Gaffney, Patricia (26 page)

Before she turned around, he saw pain and confusion crowd out the
anger in her eyes. He reached out, touched her stiff spine, but she shrugged
his hand off and sidestepped away.

"Cady, it's true. I stayed for you." He had. Money
didn't have a thing to do with it.

"Well, you can go on now, because I don't even like you
anymore."

He bowed his head. If that was true... "Let me try to tell
you what happened," he said earnestly.

"Don't bother."

"I—after Gault—once I was—" He stopped, stymied. If only
he hadn't given his promise! "Gault got shot in the hand in Oakland.
That's true." Well, no, it wasn't. "I mean, that's what the papers
said—you read it, I read it. So about a week later I'm passing through Stockton,
minding my own business, and what happens?"

"I really don't care. I told—"

"I'm in a saloon, and this guy comes up to me and says, 'I'll
give you six hundred dollars not to shoot me.' I don't say anything; I just sit
there trying to figure out if he said what I think he said. The guy looks
around, he sees nobody's watching, he pulls out his wallet. Takes out six
hundred bucks in cash and slides it across the table. 'Are we square now, Mr.
Gault?' Now I can't talk at all, I'm just blinking, trying to keep my chin from
hitting the table. He starts to get up, but then he leans over and whispers in
my ear, 'She was asking for it; if her old man knew what she's really like, he
wouldn't've hired you to kill me—he'd've screwed her himself.' Then he gets up
and leaves, and I'm sitting there shaking my head and staring at six hundred
bucks. And then it hits me."

Cady had turned around. "What?" she asked, sullen.

"He thinks I'm Gault because of the
guns."
He
took one of his pearl-handled revolvers out of the holster and tried to hand it
to her. "See the eagle on the grip? Custom-made. Mexican. Very rare."

"Gault had this kind of gun?"

"Yeah. No." He squeezed the bridge of his nose.
"This is Gault's gun. I, uh... I acquired it."

"How?" When he didn't answer, she sneered again.
"Don't tell me. You're not at liberty to say."

"I'm not. Cady, I'd tell you if I could, but I can't."

"Because you're so honorable, such an honest man." That
made him blush. "So there was never anything wrong with your eye, nothing
wrong with your hand. You're not deaf."

"Nope." He tried a smile. "I'm a whole man. Healthy
as a horse."

She didn't smile back. "And proud of yourself, too." She
whipped around and started walking away.

He followed, miserable. He didn't know if he was proud of himself
or not. He wasn't ashamed exactly, because the people he'd taken money from
were all lowlifes, they deserved fleecing. But he could see too clearly what he
looked like to Cady: a fake, a cheap opportunist. A coward.

"Honey, wait. Can't you try to see it from my side?"

"I already do."

"No, listen." They'd come to her buggy. She put her foot
on the step, but he held her arm so she couldn't spring up. "After I started
wearing the eye-patch, people were
throwing
money at me. Honest to God.
And they were crooks, thugs, nuts, the worst kind—every one of 'em with a
guilty conscience over some sin or other. What was I supposed to do? Hand it
back to 'em? Who wouldn't—"

"Cherney," she broke in, figuring it out.
"You
drove
him out of town."

"I sure did. Talk about crooks—"

"After you swindled him. How much did you get out of him?
Plenty. Oh, God, Jesse." She shook her head almost pityingly. "He was
a crook, sure, but what are you?" She flung off his hand and jumped up
into the seat, started gathering up the reins.

"No, wait. You're not looking at it right. Cady, don't leave.
You're mad, and you have a right to be—I should've told you before."

"Yeah. Why didn't you?"

"Because I knew you'd feel just like this. And...
also..." He frowned at his thumb as he stroked it across the scarred
leather of the trace. "I liked being Gault," he admitted,
embarrassed. "I liked it that you were a little scared of me at first. And
then you weren't." He grinned crookedly, not looking at her. "I mean,
you know. Would you have given me a second glance if I hadn't been a dangerous
killer?"

