Comstock Cross Fire (10 page)

“I do,” she said, avoiding Joe's hard glare of disapproval.

Holt was pleased. “Well, then, we shall see what we can do for you down in that settlement before we start across the desert.”

Joe started to say something, but Fiona's glance told him to shut up and that she would explain her words and actions later. He sure hoped so. If she was beginning to soften up and think of Ransom Holt as a decent, caring human being, then they were as good as already hanged.

10

THE AIR GREW very warm and windy when they came down off the mountains and started around the north end of the Great Salt Lake. Out around the lake, they saw towering white dust devils spinning and dancing through the stunted sage and vultures soaring on the rising hot-air currents. Now, instead of pines as far westward as a man could see, there was just an ocean of stunted brush and yellowed grasses. The lake itself shimmered in the afternoon sunlight, and seagulls squawked and soared over the water or walked along the salty shore looking for dead fish.

The town of Perdition was strung along the banks of a clear creek that fed out of the mountains and ran down into the alkali and salt flats. A big sign at the eastern edge of the settlement warned travelers that this was the last chance for them to trade lame horses for sound ones or take on fresh provisions for the brutal push westward toward the Humboldt River.

“Everything in Perdition will cost about double what you'd expect to pay,” Joe Moss observed as they rode into the bleak, sun-hammered town. “This is a rough Mormon settlement and the people who live here are considered to be religious outcasts. Sinners of the worst sort . . . which is why I always liked to come through Perdition.”

“Moss, what do you mean?” Holt demanded.

“It means that no one who lives in Perdition is held in high favor by Brigham Young or his powerful church friends. They're all ‘Jack Mormons' who don't follow their church's rules to the letter. And besides that, maybe these people just were too lazy to be good Mormon farmers. But for whatever the reason, the people who live in Perdition were sent out here where the ground is poor and salt and alkali dust burns your skin and your eyes. These people smoke and drink rotgut whiskey, but not openly because they're livin' too close to Salt Lake City. There are whores and gambling in Perdition, none of which is out in the open.”

“These people sound like a bunch of misfits to me,” Holt said, not bothering to lower his voice.

“You could call 'em that,” Joe agreed. “But they're rebels and I like their independent spirit.”

“Why don't they all just move away?” Holt asked. “I don't see a damn thing about this land or settlement that would encourage anyone to stay.”

“They're all sharp traders,” Joe told the man. “Some of 'em are almost rich, as a matter of fact, and gettin' richer every time a wagon train or some ignorant pilgrims come through here desperate for supplies or fresh horses. Also, the men of Perdition are tough and depended upon by Brigham Young to keep the Paiutes at bay.”

“You're saying they protect Salt Lake City from Indian raids?”

“No,” Joe said, “that's not what I'm exactly sayin'. But let's say, for example, that some Paiutes get drunk and take it upon themselves to raid a farm down in the good part of the valley. Well, rather than send hardworking, God-fearin' farmers after the Paiutes, they send the men from Perdition to do the dirty work. There are men here who can shoot almost as well as myself and who aren't afraid of anything.”

“Sounds like I'd best be on my guard,” Ransom Holt said more to himself than to Joe. “But it also sounds like I ought to be able to find a man or two here that would help us get safely across the desert to Reno.”

“Just remember,” Eli said, “what wages you pay any new men ain't comin' out of my share or that of my dead brother.”

“I'll remember,” Holt snapped. “And if you want me to pay for your drunk, you'd damn sure better mind your manners.”

“Sorry, boss.”

“Eli, stick close until we got a place to spend the night and we've got our prisoners well secured. After that, we'll buy what we need and then you can go on your drunk. But you'd better be ready to leave tomorrow morning at first light. I don't like the looks of Perdition. No, sir! Not one little bit do I like the looks of what I'm seeing.”

Joe understood the giant's feelings. As they rode into the settlement, it seemed like everyone in this run-down, hard-looking town came out to give them the once-over with cold, appraising eyes. From the lean, dirty men to the skinny dirty women and children of Perdition, they all had a predatory look, and not one waved in greeting or offered so much as a hello or a smile.

