MacGregor grunted and told Buck to be back day after tomorrow. He had to ride south to deliver a pouch.
“I’ll be back.”
He rode north out of Bury, following the Salmon River. He headed for a small town called Salmon. A rough-and-tumble mining camp.
He had no intention of going to Salmon; Buck just wanted to see if he was being followed. He wanted to test how much trust Richards had in him.
“Not much,” Buck grunted. He was back in the deep timber, hidden, watching his backtrail. He was watching a half-dozen riders slowly tracking him. Using his spyglass, Buck pulled them into closer view. He knew their faces, having seen them loafing around Bury, but didn’t know their names.
Buck rode deeper into the timber, making a slow circle, coming out of the timber behind the riders. Now he was tracking them. He wore an amused look on his face as he watched the gunhands slowly circling, having lost Buck’s trail, trying to once more find it. Buck rode up to within five hundred or so yards of the men and sat his horse, watching the men.
One rider finally lifted his head, feeling, sensing eyes on him. “Crap!” the man’s voice drifted faintly to Buck. “He’s watchin’ us, boys.”
The PSR riders bunched and rode slowly toward Buck, reining up a respectable distance from him. One said, “This ain’t nothin’ personal, partner. We ride for the brand, just like you.”
“No offense taken, boys. Town was closing in on me. I wanted some space. You know what I mean?”
“Know exactly what you mean,” a scar-faced rider said. “We got biscuits and coffee and it’s ’bout noon. Let’s build a fire and jaw some.”
Cinches loosened, bits out, the horses ground-reined, they grazed. The riders sat on the ground, munching biscuits and drinking cups of strong black coffee. The scar-faced rider was Joiner. The oldest of the men, a hard-eyed puncher, was Wilson. Buck took an immediate dislike for Wilson and he sensed the feeling was mutual. McNeil had practically nothing to say. But he kept eyeballing Buck. The man’s head was totally bald. Long was short and stocky. He wore one gun tied down low and his second gun in a shoulder-holster rig. Davis was a long lean drink of water; looked like a strong wind would blow him slap out of the saddle. Simpson was big and mean-looking.
“You familiar with Brown’s Hole?” Joiner asked Buck.
“Been there. Went there lookin’ for Jensen. Grave close to the base of Zenobia Peak. Looks like that’s where Jensen planted his pa.”
“You dig the grave up?” Wilson asked.
“Hell, no!”
Davis said, “That’d be a sin. Sorry no good would do that. Let a man rest in peace.”
Wilson looked pained. “Mayhaps that’d be where the gold is buried.”
“How would a dead man do that?” Simpson asked.
Wilson nodded his head. “Ain’t thought about that. You right.”
Then another piece plopped into place in Buck’s mind.
10
1867. Emmett Jensen’s horses had been picketed close to the base of Zenobia Peak. His gear was by his grave, covered with a ground sheet and secured with rocks. The letter from his pa, given him by the old mountain man, Grizzly, was in Smoke’s pocket.
“You read them words on that paper your pa left you?” Preacher asked.
“Not yet.”
“I’ll go set up camp at the Hole. I reckon you’ll be along directly.”
“Tomorrow. ’Bout noon.”
“See you then.” Preacher headed north. He would cross Vermillion Creek, then cut west into the Hole. Smoke would find him when he felt ready for human company. But for now, the young man needed to be alone with his pa.
Smoke unsaddled his horse, Seven, and allowed him to roll. He stripped the gear from the pack animals, setting them grazing. Taking a small hammer and a miner’s spike from his gear, Smoke began the job of chiseling his father’s name into a large, flat rock. He could not remember exactly when his pa was born, but he thought it about 1815.
Headstone in place, secured by rocks, Smoke built a small fire, put coffee on to boil in the blackened pot, then sat down to read the letter from his pa.
Son,
I found some of the men who killed your brother Luke and stolt the gold that belonged to the Gray. Theys more of them than I first thought. I killed two of the men work for them, but they got led in me and I had to hitail it out. Came here. Not goin to make it. Son, you dont owe nuttin to the Cause of the Gray. So dont get it in your mind you do. Make yoursalf a good life and look to my final restin place if you need help.
Preacher kin tell you some of what happen, but not all. Remember—look to my grave if you need help.
I allso got word that your sis Janey leff that gambler and has took up with an outlaw down in Airyzona. Place called Tooson. I woodn fret much about her. She is mine, but I think she is trash. Dont know where she got that streek from.
I am gettin tared and seein is hard. Lite fadin. I love you Kirby-Smoke.
Pa
Smoke reread the letter. Look to my grave. He could not understand that part. He pulled up his knees and put his head on them, feeling he ought to cry, or something. But no tears came.
Now he was alone. He had no other kin, and he did not count his sister as kin. He had his guns, his horses, a bit of gold, and his friend, Preacher.
He was eighteen years old.
Now, five years later, it all came back to him. Sure, he thought. His pa had dug his own grave, put the gold in the bottom, and then crawled in on top of it to die. The old mountain man, Grizzly, had buried him.
Well, the gold could just stay there. Damned if he’d dig up his pa’s grave for it.
“Where else you been lookin’ for this Smoke?” McNeil asked.
“Name someplace. I thought I had him cornered over near Pagosa Springs, but he gave me the slip. I drifted down into New Mexico Territory after him. But he was always one jump ahead of me. He’s slick.”
“He’ll screw up,” Long said.
“When he does I’m gonna be there,” Buck said. And he noticed out of the corner of his eyes that the men seemed to relax. He had passed their test.
Buck prowled the area about Bury for two days, planting a permanent map in his brain. He would remember the trails and roads and landmarks. They would come in handy when Buck made his move and sought his escape.
And he learned from the PSR gunhands about the townspeople of Bury. They were a pretty scummy lot, according to the riders. There were men who had skipped out on partners back east: men who were wanted for everything from petty crimes to murder. In exchange for loyalty, the Big Three had offered them sanctuary and a chance to bury their past. After twenty years, the businesses they ran for the Big Three would revert to the shopkeepers. Free and clear.
So Buck could expect no help from them.
In a way, that knowledge made it easier.
The saddlebags handed to Buck by MacGregor were heavy. The canvas and leather saddlebags were flap-secured by padlocks. Buck did not ask what was in the bags; the sour little Scotsman did not volunteer that information.
“It’s about a sixty-five-mile ride,” Buck was told. “Head out east to the Lemhi River and follow it down. Little mining operation down in the Lemhi Valley. Town ain’t got no name. So it’s called No Name. Be a man there waitin’ for you. Name is Rex. Give the saddlebags to him, wait ’til he checks them out, and he’ll give you a receipt. Come back here.”
The Scotsman turned away and stumped back to his rolltop desk, leaving Buck with the heavy bags. Buck smiled. “Gimme some expense money, friend.”
The Scotsman sighed and reached into a tin box, pulling out a thin sheaf of bills. He made Buck sign for them. “Bring back anything that’s left. Not that I think there will be anything left, that is.”