CHAPTER
8

A scream jerked Trace awake.

He charged out the door, glad he’d slept in his boots and coat.

The scream echoed again, shrill and terrible. He sprinted toward the house and heard feet pounding behind him.

Had the outlaws come for the women? Had they found out someone from the wagon train survived? Had they—?

“Potty!” The scream was a word this time.

Trace skidded to a halt, and Utah slammed into him and sent him staggering forward. Adam ran on past, then stumbled and fell to his hands and knees.

From behind him, Trace heard Utah mutter, “Potty?”

Adam leapt to his feet and charged right straight back to the stable as fast as he’d run out. Adam was young, but he’d been with Trace four years and was already a tough, seasoned cowhand when Trace hired him. Mr. Tough Man Adam had finally heard something that scared him.

“I gotta go potty!” Maddie Sue was up.

The sun was just showing itself over the snowcapped mountains to the east. Trace pivoted and headed straight back to the stable. He didn’t see getting any more sleep, but he wasn’t going in that house for nuthin’. He finally had time to notice that every bone and muscle in his body burned like he was on fire. He’d taken a beating yesterday with the long, hard run carrying that heavy pack.

As he headed for the stable, Utah fell in beside him and started chuckling, Adam laughing out loud.

Trace felt his cheeks heating up. “This is the strangest situation of my life.” Well, no. Not in his life. Being stranded on the frontier, completely alone with winter coming on, was stranger.

“Potty!” This time little Maddie Sue just plain yowled like a wounded raccoon. What was going on in there? Trace hadn’t thought to point to the outhouse last night. But it was right out back, and the women struck him as bright little things. Maybe . . . he shook his head and refused to think about going in there now and pointing. Instead, he started laughing. Surviving out here was a serious business, so he’d take his laughter where he could get it.

They all laughed so hard, Trace wondered if one or the other of ’em were near to collapsing. They settled down after a bit, but after yesterday and what Trace had seen, it felt good to laugh. Thinking of yesterday sobered him.

“What’s going on, Trace?” Utah broke the friendly silence.

Utah didn’t quite count as an old-timer, though he was the oldest of the three of them and the newest on Trace’s ranch. From working alongside him, Trace knew Utah was a man in his prime. But life out here put lines in a man’s face. If he owned a mirror—and where would he get one of those?—Trace would probably see a few lines in his own face.

Back in Sacramento, before they’d split up, he’d heard Utah mention growing a beard to keep the winter from freezing his face. He’d started it on the ride home, so he had about two weeks’ growth, and the beard was salted heavily with gray. That aged him, too.

There hadn’t been two minutes last night for them to talk. Now it was time. “They survived a wagon train massacre.”

“Paiutes? Never heard much trouble coming from them.” Adam had been with Trace the longest. Adam said he was on the run from a shrewish wife. Trace had needed help, and Adam said he’d stay for a while. That was four years ago.

Adam was short and stocky, solid muscle. No man carried fat out in this land. The work was too hard and the food too hard to come by. Adam was a Swede with white-blond hair and skin that burned in the sun rather than turn brown. He didn’t mind the heat in the summer nor the cold in the winter. He said the cold reminded him of his folks talking of home back in Sweden. The high-up mountains, too. Adam was born in Denver, and he’d been wandering for a time before he settled in with Trace’s HS Ranch.

HS . . . Trace still felt a sweep of pride when he thought of his High Sierra Ranch. He’d made his own branding iron, an HS inside a circle. He’d registered the brand a few years back, but long before he registered it, he’d been slapping the brand on cattle he rounded up that he’d found running wild in the mountains.

Both of these men had considerable cowhand skills—most of them equal to or better than Trace’s. The only thing that made Trace the boss was that he’d managed to claim a homestead the fifth year he’d been out here alone—they’d finally passed that law. That was the year he finally found a town, and Adam. He was still working out the homestead years, but while he did, he bought up more land every time he gathered enough money to do it. He’d bought land for pennies an acre that had high mountain valleys full of lush grass and year-round water. Once, he swapped three cows for three hundred acres, and the folks in the land office had laughed at him and called him a fool. He let them laugh just as he’d done the same several years running, cornering water rights and buying grassland no one knew was up here.

It was as close as he could get to making his pa’s dream of farming come true. No corn grew up here, but the tough, wild cattle were mountain born and bred, and they thrived through the harsh winters.

And Trace’s land, here where his cabin stood, wasn’t in the highest peaks. This was his homestead land, and it was lower, in a nice grassy valley.

The three of them—Trace, Adam, and Utah—had worked well together through the roundup and cattle drive. Trace respected each of them, and he thought they returned that respect.

“Nope, it was made to look like an Indian attack, a few arrows and such, and . . . and some . . .” Trace shook his head, sickened by it. “Some scalping . . . d-damage to the bodies before they were burned, but it was white men who done it. I could read the signs everywhere.”

Utah flinched just a bit, enough that Trace suspected Utah had seen such things before.

“And the ladies confirmed it.” Trace didn’t like that.