“This place gives me a
real
bad feeling,” Eli told his boss. “I'm not sure that I want to get dead drunk here tonight. If I did, I might get murdered and robbed.”

“You might at that,” Holt agreed.

“Maybe I'll take that bottle of whiskey you promised and get blind drunk tomorrow night when we're camped out in the sagebrush north of the lake.”

“That would probably be a smart thing to do,” Holt said. “Wouldn't you agree, Joe?”

“I don't give a damn when or where Eli gets drunk. And as far as gettin' himself killed, it might as well be today, for it's sure comin' tomorrow.”

“You just try to kill me, you sonofabitch!” Eli snarled.

Fiona stared at a slovenly woman with a big goiter on her neck and no teeth in her mouth. The woman probably wasn't any older than herself, and she looked mean, jaded, and cruel. “Mr. Holt,” Fiona said, “I feel like Eli about Perdition and I'd just as soon get that bath, dress, and comb later. These people look like they hate us on sight.”

“They probably do,” Holt said. “All right, it's decided. I'll buy what we must have here, and then we'll get out of Perdition before the sun goes down. But I'm still looking for a man or two . . . the kind that can shoot straight and who won't cut and run if we get into trouble.”

Joe frowned and said, “There are three liveries in Perdition. I'd recommend you deal with an old one-legged man who owns the last livery right at the edge of the desert.”

“What's his name?”

“Micah,” Joe said.

“And this Micah is honest?” Holt asked.

“I didn't say that.”

“Well, then . . .”

“Ain't nobody honest in Perdition,” Joe explained. “But Micah is less dishonest than most.”

“What about the supplies we need for the desert crossing?”

Joe pointed to a log cabin where a bunch of mongrels were lounging around in the afternoon shade. “That'd be my choice.”

“All right,” Holt said. “We'll get a buckboard and a team of horses at the livery, and then drive 'em back to that log cabin and get whatever supplies we have to have before we head out into the desert.”

“What about us?” Joe said. “Are we supposed to sit on our horses in the sun chained together like slaves?”

Holt swiveled around in his saddle and studied the town and its hard-eyed inhabitants. “That's the way it'll have to be, Joe,” he finally decided. “I'm thinking that a man as bad as you might just have some good friends in Perdition. If that is the case, I want them to see that you are my prisoner and that I'm not a man to be crossed.”

“I can handle anything you can dish out,” Joe said, “but Fiona is a woman and it's too hard on her to sit her horse for hours in chains right out in this damned hot sun.”

Holt gave that a moment's thought. “All right. Eli, you lead our prisoners and their horses over to that big tree and unchain their feet. Let them dismount and rest in the shade.”

“That's the best that you're going to do for us here?” Fiona asked, voice filled with anger. “We haven't eaten since yesterday and I need to do my business in private.”

“Lift your dirty skirt and do your business behind that big tree,” Holt ordered before riding off to the livery to buy a wagon and horses.

When Holt rode up to the livery, sure enough an old, one-legged man came out of his barn with straw stuck to his breeches. The liveryman was small, thin, and not a bit friendly. He asked, “What do you need, big man?”

“I need a buckboard and a team of horses. Five or six hundred pounds of grain, a few extra ropes, and harness.”

“I can provide what you need, big man, providing you got the money to pay.”

“Let me see what you have to sell me,” Holt said. “And then perhaps we'll talk price.”

“You'll like my horses. They're all sound and in good flesh. My name is Micah. I only deal in cash or gold.”

“I have federal cash.”

“That will do,” Micah said. “Come look at the horses and then I'll show you what wagons and harness I have to sell. How about saddles?”

“Don't need any saddles.”

“Too bad,” Micah told him. “I've got about a dozen and I'd sell the lot of them cheap. Got some Indian ponies, too. But they ain't strong enough to pull a wagon. They're just small, runty mustangs.”

