THE HONORABLE H. ROLAND Eggers! Prefaced and condensed in such fashion, his name took on an impressiveness which it had always lacked. And why should it not be that way? He rolled it complacently on his tongue, relishing both the sound and the suggestion of power. So ambitious an idea had just occurred to him. At first he had dismissed it as a wildly impossible dream. Then he had found it more and more to his liking.
After all, he was already dabbling in politics, and if he was able to put this deal over, securing his toll-road and the wealth and power which would go with it, there would also be a certain amount of prestige. Given free rein, his imagination opened on ever wider vistas.
Carefully he reminded himself that the important part was still to be managed. But with Montana Abbott out of the way, and the Governor and legislators alike distracted at the chain of events, that part should prove workable. A compliant member of the committee could always be found, for a price, to persuade Ashley that the packet of bills were as originally drawn up, read and approved by Montana before he had set out.
He winced at thought of the added expense, but there was no help for it. The troublesome aspects of a snow-covered hill, so like a sealed tomb, Eggers had put out of mind. Every accomplishment was costly.
Safely back in town and in his own quarters, rested from the journey, he sallied out onto the long street, picking his way around lingering puddles, keeping back from spattering mud as hoofs and wheels scattered it with a fine lack of discrimination. Sight of the Governor receiving so sudden a splashing caused him to chuckle, however discreetly. Ashley’s mind would be on matters other than legislative.
Eggers proceeded along the street, enjoying the warmth of undimmed sunshine. True to tradition, the early storm had been succeeded by almost perfect weather.
Boys were running, dogs barking. Even men were hastening their pace, while a lady paused to look with daintily lifted skirt. By those signs Eggers deduced that the stage was arriving, not merely belatedly but for the first time across the pass since the storm.
Instinctively his own pace quickened, though purely from curiosity. When one sheep ran the whole flock was apt to follow, and people were very like sheep. The thought amused even as it irritated him, and he stopped, then stared.
The coach, liberally speckled with dried mud, had pulled up, the team being swung, wheels cramped wide to allow the passengers a more comfortable descent, all with the sure touch of an experienced driver. Eggers somewhat prominent eyes protruded even further. Descending over a wheel, tossing the reins to a handler, was a familiar figure, but not the one Eggers had expected. The driver was Montana Abbott.
Breathing jerkily, Eggers fell back to the support of the nearest building, blinking. Even such a washing of eyes did no good. The man was Abbott, beyond any question. Equally surprising and twice as dismaying, Melissa Edwards and Serene Chase were also alighting.
His breath came back, leaving him panting like a dog on a hot day. Eggers turned, almost blindly. How this could have happened was beyond all understanding, but the meaning was only too clear. All three were alive and back in town, and his dream was blown like smoke in a high wind.
Not only was his dream ended, it had suddenly become a nightmare. Montana, along with such law as the town and the territory possessed, would be looking for him. Once the story got about, former acquaintances—Eggers could claim no one as friends—would be ready to join in the hunt, with buckets of tar, sacks of feathers and, worst of all, a hang rope.
Caught, he would probably be allowed no time for explanation. Even with all the opportunity in the world, no story could be made convincing.
Minutes later, with his suddenly all too meager possessions concealed about his person, Eggers rode out of town, avoiding the more frequented streets and the road itself, until the other camps along the gulch had been left behind. Only then did he draw a full breath and return to the road.
He was ruined, but alive. The balance in his mind shifted from relief to bitterness. Everything that he had always craved had been almost within grasp—a comfortable income if not actual wealth, freedom from risk, the chance for position and power.
Now he would have to start over, this time without even the possession of a bogus sheriff’s badge. He had discarded that weeks before as more of a liability than an asset.
He was ruined—and all because of Lefty Hoag, who seemed to always bungle a job. Precisely how or why the blame should attach to Hoag rather than himself Eggers did not bother to define. Three times he’d hired Hoag to do a job, and this was the result.
Night was settling when he gave thought to making camp. The place was lonely and remote, still snow-covered, a far cry from the luxury of the room he had quitted. To find wood which was dry enough to burn was a chore at which he had little talent, but desperation was a spur. Full dark was all around when he dished bacon on to a plate and prepared to pour hot coffee. Both hands were clutching dishes as a shadowy figure rode suddenly into the fire glow.
Surprise was mutual. Eggers first sense of disaster gave way to bitterness. A blunderer as usual, Hoag was heading toward town.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Hoag demanded.
“Headin’ out,” Eggers snarled. “When Abbott came drivin’ in with the stage, and those women with him, I figured the place was too crowded for all of us.”
