. “That would tip them off to what you know. Just keep an eye on him until I get back and can work some truth out of the kid.”
“You got it,” the marshal said. Then he smiled. “Your men are down at the Mine Shaft Saloon near the river. You need a few more men to go with you on your recovery operation? I could spare a few to join you. I wouldn’t mind coming along myself, to be honest.”
Fargo shook his head. “No, thanks. This one is personal. I’m going to go it alone. I’ll let you know what happens.”
“Can’t say as I blame you, Fargo,” the marshal said. “Good hunting.”
Two hours later, after a good breakfast, Fargo turned south at the intersection off the Placerville road, once again following the wagon tracks.
Three miles south of Sacramento, the tracks turned off the main trail and headed back east and into a deep valley coming down out of the mountains. There was no doubt that this trail dead-ended up this valley. The trail had obviously been seldom used, so it would have almost no traffic. Fargo had to respect the choice of a hideout by the robbers. It was close enough to town and the Placerville road, yet isolated and easy to defend and guard.
Fargo veered off the trail and took the Ovaro up a ridge, moving slowly and carefully, following game trails that ran along the valley sides.
An hour later he found what he was looking for. Near where the canyon turned into a box canyon against three steep walls of rocks, a wisp of smoke from a fire drifted above the trees.
From that camp there was only one way out. It was a camp that was easy to defend from attack, but it also made Fargo’s job a lot easier. He had them trapped like rats in a water barrel.
He left his horse in a safe place, then with his heavy carbine in hand, he scouted the area around the camp.
There looked to be three men in the camp. Daniel was not one of the men. Fargo had been right that it had been Daniel who had gone into Sacramento. Fargo just hoped the marshal and his men could find him and protect the stupid kid.
At the moment the men were standing around the campfire, drinking coffee. Cain’s wagon sat near where they had tied the horses, and it was still loaded with the gold. Clearly, this was just a stopover point until someone told them what to do with their loot.
They realized too late that they’d been joined by a fierce-looking man with a Henry and a real unfriendly voice.
One of the men started to go for his gun but his friend said, “Don’t be stupid, Dave.”
“I want the guns pitched as far as you can throw ’em. Then I want your boots off and I want you to toss them too. Far as they’ll go.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“Nobody important. But you killed somebody important, at least to me. So just be thankful I don’t shoot you bastards down right here and now.”
The harsh words made them move quicker. They bitched and moaned of course—it was humiliating, throwing away your guns and boots—but they did it.
When that was done, Fargo said, “Now hitch up the horses. I’m taking the wagon.”
“They’ll think we took it,” one of them complained.
“I’d say that’s your problem, not mine. Now get it done.”
A mile beyond where the men had camped, Fargo found a place to pull the wagon off into some cover behind some rocks so it couldn’t be seen from the trail. He tied up the horses and then went back for his own horse.
He tied the Ovaro to the rear of the wagon. When he got back to the main trail, instead of turning back north, he went south away from Sacramento. It would be a good ten miles out of the way to circle around and back into town that way, but that was better than taking a chance of meeting any of the Brant men coming for the gold.
Right now it was better to let Brant and his people think that his men had been robbed of the ore they had robbed from Cain. It might give Daniel another day of life.
Maybe.
He got the gold into the bank before it closed and then told Marshal Davis where he could find the robbers. So far, the marshal had had no luck finding Daniel, but as he said, most of his men didn’t know what Cain’s son looked like.
“We’ll find him,” Fargo said. He thanked the marshaland then headed to where Cain’s two men should be waiting for him.
He found them both sitting in the Mine Shaft Saloon at a corner table, their backs to the wall. They both had drinks in front of them, but it was clear they were too worried to drink much. A deck of cards lay on the table between them, but no cards were dealt.
One was a solid middle-aged man with a wide mustache. His name was Jim. The other was Walt. From this angle, he looked like he could bend a railroad spike with his bare hands. Cain had told Fargo that both men were good in a fight and both had ridden the range at times. Fargo had a good feeling about them.
As Fargo entered the run-down saloon, both had their hats pulled low over their eyes. But when they recognized him, they jumped up and pushed their hats back, smiling. Patience and waiting were clearly not their strong suits.
“How ya doin’?” Jim asked as Fargo approached the table.
“Are we going after them?” Walt asked.
“Doing fine,” Fargo said, indicating that the men should follow him out to the street. “Doctor said I would live. And I already took care of the robbers and Cain’s gold is delivered and where it belongs.”
“Fargo, the stories they tell about you don’t go anywhere near far enough,” Jim said, shaking his head.
Fargo didn’t want to ask just what tales Jim had heard.
“Damn,” Walt said. “We missed all the fun.”
“I have a feeling the fun is just beginning,” Fargo said. “If you call men getting shot fun.”
“If the man deserves to be shot, yeah I do,” Walt said.
Fargo glanced at the strong kid and said nothing.