Pale Rider (6 page)

It was all pretty hazy, but he was certain of one thing: the stranger had done it alone, without any help from anyone on the street or inside the store. One man had done what the whole town wouldn’t have dared.

He gazed at his benefactor with a mixture of gratitude and unadulterated awe, but all he could think of to say was, “Obliged.”

The tall rider’s smile came quick and easy. It made you want to smile back.

“Those men hold some kind of grudge against you? Three against one’s not fair odds.”

Depends on who the one is, Hull thought admiringly. “Would’ve stayed out of it if they’d have let me.” He wiped at the bridge of his nose and winced. Sore but not broken. He had reason to be thankful for that. Lahood was not big enough to afford a full-time physician and the barber-dentist didn’t count.

“Tried to. Didn’t work any better this time than the last. It’s a bit more’n a grudge. Feud’s more like it. Some folks would call it business, I guess. My name’s Barret. Hull Barret.”

The stranger simply nodded by way of reply. Nodded and smiled. Friendly enough, and more than helpful, Hull decided as he regarded his companion, but not overly informative. Well, that was okay with Hull. You didn’t push a man in such matters, not in gold country. Most men had come to California seeking the yellow metal, but not a few had come in search of anonymity. Yes, that was fine with Hull. Anything the tall stranger might choose to do was fine with him.

It did nothing to sate his curiosity, though, and he couldn’t resist asking, “You from hereabouts?”

“Nope.”

My, but he was talkative. “Placerville? he asked, forgetting his own advice to himself. “Sacramento maybe?”

A single shake of head and hat. “Uh-uh.”

Hull Barret hadn’t stuck it out on Carbon Creek for this long because of a lack of persistence. So long as the man gave no indication of taking offense, the miner felt it would be all right to continue with his inquiries.

“Just passing through, then.”

The stranger shrugged indifferently. “Maybe. Maybe not. Guess I hadn’t given it a whole lot of thought.”

Interesting, Hull mused. Interesting and maybe, just maybe, useful. He tried not to sound too anxious. “After what you did back there, I wouldn’t stay in town if I was you. You stuck your foot in a hornet’s nest. I wouldn’t advise sleeping nearby. My cabin’s got two rooms.” He nodded toward the mountains looming just ahead. “It’s not the Palace, but it keeps out the wind and most of the rain, and the beds ain’t under the leaks. You’re welcome to one of ’em for as long as you’d like to stay.”

The stranger mulled this offer over before replying. “Thanks. That’s kind of you, but I wouldn’t want to be a burden on your family.”

It was Hull’s turn to smile. “My family’s back east, dead and buried. Got a fiancée, is all. But she and her daughter have a place of their own. So I’ve got plenty of room. It’d be a pleasure to me if you’d stay, not a burden. I’d enjoy the company, and we don’t get to see too may new faces in Carbon. Give me somebody new to jaw at, somebody who ain’t heard all my old jokes, and I’m plumb delighted.”

“I don’t know . . .”

“You got business elsewhere?” Hull’s heart began to sink.

“Not especially.”

“Well then come on. Three hots and a cot’s the least I owe you.”

The stranger appeared to think on it further. Or maybe he’d already make his decision and was thinking about something else entirely. Hull couldn’t tell. He considered himself a decent appraiser of both men and ore, but this quiet stranger was an enigma to him.

A reply, at last. “Sounds good.”

Pleased with himself, Hull straightened on the hard seat. Ignoring the pain this caused him (McGill had spent a moment or two on his back and the result was slow in disappearing), he chucked the reins to urge the mare to greater speed. Having received a commitment, he didn’t want to give the stranger a chance to change his mind.

Gradually the road disappeared. A trail veered northward, and Hull turned the wagon onto the barely visible track that led up into the mountains. Low scrub gave way to tall evergreens and rolling foothills made room for steep granite walls with breathtaking speed. The metamorphosis never failed to amaze the Easterner in Hull Barret. These were not civilized mountains like the Adirondacks or the Alleghenies. One minute you were on the outskirts of the great central valley and the next, you were traveling through a granite cathedral.