To Hoag, Abbott was a key word. It unloosed a flood of virulence from the gunman, then he broke off to demand an explanation and details.
Eggers complied, and Hoag fell to a fresh frenzy of vituperation. Even though it was directed against their common enemy, Eggers listened without pleasure. Absently he started to wolf his neglected supper.
Hoag stared, his rage fixing on this fresh injustice. With a cat’s pounce he snatched the plate from Eggers.
“I’ll take this,” he grated. “I ain’t had a bite all day. You can cook more for yourself.” The final sentence was muffled from a mouth crammed with the spoils.
“Now is that a nice way to act? What’s wrong with you, anyway?” Eggers demanded, his own anger barely under control.
Gradually and disjointedly, the story came out. Hoag had finally started back for Virginia City. He had seriously considered heading west, over the pass, and out of the country. But deep in snow as it was, the road was a hazard, and the remembrance that Eggers owed him money had been a determining factor.
Even the more open country had not been easy to traverse. His horse had slipped and gone sprawling on an icy slope, not hurting Hoag but itself. Worse, such scanty supplies of food as he had, had been lost and scattered.
Travel, with the cayuse limping at a walk, had been an aggravation. Glumly he had followed the road. When the stagecoach had finally come into sight from behind, bound from Missoula for the capital, Hoag had followed his usual procedure, shooting without warning from ambush, his bullet knocking the driver off his box.
What had seemed an easy victory had gone as suddenly wrong as another voice had commanded him to drop his gun and reach. He had stared in shocked disbelief at Montana Abbott, having counted him as certainly dead. Then, in frantic desperation, he had tried an exchange of shots: That had been a mistake.
Whether by accident or intent, Montana’s first bullet had glanced off the barrel of Eggers’ gun, twisting it from his grasp. With his hand numbed and empty, Hoag had stumbled and tumbled backward, down a slope, into the soft cover of a drift of snow at the bottom. The stage team had tried to run, and Montana had been fully occupied with snatching for the reins and controlling them.
Hoag had seen him load the wounded driver into the stage, assisted by the ladies who had been captive with him back at the mine. Apparently they had made it as far as the road on foot. How they had managed was as baffling a mystery to him as it was to Eggers.
After they had gone on, with Montana driving, Hoag had retrieved his revolver, then returned to his limping horse. His temper was badly frayed.
Eggers relieved his own feelings by frank expression, with particular attention for Hoag’s proclivity for bungling every job at which he took a hand. His awareness that the cook-fire was dying, with no more dry wood to be had, and that in any case Hoag had eaten both his supper and the last of his supplies rendered him more than usually caustic. He had neglected to secure a fresh supply of grub before setting out, due to the panic which he preferred not to think about.
Unmoved, Lefty Hoag poured and drank what remained of the coffee. His voice was deceptively mild.
“All them things wrong with me, eh? But aside from them few points you’ve mentioned, I’m a pretty good feller, ain’t I? Such as being handy for chores that you couldn’t dirty your own paws with? And that brings me back to what I come for, the wages you owe me for a couple of those jobs. I need the money. So, since you’re quittin’ the country, you better fork over what I got coming.”
The softness of tone should have warned Eggers, but he was too furious to heed.
“Jobs? Jobs you messed up so bad that I’m ruined! Any way you look at it, you ain’t got a cent coming, not a red cent. And if you did have, I wouldn’t waste it on a whiskey-guzzlin’ sot like you.”
The simile was even more unfortunate. Hoag liked his whiskey, and was reminded of his unwilling sobriety.
“Wouldn’t you, now? Well, that’s a matter of opinion. Usually I stick to shootin’ Black Yankee Republicans, but from the way you behave, I wouldn’t be much surprised if you’re one yourself. I’ll take what money you’ve got. Hand it over.”
Aghast, Eggers considered the demand. What money he had, by comparison with his recent expectations, wasn’t much, still it was all that he had managed to salvage. Without so meager a grubstake, and with winter ahead, he would be in a sorry state.
Always, until now, he had depended on others to handle risky or unpleasant chores, but this time he had no choice. He made as if to reach for a wallet, then a stubby-nosed Derringer was in his hand, catching the last flicker of the firelight. One shot rang out.
Hoag stared down, his face without expression. Testingly he stirred the prone figure with a boot toe. Then, bending over, he rummaged through his erstwhile employer’s pockets, taking what he found, retrieving the unfired Derringer. Then, not bothering to loosen the saddle on his own weary horse, he helped himself to Eggers’ and rode on.