“They saw their attackers?” Utah looked sickened that the women had witnessed such a thing.

Trace hesitated over this. If the knowledge fell into the wrong hands, Deb would be in danger. “One of the ladies saw a man in the firelight after they started the wagons burning. I haven’t even asked her to describe him—we were on a fast march to get to shelter last night. She also heard a high-pitched man’s voice, not the man she saw. And they definitely spoke English. She says it wasn’t Indians.”

Both of his friends heaved a sigh of relief. Trace understood it. The Native folks in the area were a decent bunch, and any trouble blamed on them could bring big trouble. He was glad he’d seen enough to be sure it wasn’t Paiutes, but he wished like the dickens he hadn’t seen any of what he had, and he regretted to the marrow of his bones that Deb had walked through that burned-out circle of wagons with him.

“The women and children walked away from the train into some tall grass before sunup. They were well hidden when the gunfire and screaming started.” Trace stopped talking for a moment. He could well imagine their horror. When it happened to him, when Pa had died, he hadn’t heard a thing. He’d been off hunting meat before the sunrise and only knew what had happened when he rode back to the wagon train . . . and smelled the burning flesh.

“It’s a long ride to a town, and I’m not sure what two young women and two little’uns would do if they got taken there. Dismal is closest, but it’s not a fit place for women and children alone. Bodie’s no better. To get her . . . uh, them to Carson City, well, we could do that, but they’d still be alone unless they hitched a ride on a late wagon train. They can’t stay the winter alone in Dismal. Where do they stay? Who would protect them?”

There was a stunned silence, until Adam asked hesitantly, “You’re fixin’ to keep ’em on the HS through the winter, boss?”

Trace hadn’t really put it into words; he’d only thought of all they couldn’t do. “What choice do we have?”

The men were silent.

“I need to talk to them. They weren’t headed toward Sacramento. They’d taken the south fork of the California Trail that stays up in the high country. The baby boy had folks killed in the massacre. The girl is his cousin, and she’s got a father building a house and getting ready for them. We need to find out who that is and get a letter to him. We can make a run to Dismal to send a letter, but it might not get out till spring. Nothing gets through once the passes close up for the winter. The Donner Party cured most folks of trying to make a late-season passage. There are always a few, though.”

“I can make a run to Dismal,” Adam offered. “I ride a fast critter. I can go out and back today. I’ll leave as soon as we fetch a letter around and find out where to send it.”

Nodding, Trace admitted Adam’s horse could beat every other animal on the place and it had endurance, too. Adam could get to the rugged frontier town and back in half a day if he pushed hard. “I appreciate that. No matter where our company ends up traveling on to, they look to be spending the winter in my house.”

“Which means we get to spend the winter in the stable, Trace?” Utah looked straight up.

Trace’s gaze followed. Snow was sifting in through the roof. And this light snow was nothing to what was coming.

“Truth is,” Adam added, “the house lets the snow in almost as bad as the stable.”

Utah sounded glum. “Cabin’s got a fireplace, though.”

“So . . . Utah, I said I’d like you to build a house come spring.” Trace crossed his arms, knowing he was asking a lot. “And I wanted to take our time so I could learn some building skills from you.”

Utah nodded. “We’re going to start building right now, today, aren’t we? And build as fast as we know how. And it’d better be two houses if we can find the time. Because I’ve stayed a few days in that cabin of yours and I don’t know how you’ve survived all these years. We’ll build a cabin for the winter, and a bunkhouse for us to sleep in for now, and then next spring you can have your own house.”

“And I’m not going to be all that much help to you building it.”

“Why not?” Utah asked. “I can teach you some of the ways of building.”

“I’ll learn all I can, but I’m going to be busy on something else.”

There was a stretch of silence that Trace hated to break.

“Something else?” Finally Adam couldn’t control his curiosity. “Like what?”

Trace felt that grim rage take hold of his heart again. “I’m going to be hunting the men who massacred the folks on that wagon train. And I’ll ride as far and as hard and as often as I need to. Those men are vicious killers. They’re going to pay for their crimes. It rained on the trail behind us, on the north side of the peak. So the tracks will be washed away. But I’ll find them. I’m planning to ride out every morning, ride to the north and find the men selling stolen cattle and horses. I’m going to see them hanged. I’ll try and help with the building, and I’ll stay and see things settled in for today, but starting tomorrow, I’m going hunting.”

That caused another uncomfortable silence, broken when Utah said, “If they stole cattle and horses, they’d lay up a while and work over the brands. Some animals coming from the east aren’t branded, so they’ll be easier than altering brands. New brands take time to heal. They might hide out for a while until the brands look right.”

“I can wait a few days maybe, figuring they’re not moving and their tracks are gone.” Trace considered this for a moment. “But bad weather is coming. If it settles down on us, I won’t be going anywhere. By spring these men will be long gone.”

Adam shrugged. “They think they got away clean, killed every witness, so why would they be long gone?”

That pulled Trace up short. “They might haunt the trails awhile longer. There are usually a few late trains going through.”

