CHAPTER 18
Brice followed Al Harding into the Casa de Oro. The saloon was busy, with a good number of men at the bar and most of the tables. More than half the customers were miners, Brice estimated, but there were quite a few cowboys on hand, too, from the ranches in the valleys between the mountains. Because of that, Brice sensed an uneasy truce in the air. Miners and cowhands often didn’t get along, but at the moment they were more interested in drinking than fighting.
Despite the number of men in the saloon, only one bartender was behind the hardwood. A couple of tired-looking doves delivered drinks to the tables. A single frock-coated gambler dealt cards in a poker game, and a woman spun a roulette wheel. The Casa de Oro might be the most successful business still in Black Hawk, but obviously the saloon wasn’t making money hand over fist or more employees would have been working.
Harding led Brice to the bar and crooked a finger at the apron. When the bartender came over, Harding looked at Brice and asked, “What are you drinking?”
“Beer’s fine.”
“Make it two, Dewey,” Harding told the bartender.
Brice hadn’t offered his name, and being a Westerner, Harding hadn’t asked. But Brice volunteered it now—sort of. “I’m called Smith,” he said.
Harding smiled. “A time-honored name.”
“As it happens, that’s my real handle.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
The bartender placed mugs on the bar in front of them.
Harding picked his up and went on. “Here’s to you, Mister Smith. That was a hell of a punch . . . and a mighty slick draw, too.”
“Thanks,” Brice muttered. He lifted his mug and acknowledged Harding’s words, then took a drink. The beer was weak but reasonably cool, which helped.
“I don’t remember seeing you around Black Hawk before.”
“Just rode in.” Brice smiled. “I think I got here too late.”
“Yeah, the town’s dying, I’m afraid. But there’s still money to be made in these parts if a man knows what he’s doing.”
Harding didn’t elaborate, and Brice didn’t press him for details about what he meant. Brice didn’t want to push the luck he’d already had.
Harding was lean, a couple of inches shorter than Brice, with a slightly lantern-jawed face and a shock of dark hair under his thumbed-back hat. He was from the hills of Kentucky and his voice still held a faint twang. He had started his outlaw career by holding up stagecoaches and had moved on to robbing trains and banks. Stealing mail sacks from trains had brought him to the attention of federal authorities. As far as Brice knew, Harding had killed an express messenger, a bank guard, two deputies, and three innocent bystanders who’d had the misfortune to get in his way. What Harding had never done was work by himself. He’d always had a gang with him or at least a partner.
Knowing that gave Brice an idea.
“What brings you here?” Harding asked after a few minutes.
“A wandering nature,” Brice replied, which brought a chuckle from Harding. “Actually, I’ve been down in New Mexico Territory lately, and the climate got a mite hot for me.”
“Well, it is summer.”
Brice nodded and said, “Yeah, it’s definitely summer down there. At least it’s a little cooler up here in Colorado, even if the pickings do look to be a mite on the slim side.”
“Not as slim as you might think.” Harding sipped his beer. “One of the mines in these parts is still producing pretty good. Called the Fountain Mine. The writing’s on the wall, though. From what I hear, the vein’s not going to last much longer and so the owners are trying to strip out every last bit of color they can. For now, that means a decent shipment over to the railroad in Golden every week or two.”
Brice grunted. “Glad to hear that somebody’s still doing all right.”
“Somebody else could share in that . . . with the right help.”
Brice wasn’t completely surprised that Harding would approach him so quickly, right after meeting him. The chief marshal had said that all of Harding’s former partners were either dead or behind bars, which meant the outlaw had either been lying low or working by himself, which he was known to dislike. Harding probably needed money, and more than likely he deemed himself a good judge of character. After witnessing the run-in with Clegg and the other miners outside, Harding had pegged Brice as a hard-case, and Brice hadn’t said or done anything to make him think otherwise.
“Maybe you’d better talk a little plainer.”
“All right.” Harding pushed the empty mug back across the bar. “I happen to know that a shipment of gold from the Fountain is headed to the railroad at Golden pretty soon. The road goes through a perfect spot to jump the wagon, but the mine owners will have four guards on it, two outriders and two men on the wagon with the driver. One man can’t do the job alone, but two could . . . if they were fast on the shoot and didn’t mind spilling some blood.” Harding smiled. “I’m just talkin’, though. Don’t mean anything by it, if you’re not interested.”
“I never said that,” Brice replied. “Where’s this perfect spot you mentioned?”
“Place called Fiddler’s Notch. Want to take a look at it?”
Brice drained the last of his beer and nodded. “I wouldn’t mind.”
