CHAPTER 16

It was just called ‘Kelly’s Draw’. It was uncertain whether anyone even knew who ‘Kelly’ was, or why the tawdry mining camp bore his name.

It wasn’t anything too many folks would have been proud to see bearing their name. It was made up of tents, hastily assembled shacks, a few overused outhouses, and an occasional open-fronted lean-to, selling essentials for the survival of hopeful miners and prospectors.

The single street of the camp was beaten to fine powder by countless hoofs of horses, mules, and a rare milk cow or ox. ‘The first time it rains, that street’s gonna be belly deep in mud,’ Dwight observed.

He hadn’t wanted to even pass through the camp. He just didn’t feel that they had a choice. Since their scrape with the Indians, he and Belinda had taken a circuitous course rather than head straight back toward Headland. Their horses were jaded. They had far too much weight to carry, given the amount of gold that still burdened Belinda’s saddle-bags and bedroll. They were out of any kind of food, other than the one cottontail rabbit Dwight had shot. He was out of oats for the horses, and unless they stopped for a complete day and night to allow the animals to rest and eat they would give out. They really needed to have oats as well, to keep them going until they got back to Headland.

They were dead tired. Afraid to sleep and too exhausted not to sleep, they had managed to catch an hour or two of fitful sleep only rarely.

He pocketed some of the paper money that belonged to the bank, making a careful note in his tally book of the amount. Whatever they could find at the mining camp would be three or four times a fair price, but they couldn’t afford to quibble. Neither could anyone else. That was why everything sold for three or four times its fair price.

Although there was nothing approaching a permanent building, Dwight quickly counted five saloons along the street. They consisted of little more than planks on upended whiskey barrels, behind which the owner dispensed the liquid that seemed to be more important than food.

At the end of the street a pair of freight wagons had a similar plank – this one supported by two large boulders that had been rolled into place – behind which two men offered assorted items of clothing, picks, shovels, ropes, dynamite and fuses, and whatever else might lie hidden beneath the tarpaulins that covered the contents of the wagons. They seemed to be doing a brisk business.

A little ways down the street, sandwiched between two places selling whiskey, another wagon sold foodstuffs from its tailgate. As they stopped at that wagon, Belinda said, ‘You haven’t even unhitched your horses!’

The man with the wagon said, ‘No need, lady. My boy’s givin’ ’em feed an’ water where they stand. I’ll be sold out afore the day’s over and headin’ back for another load.’

Dwight’s attention was suddenly arrested by a loud voice, back a little ways from the street, a little farther down the narrow gulch. ‘Days of judgment are upon us,’ the voice declared in stentorian tones. ‘It is time to repent and seek the forgiveness of a merciful God, for he will not long abide the vices and excesses of this pit of iniquity. Unless there is great repentance, the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah will descend upon you. The Word of God will be proclaimed from this location two hours from now, before the sun goes down. Come one, come all, and give your sinful souls an opportunity to seek God’s grace while you can.’

‘Bandy!’ Dwight breathed. ‘Can you beat that! He’s right there in front of us, hidin’ in plain sight.’

‘Is that the man who drove the wagon?’ Belinda marveled.

‘That’s him,’ Dwight affirmed. ‘All dolled up in that broadcloth suit an’ preacher’s collar, figgerin’ nobody’s gonna recognize ’im, or even think to look here for ’im.’

‘He rode straight here,’ a voice at Dwight’s shoulder said.