Bo knew that when Martha talked about things getting bad, she really meant after her father had died. He stowed the letter in an inside coat pocket and asked, “How soon will we need to bring in a shipment?”
“There’s probably already enough ore on hand to fill a wagon right now.”
“Then we’ll be back with it tomorrow, I reckon,” Bo said with a smile.
They started to leave the office. Martha stopped them by saying, “Mr. Creel, Mr. Morton, Mr. Coleman . . . please be careful. I don’t want your lives on my conscience.”
“Don’t worry, Miss Sutton,” Bo said as he touched a finger to his hat brim. “It’s our responsibility. We know what we’re getting into.”
After they had stepped outside and Scratch had closed the door, Chloride muttered, “A heap o’ trouble, that’s what we’re likely gettin’ into. You fellas believe in jumpin’ right into the fire, don’t you? Ride out to the mine today, get ourselves killed tomorrow tryin’ to deliver that gold.”
“We hired on to bring the gold into town,” Bo said. “There’s no point in waiting, is there?”
“No, I reckon not,” the old-timer replied with a sigh.
They mounted up. As they rode out of town, they passed the Argosy Mining Company office. Lawrence Nicholson and Phillip Ramsey were just going inside. Both men paused to look at the Texans and their elderly companion. Nicholson gave them a curt nod. Ramsey merely watched them with a speculative expression on his narrow face.
As they started up Deadwood Gulch, Scratch dug the sack of bear sign out of his saddlebags and took one of the doughnuts from it. He passed the sack to Bo and Chloride in turn. Chloride smacked his lips with pleasure as he ate.
“That’s mighty good bear sign. Helps lift a man’s spirits,” he declared.
“You mean you ain’t worried about gettin’ shot tomorrow?” Scratch asked.
“I didn’t say that. But a man could die a mite happier with a belly full of this bear sign.”
“Maybe we’d better save some for the trip back tomorrow,” Bo suggested.
“That’s a good idea,” Chloride agreed.
The Golden Queen was about eight miles up Deadwood Gulch, he explained as they followed the trail alongside the creek. The mine wasn’t actually located in the gulch, but rather up a side canyon that branched off to the southwest. A smaller stream flowed through the canyon and merged with Deadwood Creek.
“Where’s the Argosy?” Bo asked.
“About a mile on up the gulch from where that canyon veers off,” Chloride answered.
“What’s Nicholson going to do for drivers and guards now? Has he been having the same sort of trouble getting men to work for him that Miss Sutton has?”
Chloride shook his head. “Not exactly. The Argosy can afford to pay more, so there are more fellas willin’ to run the risk. Of course, it don’t take very big wages to add up to more than the gal can pay right now, since she ain’t payin’ nothin’.”
“She’s promised to make up all those back wages,” Scratch pointed out.
“Promisin’ is easier than doin’,” Chloride said.
Bo couldn’t argue with that. The men who were still working for Martha Sutton were betting that eventually she would be able to pay them what she owed them. But like all bets, this one ran the risk of not paying off.
“And you got to remember,” Chloride went on, “until a couple o’ days ago, the Argosy shipments hadn’t been hit. Reese Bardwell kept puttin’ more guards on the wagons because of what’s been happenin’ to the other mines, so we all hoped the road agents would leave the Argosy alone. Shame it didn’t work out that way.”
“You’d probably still have a job if it had,” Bo said.
“Maybe. To tell you the truth, though, Bardwell never much liked me, and Nicholson gen’rally does whatever that big galoot wants. They’d have found some excuse to get rid of me sooner or later.”
Over the past four years, the hooves of countless horses and mules and the wheels of hundreds of wagons had worn a decent trail alongside the creek. The three riders had no trouble following it. They didn’t push their mounts but instead ambled along, taking their time. When they passed the site of the ambush from the day before, Bo took a good look around, but he didn’t see anything he hadn’t already seen in the wake of the fight. There was nothing here to give them a lead to the Devils.
They rode on, and late in the morning they came to the mouth of the side canyon where the Golden Queen was located. As they reined in to rest the horses and Chloride’s mule for a few minutes, Bo studied the steep, narrow, and rocky ridge that separated the side canyon from Deadwood Gulch itself.
“Somebody comin’,” Scratch said, distracting Bo from his thoughts.
Bo looked up Deadwood Gulch and saw several riders approaching. The man in the lead was familiar, and as the group drew closer, Bo recognized him as Reese Bardwell, the Argosy’s chief engineer and superintendent. Bardwell didn’t look very comfortable on horseback. It took a pretty big horse to carry him, too, in this case a gray that looked more like a draft animal than a saddle mount.
“Who are the men with Bardwell?” Bo asked Chloride quietly.
The old-timer grimaced and shook his head. “They must be new guards. I don’t recognize ’em. They don’t look like hard-rock men.”
Scratch grunted and said, “More like hardcases.” It was true. The three men with Bardwell wore range clothes and Stetsons, and each had a handgun belted on, as well as a Winchester in a saddle boot. Their eyes had the narrow look of constant vigilance that became second nature to men who lived by the gun.
The Texans and Chloride stayed where they were, standing next to their mounts, as Bardwell and the other men rode up. Bardwell reined in. His companions followed suit. The engineer had a dark scowl on his face as he demanded, “What are you three doin’ out here?”
“That’s our business,” Bo said. “We could ask the same of you fellas.”
Bardwell sneered. “Last I heard, we had honest jobs. You’re just a couple of saddle tramps from Texas and an old man who can’t be trusted.”
Chloride’s beard bristled belligerently as he exclaimed, “Why, you goldurn—”
Bo put out a hand to stop him as the old-timer took a step forward. “Take it easy, Chloride,” he said. To Bardwell, he went on, “I reckon you haven’t heard. We’ve got jobs. We’re working for Miss Martha Sutton at the Golden Queen.”
Bardwell frowned in surprise. “Marty? Why would she—Wait a minute. She didn’t hire the three of you to get her gold to town, did she?”
“That’s right,” Bo said. Bardwell probably would have heard that news in Deadwood anyway, and Bo was interested in the man’s reaction.
“I knew she was getting desperate, but I didn’t know she had turned into a fool,” Bardwell snapped. “It’s all over this part of the country about how Coleman’s tied in with the Devils, and for all anybody knows, you two are part of the gang yourselves!”
Chloride shook a gnarled fist at him. “By jingo, if I was twenty years younger, I’d hand you your needin’s, you overgrowed varmint! I never had no truck with outlaws, and that’s more’n you can say!”
Bardwell’s face darkened again as he said, “What’re you talkin’ about, you old pelican?”
“You know dang good an’ well what I’m talkin’ about! That no-good brother of yours!”
Fury mottled Bardwell’s face. His hands clenched into massive fists for a second before he started to swing down from his horse. But before he could dismount, one of the men with him edged his horse up alongside and said, “Probably ought to forget it, boss. Mr. Nicholson’s expecting you, and he won’t like it if you’re late.”
Bardwell eased back into his saddle. “I suppose you’re right,” he rumbled. He pointed a thick, blunt finger at Chloride. “But you just watch your mouth, old man. Keep runnin’ it and you’re liable to be sorry.”