“Maybe instead of hunting the men,” Adam said, “you hunt the next wagon train. Nothing much easier to find than a whole great big string of wagons.”

Adam had known him longest and had some idea of Trace’s past, though none of his time spent guarding travelers. He’d told no one about that.

“And then I am there to protect the train the next time there’s an attack.” Trace knew how to do that. He’d been that trail’s guardian for years. It was the same men. Or remnants of that old gang. The predawn attack, the falsely laid Indian signs, the same mistakes made copying the Paiute arrows, the fire, and the mutilated bodies done in just the way Trace remembered. That thirst for revenge woke up hard and vicious, and he fought it down and thought of his Bible reading.

“Go when you’ve a need of going. While you’re here, help build the cabin.” Utah grunted as if things were settled, then headed for a big wooden tool bin in the corner of the stable. He swung the lid open on squeaking hinges and pulled an ax out of the box. “This is mine. Do you have another?”

“Yep.” Trace followed Utah and dug through the tools until he found his pa’s heavy old ax. He had a newer one, too. “Adam, fetch the one by the chopping block.”

“Good. We can have three men felling trees.” Utah reached for Trace’s ax. “Give it here. I can get an edge on all these that’ll whistle through those trees like wind through their branches. I can probably fell a tree or two before breakfast. You men do the morning chores, rustle up some grub, and get those women to writing a letter. We can chop while Adam rides to Dismal. Before you leave to hunt down those yellowbelly varmints, you can help frame up the house.”

Adam said with an odd, nervous note in his voice, “Maybe the women will cook.”

All three of them pivoted to look in the direction of the cabin.

Adam smiled like a sunny day. Utah quit talking about building and just stared through the barn wall as if he could see right into the cabin to the women cooking up a storm.

Trace said, “I don’t see how it can hurt to ask.” He started for the house, and the men fell in behind him.

“Turn ’em east, Meeks!” Raddo Landauer hollered to Bud Meeks, his saddle partner who rode out front leading this small herd.

Meeks reined in his horse to block the trail and turn the oxen and cattle, ten critters in all, off the main trail. They’d hold ’em until Raddo found a buyer, then turn this lot into cash.

It was a poor return on their work. A few dollars taken out of pockets, nothing much else except the cattle and horses, and a few of the herd had been lost in the attack.

They had no choice but to strike somewhere again soon. Times were bad and money was tight. But this had been a wasted effort. An early morning, a long ride, a lot of hot lead. And all for this sad lot.

He’d hoped this hit would set him up for the winter at least.

Raddo had done honest work for a stretch of years. He’d never struck it big like his outlaw pard, Luth, but he’d seen enough color to keep himself fed and warm . . . and then his mine played out.

Didn’t matter. Honest work hadn’t paid as well as thieving, anyway. And it hadn’t been a fraction of the fun.

The cattle turned. There just weren’t enough of ’em, blast it. He and Dalt Callow brought up the rear, then Dalt pushed through the herd to lead and Meeks fell in beside Raddo.

“See if you can conceal the tracks from where we turned, Meeks.”

“Why? No one alive to tell the tale of what we done.”

Raddo glared at Meeks, who shrugged. “Fine, I’ll do it, but it looks like rain’s a-comin’. That’s gonna do my work for me.”

“The trees are so tight.” Raddo looked overhead and saw that the trees spread across the faint trail. No sky visible. “I can’t get a look at the sky.”

“But listen.” A rumble of distant thunder sounded.

“It could come as snow. We’ll watch, and if the sky opens up on this stretch, then hunt around for any sign you don’t think’ll wash away and deal with that first. Then leave the rest to the rain.”

Meeks nodded. “I’ll go back where I can get a clear look at the clouds.” He reined his horse and headed for the turnoff.

Raddo spent long minutes riding, listening. Finally a low, distant rumble told him rain was on the way for sure. The storms here most often came from the west, heading east, and when they hit the peaks, it was like the clouds couldn’t climb with the weight of the water and they emptied out. Happened a lot up here.

With grim satisfaction, Raddo knew his tracks would be covered and there’d be no need for anyone to bother with ’em. He turned around to tell Meeks to put aside cleaning up. No sign of him.

Well, Raddo wouldn’t go hunt him down. Meeks was a lazy lout. He wouldn’t mind staying back when there was work to be done. And with this narrow trail and the cattle and horses following placidly after Dalt, there was no need for a third man to handle the drive.

He’d let Meeks have a break.

They’d lay low awhile. Rework the brands. Then Raddo would ride out and find a cattle buyer who didn’t ask a lot of fool questions. They’d get rid of the herd and decide where their next money would be coming from.

Wherever that was, it had to be soon.

The thunder rumbled, louder this time. Almost sure to hit them, though it’d be a while. The distant storm echoed in Raddo’s chest like the rumble of wagon wheels coming down the trail, bringing him his next big strike.

Gold found the easy way, with a six-gun instead of a pickax.

Raddo was already looking forward to it.