He tried to make conversation with his companion, putting aside personal questions in favor of sallies on the weather, the cost of goods, and of course, the possible sources and locations of gold. When it became clear that his pleasant but nearly mute friend wasn’t interested in talk, the miner shut up. Maybe the tall rider was tired, or maybe he was thinking about the consequences of his actions back there in town. Hull didn’t think that was the case, but he had the feeling that with this man you couldn’t be sure of much of anything.

They rode on in contemplative silence, Barret’s mind churning furiously with hopes and plans, the other rider apparently content to absorb the beauty of the scenery. It took most of what remained of the day for them to reach the diggings.

III

He didn’t say much, but Hull suspected his companion missed nothing as they rode into Carbon Canyon. Not that there was much to see. There were ten thousand canyons just like it that cut into the western flank of the Sierra Nevada, Surely he’d seen copies of Carbon elsewhere. But he looked interested all the same.

Hull pointed up the slope. “That’s my place, there. Just draw a straight line from that damned boulder that marks the middle of my claim. One of these days I’m going to—but we can talk about that later, if we have the time. I’m sure you ain’t in the mood for chitchat now. I don’t know how long you’ve been riding, but you must be tuckered out right proper after that scrape back in town.”

The stranger spoke without looking over at him, apparently intent on committing the surrounding terrain to memory. “I’ve been on the trail awhile.”

Somehow Hull restrained himself from asking “How long?” and “Where from?” “You’ll find water and shaving gear inside. I’ll tell Sarah—that’s my fiancée—there’ll be an extra mouth to feed, and I need to share out these supplies I picked up before dark.” He chuckled. “Bet there’s some folks who didn’t think they’d ever see ’em. Got you to thank for that. Won’t take long. Just make yourself at home.”

There was more he wanted to say, much more he wanted to tell his new companion. It would have to wait. Ordinarily Hull Barret wasn’t much of a talker, but since this stranger was proving to be such a good listener he felt the words flowing freely. There was something about the tall rider that inspired confidence, and it was more than just his recently demonstrated physical prowess.

He didn’t get the chance in any case, because they were confronted by an older man leading a heavily laden mule downstream. He was half blond and half gray, and he looked older than his years. He met Barret’s inquisitive stare unashamedly.

“So long, Hull.”

“Where you going, Ulrik?” Hull frowned, glanced skyward. “Kind of late to be going into town.”

“I bane not goin’ into that damned town. I yust goin’. Gettin’ out while I still can.”

Hull pulled back on the reins, bringing the wagon to a halt. The old Swede led his mule around the obstacle. “Gettin’ out?” Hull repeated. “Where the hell to?”

“Don’t matter. Someplace where I bane not goin’ get ruined day after day. Some place where I can sleep nights. Can’t fight no more, Hull. I bane not the only one, neither.”

Hull had to turn to look back at the departing miner. “Aw, Ulrik. You know what they say. ‘It’s bound to get better ’cause it can’t get any worse.’ ”

The old man nodded knowingly. “Man that said that hain’t been livin’ in Carbon Canyon. Goodbye and good luck, Hull Barret. You’ll quit too, if you’re smart.”

Hull watched until man and mule had passed beyond earshot. Shaking his head in silent disappointment, he turned forward again and urged the mare onward.

“What was that all about?” the stranger inquired mildly.

The other man’s expression was set, his voice low. “Remember that feud I told you about? Ulrik’s leavin’ has to do with it. I’ll explain later. Doesn’t concern you in any case.” So saying, he risked a quick glance in the stranger’s direction. If he was expecting a follow-up query or an expression of more than casual interest, he was disappointed. The tall rider was staring straight ahead, apparently having accepted Hull’s declaration at face value.

Hull shrugged. He had supplies to distribute and he wanted to be done with that before dark.

