Demon's Pass by Ralph Compton Page A

she waved, and Parker self-consciously waved back. At that moment he wished he were going with them.
    â€œHead ’em out!” Captain Reynolds called.
    Reynolds’s command was followed by whistles, shouts, and the pistol pops of snapped whips as the train started forward. As it rolled slowly toward the west end of town, the sound was like a symphony on the march, a cacophony of clopping hooves, clanking pots and pans, squeaking wheels, creaking axles, and canvas snapping in the wind.
    â€œWill we see them again?” Parker asked as the wagon trail grew smaller in the distance.
    â€œI hope not,” Clay said. “If we do, it means they had trouble. They’re going to be on the trail a good week before we even get started.”
    â€œOh.”
    In a brotherly way, Clay playfully ran his hand through Parker’s hair. “You know what they say, don’t you?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œSue Reynolds is a pretty little girl, but she isn’t the only flower in the desert. You’ll find others.”
    â€œI wasn’t even thinking that,” Parker said, though his burning cheeks belied his denial.
    â€œI’m sure you weren’t,” Clay said.
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    One week after the Reynolds party left, Clay was in the Brown Dirt Cowboy having a beer with Larry Beeker, the merchant from whom he had bought much of his trade goods. Beeker had been watching settlers leaving Independence since the days of the behemoth wagon parties, and he was considered a source of expert knowledge for anyone who would make the trek West. Beeker took a drink of his beer, wiped the foam from his lips with the back of his hand, then looked at Clay.
    â€œI been thinkin’ on this for the last week,” he said. “All the signs are that we’re goin’ to have an early winter this year. That bein’ the case, you’d be best advised to wait till next spring before startin’ out.”
    â€œWhat?” Clay asked, surprised by the pronouncement. “Are you serious?”
    â€œYep. Fact is, I’m not sure the Reynolds party will even make it, and they done got a week to ten days head start on you.” Beeker said. “Late as it is now, and with winter comin’ sooner than later this year, there’s a good chance you’ll get caught on this side of the Wasatch Mountains with the first snowfall.”
    â€œNow is a hell of a time to tell me . . . after you’ve sold me all the goods.”
    â€œI’d be happy to take ’em back,” Beeker offered.
    â€œYou might take back what you sold me, but what about the other stuff I bought?”
    Beeker shook his head. “Can’t do nothin’ ‘bout them things.”
    â€œNo, nor would I expect you to,” Clay said. He stroked his chin. “Well, there’s nothing I can do about it now. I thank you for your concern, Mr. Beeker, but I don’t figure I’ve got any choice. I’m going to have to go on.”
    â€œI’m just givin’ you a friendly word of advice, is all,” Beeker said.
    â€œYes, well, I’m well experienced on the wagon trail, and so is one of my drivers, Marcus Pearson. Even the boy has spent some time on the trail. I think we will make it through, all right. My partner and I have too much money invested in it to wait. We have to go now, or we may wind up losing everything.”
    â€œWell, do what you got to do. Ain’t no real concern o’ mine,” Beeker said, taking another swallow.
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    Unaware that Clay and Beeker were, at that very moment, discussing the possibility of disaster for their freighting venture, Parker stepped into the saloon. His forays into such establishments were relatively rare, thus he was unaccustomed to the noise and the smells that hit him as he walked through the bat-wings, not only of beer and whiskey, but of expectorated tobacco quids, pipe smoke, and body odor. He spotted Clay standing near the