“Let’s go, then. Not much time to waste if we don’t want that gold wagon to get through there ahead of us.”
They left the saloon. Brice untied his sorrel and Harding swung up on a big bay. Harding led the way out of Black Hawk, heading north. Over his shoulder, he said, “We’ll hit the trail from the mine a few miles up thisaway.”
It didn’t matter where the trail was, thought Brice. He just wanted to get Harding out of town before he made his move . . . and Harding had cooperated with that right along the line.
Harding turned and followed a faint path up the slope with Brice behind him. The climb was steep enough that the horses had to labor some. If Brice had been alone, he would have dismounted and led the sorrel, but Harding didn’t get down from the saddle so Brice didn’t, either. When they reached the top, Harding rode through a gap that ran for about a mile. Pine trees grew close on both sides of the trail.
Brice was about to slip his gun from its holster and call on Harding to throw down his weapons and surrender, when Harding reined in sharply and wheeled his mount around so he was facing Brice. The trail was barely wide enough for him to do that.
Harding’s gun was already in his hand. Instinctively, Brice started to draw, but Harding wagged the barrel back and forth and said, “Don’t do that, Smith.”
“What the hell is this?” Brice demanded, trying to sound indignant.
“Don’t waste your breath and my time, boy. You jumped at this whole thing way too quick, and that means I can’t trust you. You’re either plannin’ on double-crossing me and taking all the gold for yourself after you shoot me in the back . . . or else you’re a law dog.” Harding chuckled. “With that fresh-faced, innocent look of yours, I’m betting it’s that last. You packin’ a badge, son?”
“Don’t be a damned fool,” Brice said coldly. “You’re the one who said there was no time to waste. I figured I’d better make up my mind quick. You also said one man couldn’t do the job.”
“Yeah, but two can, and then one of ’em can gun the other one.”
“So why didn’t you wait and double-cross me once we’ve got the gold?”
“Because like I said, I think you’re a lawman and you never would’ve gone through with it. I’m a fair-minded man, though. Convince me otherwise, and I might not kill you.”
“If you kill me, you sure won’t get that gold today.”
“I never said the shipment was going through today. I said pretty soon. Fact of the matter is, it’s due tomorrow. So if you want to change my mind, you’ve got time to do it.” Harding shook his head. “I warn you, though, I don’t think it’s gonna happen. I think I’m gonna shoot you and leave you here in the woods for the wolves.”
Brice had noticed that Harding’s bay didn’t seem to like standing on the narrow trail. The horse was the skittish sort, big and strong but nervous. Easy to spook. That would be running a long chance, and as he pondered the idea, the thought of Denny Jensen suddenly went through Brice’s mind.
“What’s the date today?” he abruptly asked.
Harding frowned in surprise. “The date? What the hell?” He told Brice the date and then said, “What does that matter?”
“I was invited to a wedding today. There was somebody there I would have liked to have seen.”
“Well, it’s too late for that, ain’t it?”
“Yeah, it is.” Brice jammed his boot heels into the sorrel’s flanks and sent the horse lunging forward, spooking the bay. At the same time he bent low over the sorrel’s neck.
The bay tried to twist out of the way as Harding pulled the trigger, and the bullet screamed past Brice, missing by several feet.
Brice’s Colt was in his hand as he leaned to the side to get a clear shot at Harding and fired. He aimed at Harding’s right shoulder, but the bay was still dancing around some and the slug caught Harding at the base of the throat instead. He rocked far back in the saddle and threw both arms up and out. The gun flew from his fingers, he swayed forward again, and blood gushed from the wound in his throat and from his mouth. His hands pawed at the saddle horn as if he were trying to hold himself on the horse, but his fingers slipped off and he sagged even more forward.
Seeing the life fading in Harding’s eyes, Brice said, “You were right. I’m a deputy U.S. marshal.”
Air bubbled from Harding’s ruined throat. He twisted out of the saddle and thudded to the ground with his right foot still hung in the stirrup. Brice moved the sorrel forward quickly and made a grab for the bay’s reins because he didn’t want the horse to bolt and drag Harding’s body along the trail. Taking the outlaw’s carcass in was going to be a grisly enough job without it being battered and busted all to hell.
Brice got the reins, tied them to a tree branch, and then dismounted to begin the grim chore of rolling Harding’s body in a blanket and tying it over the saddle. The smell of blood was going to make the bay even more skittish, he thought.
It would have been nice if he’d been able to make it to the Sugarloaf today for Louis Jensen’s wedding, he thought. A lot nicer than the ride he had facing him. He wondered what Denny was wearing to the wedding. He would have been willing to bet that she looked mighty nice.