The stranger surveyed the cabin. Two separate rooms, as its owner had claimed. Facilities out back. But it was clean and neat and in much better condition than the average miner’s abode. This was no knocked-together lean-to meant to be abandoned each winter. It was a permanent, year-round dwelling, put together with care and expertise and not a few hard-won dollars. There was glass in the windows and linen on the beds. Hull Barret took pride in his little cabin, and it showed.

Just as it showed in the man, the stranger mused to himself.

He moved into the back room and set out his kit, paid a quick visit to the one-holer out back, then returned and considered what to do next. Hull was right about him having ridden a long ways, and he was more than a little tired, but there were going to be ladies at supper. He rubbed at the thick stubble that covered his face. Proper thing to do was to clean up some.

In the front room he found a big washbasin full of water that had been allowed to sit in a south-facing window all day. As a result, the water in both the basin and its accompanying pitcher was almost hot. A brief search turned up soap and a razor. The soap was not homemade lye, as he expected. It was bar soap and it smelled of lilac. Imported by someone like Blankenship all the way from San Francisco, no doubt. He eyed the precious bar approvingly. Blankenship wouldn’t sell luxury goods on credit. There had to be some gold in this canyon, then.

He stripped off his mackinaw and shirt, then pulled the undershirt over his head and laid it out neatly on the nearby cot. There were no noticeable scars on his chest, but the ones on his back would have caught the eye of the most indifferent observer. There were five of them. Each was a half inch in diameter and evenly spaced from its neighbor. They formed a neat circle. Though long since healed over, their origin was unmistakeable.

They were bullet holes.

Evening sunlight poured through the window above the washbasin, illuminating the stranger’s face as he gazed at himself in the unframed mirror and plied the razor with long, sure strokes, removing lather and whiskers. The unmuted light highlighted the angles and planes of his face, throwing unsuspected ravines and depressions into sharp relief. Once shorn of its whiskers, it was a face whose topography most closely resembled that of the rugged mountains that comprised the Sierra crest.

A voice made him pause. The voice came from outside and was unmistakably feminine. Turning from the mirror, be bent to squint out the window, finding a clear space between the bubbles in the cheap glass. Two women, moving past Hull’s cabin toward another. His fiancée and her daughter, he decided. They were hauling a black iron kettle between them, unaware they were being watched.

The stranger allowed his gaze to linger briefly on the two figures until they disappeared into another shanty nearby. They had looked so out of place amidst this harsh wilderness of tree and rock. By their very presence they helped to soften and civilize it. If he didn’t get a move on, he told himself, he’d be late.

He turned back to the mirror and prepared to finish shaving. What he saw made him hesitate, the razor hovering an inch from his neck. There was something in the eyes that stared back at him, something distant and sad, and a touch of longing for something lost long ago. There was one other thing, more immediate and not nearly as pleasant.

He’d look mighty funny showing up at the table with his face half shaved, he decided. The razor moved.

Megan arranged the forks and plates just so around the edge of the split-board table. Then she stepped back to examine her handiwork with a critical eye. Evidently dissatisfied, she rearranged the entire table setting for the third time.

Her mother was hard at work at the big cast-iron woodstove behind the table, stirring the simmering contents of the big kettle with a heavy wooden spoon. From time to time she glanced to her right, but the door to the back room remained closed.

It would’ve been much easier to have served supper in their own cabin, but Hull insisted the food be moved to his own, the better to accommodate his “guest.” She worked the spoon around the inside of the kettle, trying hard to hold her temper. Guest indeed! But there was no swaying Hull. A good man, Hull Barret, but with no taste in companions. Still, having agreed to this supper, there was little she could do now except go through with it.

Hull was pacing back and forth between table and stove, unable to keep from talking but keeping his voice low.

“It was the damndest thing you ever saw, Sarah. There I was, lying on the ground with those three SOB’s of Lahood’s on top of me, and suddenly they’re not there anymore. One two three bam! Just like that, they’re gone. Then I see that they’re rolling around in the mud hollerin’ and moanin’, and this big guy’s just standing there over ’em real quiet like, lookin’ like he’s bored with the whole thing.” He shook his head at the remembrance.