“No mustangs,” Holt said. “I want big, strong horses or mules.”

“What about oxen?”

“Too slow,” Holt said.

“Slow but steadier, and they do real well on that sagebrush and salt grass you're gonna see so much of on the way west.”

“Maybe,” Holt said, “but I don't like oxen, so just show me mules and horses.”

 

Two hours later, Holt drove a buckboard and a team of four good Missouri mules out of the livery and his wallet was $130 lighter. The cost was much higher than it should have been, or would have been in Laramie or even Denver or St. Louis, but Holt understood that he was not in a strong bargaining position, and so he paid without whining. He was going to be short of money for supplies, and that meant that they'd have to do without much whiskey and food, but he'd buy all the extra ammunition that they would require for the desert trek.

Ignoring Joe, Fiona, and Eli, who were resting in the shade of the tree, Ransom Holt drove over to the log cabin that served as a general store. He was about to climb down from the buckboard when two men were knocked backpedaling through the log cabin's open doorway. Their faces were covered with blood and they staggered off the porch, then spilled to the ground.

Holt froze on his wagon seat as a tall young man, a half-breed by the looks of him, stepped out of the log cabin and shouted at the battered pair, “You got anything else to say about my mother and my Cheyenne blood?”

Both of the battered and bloody men on the ground swore and went for the guns on their hips. The half-breed also wore a six-gun, and it came out of his worn holster faster than the blink of a cat's eye. The gun in the breed's hand bucked just twice, and Holt saw crimson roses appear in the center of the two men's chests as if by magic. Drilled through their hearts, both men were dead before their boot heels could drum the alkali dust.

The half-breed holstered his gun and started to step over the bodies and leave.

“Hey!” another voice yelled, and the breed twisted around to see the owner of the general store emerge holding a shotgun aimed at his chest. “Breed, you busted up my place and now you're gonna pay!”

Holt could almost see the half-breed's mind working as his hand strayed toward his holstered pistol. But the shotgun was cocked and there was no way the store owner could have missed blowing the breed all to hell.

After a moment's deliberation, the breed's shoulders sagged and he raised his hands shoulder high. “You got the drop on me, mister. But I didn't start that fight in your store. Those two did, and so they're the ones that owe you for damages, not me.”

“Well, you killed 'em so now they
can't
pay me! And since you finished the fight in a permanent way, are you gonna pay for what you destroyed, or shall I just put you down right now with those other two?”

“I ain't got but two bits,” the half-breed said, his dark eyes showing no fear as he looked up at the furious store owner. “But, mister, you could take the guns and boots off those dead men and that surely would be enough to pay for all your damages.”

“Yeah,” the store owner said, “but just to make sure, I could kill you and have three guns, two pair of boots, and those fancy beaded Injun moccasins that you're wearing. How's that sound? Huh, breed?”

“Sounds like you mean to kill me no matter what,” the breed replied. “I got cash money to pay, so why don't you put that shotgun down?”

“Let's see your money, breed! And keep your hand away from that gun. I saw how fast you drew and fired on those two.”

“Yes, sir,” the breed said quietly. “My money is tucked into my money belt just behind my backbone.”

“Let's see it!”

Holt watched the half-breed reach behind his back, and instead of finding a money belt, he found a large hunting knife. The knife came out faster than the strike of a snake, and the breed hurled it with tremendous accuracy and force, then threw himself sideways as the shotgun exploded harmlessly into the sky.

The hunting knife had found its mark.

The storekeeper dropped his empty shotgun and stared down at the deer-antler handle of the hunting knife protruding from his belly. After a moment, he slowly looked up with shock and amazement at the half-breed. “You . . . you stinkin' red breed bastard!” the store owner choked out before he toppled off his porch to land beside the other two dead men.

The half-breed snatched his gun out of his holster and spun around to cover Ransom Holt, who was the only man close enough to have witnessed the sudden deaths. “You want any of this, big man?”