HE WAS FIDDLE-FOOTED, wild as the wind, born to drift. The realization had been increasingly driven home to Montana during the long days of summer. A long-time dream had come true, and he had his own ranch, a sweep of hill and valley, timber and grass, stocked with a fine grade of cattle brought in from the Oregon country. Lazing contentedly, growing into money, it had seemed that a man could ask for no more.
The trouble was that even long hours and hard work could not keep him from thinking, wanting to be somewhere else, however foolishly. For what else could it be? He’d built too much on a word and a kiss, the tantalizing glance of bright eyes. Far better to tend to needed work, to stay away from temptation—
“If a man could be in two places at the same time, then he’d hanker to be in four,” he thought. “And right now I could do with that many extra hands, right here.”
There was hay to harvest, fences to build, brands to be burned, new buildings to erect. Man-power was short, with keen competition for such workers as were available. Philipsburg, rawly new and bustling like most other camps, differing only in that silver was sought instead of gold, was his nearest town. Like Butte, which also envisioned a future built on silver, or the gold towns of Helena and Virginia City, all had one thing in common—more work than workers, luring men with big wages.
Some men, like himself, preferred to be cowboys, working with cattle on the open range; but when that entailed digging post holes, wrestling with barbed wire, sweating hay on to wagons and off again into stacks, the attraction was diluted. Being the owner and the boss of an outfit meant working harder and for longer hours, while the excellent fishing in deep-flowing streams was neglected.
With the hay crop up, a load of supplies included mail and newspapers. Scanning these, Montana was reminded that a new territorial election was being held. The issue of chief interest was whether Virginia City should continue as the capital, or if that honor should be transferred to Helena. With statehood hopefully not too far over the horizon, the possessor of that prize would be close to the greater one as the capital of the state.
That this was election day had been forgotten. But if he moved promptly, he could still reach town in time to vote.
Yet why bother? Between candidates, he had no preferences, and the same was true of towns. Helena and Virginia City both lay to the east of the divide, while his ranch was on the west. The location would make little difference to anyone except special-interest groups, politicians, or the communities directly involved.
He’d probably do better to go fishing. But he was already scrubbing, shaving, changing clothes. He’d go vote.
After that it would be the same old routine. Philipsburg was a long way from Virginia City, where his thoughts strayed so persistently. For Melissa Edwards was probably still there—His breath caught at the possibility that she might not be, that perhaps she had already returned East or soon would. And why shouldn’t she, at least so far as he was concerned, hiding out like a hermit, not even trying to see her again, to test, as it were, the water—
Saddling a pony, he pushed it hard. His destination was a county seat, but his vision was the capital only.
A trio of officials sprawled lazily at the polling place, hailing him cheerfully as he entered. Clearly they had not been overworked.
“Been sort of wonderin’ if you’d make it, Montana. And you’re just in time, at that. We been debatin’ about closin’ up shop. Last voter was here the middle of the afternoon.”
The second man handed him a ballot, grinning.
“Can’t rightly invite you to vote early an’ often. It’s too late for that. But better late than never, as the old maid told the widower.”
All three eyed him speculatively as he emerged from marking his ballot.
“You wasn’t by any chance plannin’ on going on to our capital city, was you now? We got us a problem. Tom Jurgens was supposed to hustle the ballots over there for the count, the rule being that they have to go there from all over the Territory, to be handled by the territorial secretary. But I be dumb’d if Tom didn’t go an’ bust a laig, celebratin’ in advance and fallin’ off his horse. It don’t take much to set Tom to celebratin’. Leaves it that somebody’s got to make that ride, only nobody wants to bother.”
Abbott appeared to reflect, though he knew what his decision would be. The ranch work was no longer pressing; he’d earned a bit of a breather. And someone had to do it—
“Why yes, happens I do have some business over that way,” he conceded. “I’ll start in the morning and take the ballots.”
“That’s right obligin’. We’d send ’em by the stage, only it ain’t set to start runnin’ for mebby another month. Such mail service as we have is as irregular as the Devil’s religion. And they are kind of in a lather to get the votes in fast—”
“What’s this about a stage?” Montana asked. “I hadn’t heard. Guess I’ve been staying too close to home.”
“We’re set to have one, which’ll be a big break for us here. Put us right in the middle of things, spang on the road to progress. To run up from Virginia City to Missoula off west and Helena the other way. It’ll take off from the Missoula run around Beartown, come here, cross the mountain, and drop down to that passel of hell-raisin’ camps along the Tobacco Gulch.”