"Yes."

He looked up quickly. Any comfort he might've taken from her
answer evaporated when he saw how hard and determined her eyes were.
"Wait—would you just think it over?" He held the rein still when she
would've jerked it out of his hand. "You're angry, that's understandable.
But, Cady, don't throw it all away. Please. Just think about it before you do
anything rash, okay?"

She pressed her lips together. "It's extremely unlikely that
I will change my mind about you, Jesse Vaughn. At least when you were Gault you
had some kind of a code. A rotten one, but it was something."

"Hey, I've got a code."

"Of self-interest and cheating."

"Cheating! I never cheat. I—"

"And lying to women."

She had him there. "I was going to tell you," he
insisted, mumbling.

"Sure you were."

"Aw, Cady—"

"This is not a little white lie, Jess. You've crossed a line.
There's such a thing as trust and—
decency
between two people who—who
sleep together," she finished tightly, shiny-eyed, and he wondered if that
was what she'd been going to say.

"I know it. I don't have any excuse. Except that I didn't
want to lose you." But he was losing her; it was happening right now.
"Cady?"

"What."

As bad as things were, he had to know the worst. "Do you think
I'm a coward?"

Color bloomed on her cheeks; she put her hand on her throat as if
it hurt. In a soft, strangled voice she said, "I don't know, Jesse. I
guess—I guess I don't know what else to call it."

He hung his head, ready to cry with her. He'd never felt so
miserable in his life.

"Well," she said after an endless minute. "So long,
Jess."

"So long." But he didn't move. "Cady?"

"What."

"Can I have a ride back to town?"

She shook her head in disbelief.

"I walked all the way out here." He'd needed to think.
"Feet hurt. C'mon, give me a ride back."

"Damn you, Jesse—" Now she was mad because he was
ruining her dignified exit. "Oh, hell. Get up, then. Hurry the hell
up." She scooted away and he climbed up beside her. "Don't say a
word, though. Not one word, or I'll put you out." She turned the mare in a
tight, skillful circle—she was good with horses; it was one of the things he
loved about her— and they trotted down River Farm's long, curving drive to the
road.

He obeyed and kept quiet. What was left to say? A sick feeling in
his stomach told him that all the talking he'd done had only dug him a deeper
grave anyway. It was a gray, warm, lifeless day, with low clouds bulging in a
listless sky. Silent and wretched, he turned his head away from Cady and watched
dusty wildflowers and patchy scrub pass by the buggy wheels.

The dreary scene slowed down; Cady said "Whoa," softly
and the mare changed gaits to a walk. Jesse looked up to see a man standing in
the middle of the road, opposite the turnoff to the Seven Dollar Mine. He saw
them at the same time and made as if to turn, run, but then he stopped again.
His hunched shoulders relaxed; he stuck one hand in his pocket and tipped his
hat back, smiling a nervous greeting. "Howdy," he said as they rolled
slowly past.

"Hey, George," Cady greeted him neutrally.

"I was just out taking a walk," George explained,
although nobody had asked him. "Stretching my legs, getting some fresh
air. Nice day."

"Yeah. Well, see you."

"See you." He poked his hat with his finger and waved.

"Who was that?" Jesse asked when they were out of
earshot.

"George Sample. Wylie's mine foreman."

"Wylie's man? Why was he standing around your mine?"

She smiled thinly. "I figure he was either relieving himself
or sneaking a drink on the job. Or both. He sure looked guilty."

"How far from the road is the entrance to the Seven
Dollar?"

"Quarter of a mile, maybe less. If it weren't for the trees,
you could see it."

He thought about that for a second, and then he said, "Stop
the buggy."

"Why?"

"Stop." She stopped, and he vaulted to the ground.
"You go on, Cady, I'll walk back."

"Why? What are you going to do?"

"I just want to see something. Go on, it's okay. Go." He
slapped the mare's side, pivoted, and sprinted back up the road.