“Sounds like quite an undertaking, with the mountains in between.”
“You know what they say about fools rushin’ in. Course, it should be a good route, and in case Butte ever amounts to anything, that would be a boost. They got a crew workin’ right now, buildin’ a road over the divide. Your best route will likely be to follow it.”
Impelled as much by curiosity as eagerness, Montana did so. Since this jaunt was by way of being a vacation, there was no reason to hurry, but a fever was in his blood.
Some weeks before, coming up from that country, he had swung north, by way of Helena, long and roundabout but the easiest course because of Mullan’s Pass, and which, following his encounter in the canyon, he had no reason to regret.
By taking the new road, it would be days shorter. And he might as well resign himself to roads.
Though to call this new trail a road was more courtesy than fact. Entering the mountains, he failed to encounter any of the crew who were supposed to be at work, though there were evidences of their activity. The wheel trace wound and twisted, angling toward the towering summit. A few rocks and occasional boulders had been moved out of the way where they could not be dodged or by-passed. Trees had been felled, a minimal amount of grading done as necessity demanded.
The view was spectacular, the turns and grades breath-taking. An eagle soared high above the valley floor, well below from where he watched. A mountain goat, bearded patriarch, watched him from across a canyon. He glimpsed the distant sparkle of a waterfall.
Descending the east slope, where the road was presumably in a finished state, he shook his head dubiously. Having had experience with a stage line, he was prepared for rugged accommodations, but this pass promised to afford more than the ordinary complement of thrills and heart-stopping moments.
Descending, the land fell away in long easy sweeps. Here the wheel-trace was already rutted, and he came upon another traveler, also going by horse. They exchanged brief hellos, the other man seeming to be in a hurry, swinging out as wide as the road at that point permitted. He lifted a hand as in salute, altering the gesture to scratch at cheek and chin.
“As though he was trying to hide his face,” Montana reflected. He shrugged that aside, since not wanting to be recognized was not uncommon. He would have thought no more of it had not the other rider veered abruptly, pulling his horse off the road, back among the hills and canyons.
There had been something familiar about the fellow, though where or when he’d seen him, Abbott could not remember. Certainly they had never met in a formal manner.
Safely out of sight, Hamilton Roland Eggers cursed himself for a fool, for such betraying nervousness. He was badly shaken by the encounter, by the possibility that Montana might remember him in turn. Abbott had been among those who had gone on to Helena with the Governor’s party, after having checked the murderous intentions of Lefty Hoag the day before. Entirely aside from that, Eggers knew him for a man of influence, across the territory and beyond its borders.
His agitation might have betrayed him. Eggers was not merely annoyed, but disturbed. He’d been back in here for two or three days, giving special attention to this new road and its possibilities, questing among the numerous hidden valleys and canyons near its base. Earlier observations had been confirmed, so that obscure ideas were taking form as hard and fast plans.
This country contained a wealth of possibilities, of opportunities, unguessed at by others. Eggers was concerned to keep it that way. He was not anxious to have any connection with it remembered, even by a passing rider along the road.
The bustle of the mining camps along the Tobacco Gulch was mildly exciting, yet at the same time depressing, after the remoteness of ranch life or the long trail across the pass. Near the outset of the gold strike, half a dozen camps had crowded and elbowed each other for room and supremacy. There had been little to choose between them in the days of Henry Plummer and the Vigilantes.
But Virginia City had become the territorial capital and unquestioned leader. Among the other camps, activity was gradually diminishing. The gold close to the surface, wealth most readily accessible, had been mined and spent.
Whatever the verdict of the votes cast a few days before, the hey-day of this camp was past. Soon it would have its memories, and little else.
Efforts had been made to gild the lily, to enhance its glory, partly in view of the election, and partly because James Ashley and the guests which his presence had attracted were here, at least for the summer and fall. Fresh whitewash or even paint had been applied here and there. The town had a new-old look, half tragic, half comic.
Willows and cottonwoods fringed the creek, drooping with the heat. In the light of the westering sun, the gulch lay somnolent.
A lone rider swung from an intersection on to the main road. Each stared, then, with a small cry of pleasure, Melissa Edwards urged her horse ahead, even as Montana pushed his. The unmistakable welcome in her face answered the question which alternately plagued and nagged him. This trip was worth the taking.