The lane was empty, George nowhere in sight. Jesse approached the
turnoff to Cady's mine cautiously, staying close to the weeds at the side of
the road. Using a tree for a shield, he peered around at the narrow wagon track
to the Seven Dollar.

Empty. Silent.

He walked out into the open. Grass and thistles jutted up between
the old wheel ruts, overgrown and undisturbed. Okay, nobody used this road, but
that didn't necessarily mean anything. Keeping close to the thickety edges
again, he crept up the lane, sharp-eyed, ears cocked. At every turn, he half
expected somebody to jump out at him. He thought about drawing his guns, but
discarded the idea. He'd probably shoot his own hand off if he had to fire.
Then he remembered—he was out of bullets anyway.

After the last bend, what was left of Cady's mine came into view.
He stopped and stared, his nervousness gradually giving way to depression.
There wasn't a much bleaker sight on earth than an abandoned mine, he reflected
as he took in the rotting outbuildings, leaning timber scaffolds, and rusting
machinery in the dusty clearing. He kicked at a stone in the dirt,
disconsolate. He'd had a crazy idea, but the devastation all around mocked him,
telling him just how stupid it had been. Now all he would get for his trouble
was a long walk back to town.

He went closer anyway, drawn by an illegible sign at the mine
entrance.
$7,
he made out when he got near enough to spit on it. And
under that, GUSTAF SHLEGEL, OWNER. Cady hadn't bothered to change the sign, and
small wonder. If ever a place was finished and done with, it was the Seven
Dollar Mine.

A rickety, three-sided timber fence guarded the black entrance. He
folded his arms over the top rail and squinted down, following the line of a
broken ladder that disappeared in darkness. The smell of raw earth was
overpowering and unpleasant. He picked up a pebble on the rail beside his
elbow, held it over the hole, dropped it. He heard it hit rock and slither away
into silence. The entrance sloped, then, didn't drop straight down.

He'd never been in a gold mine before. Unless you owned it, it
looked like a god-awful way to make a living. Shrimp Malone didn't mine, he
prospected, panned along the river and streambeds. He'd probably never get
rich, but at least he wasn't shut up in the airless dark all day, day after
day. Jesse shivered, trying to imagine a life like that. Nothing was worth it,
no amount of gold. He'd as soon be buried alive.

He turned around—and jumped half a foot in the air. He let out a
yelp that startled Cady so much, she jumped a
whole
foot. "Damn
it!" they yelled in unison. "What the hell do you—" "Don't
you ever—" "You scared the spit out of me!" They stood there
glaring at each other, holding their hearts. Jesse laughed first. Cady grinned,
but caught herself before she could laugh back. She wasn't speaking to him, she
remembered.

"What are you doing here? I wanted you to go on, Cady, ride
back to town. You shouldn't be here."

"Why not? It's my mine. What are
you
doing here?"

"I
just wanted to check something."

"What?"

"Nothing. I had a hunch, that's all. I was wrong."

She narrowed her eyes. "You think it's funny that Wylie's
mine captain was hanging around the Seven Dollar."

He shrugged. "I think it's funny that Wylie keeps trying to
buy a mine you tell me is worthless. And just happens to be next to his. What
does he want it for?"

She'd always assumed he wanted it because that was the kind of man
he was—he wanted everything. But Jesse's idea, if he was thinking the same
thing she was thinking, made more sense. She moved closer to the shaft, leaning
over the splintery post to listen.

"Nothing to hear," he told her. "I already—"

"Sh." He was right, though; after half a minute of
intense listening, she agreed with him; there was nothing to hear. But there
was something to smell. "Holy smoke."

"What?"

"Ammonium nitrate. Smell it?"

He leaned over and inhaled deeply. "What's ammonium
nitrate?"

"It's dynamite."

Jesse straightened. "You mean I was right?"

"Even if Wylie's blasting, it shouldn't come up from this
adit. In fact it couldn't, unless—"