was low, but there was a quality in it that stopped the man. “If she doesn’t wish to go with you, she doesn’t have to.”
“You stay out of this!” The man clung to her arm with his left hand, holding the dueling pistol in his right. “This here’s none of your business.”
“Mister, in this country we don’t abuse women. Take your hand off the lady.”
The man let go but he lifted his gun and pointed it at Trevallion.
“Don’t be a damned fool!” Trevallion said irritably. “Your gun’s empty. When you go hunting meat, my friend, you’d better be better armed than that.”
Ignoring him, he glanced at the girl. “Do you want to go with this man?”
“No, I don’t! I want to get away. He, Alfie, he was going to help me.”
“You’re well rid of him. Have you any money?”
“A…a little.”
Jim Ledbetter spoke up. “Her ride’s paid for. So’s his. I can sell that ride and give her the money.” A little wryly, he added, “It doesn’t look like Alfie’s going to show up.”
Trevallion glanced back at the girl. “It will be rough up there. Maybe you should try Sacramento?”
“No. I want to go to Washoe. To Virginia City.”
“Mount up, then.”
The others had started getting into their saddles, some clumsily, others with expert ease. The fat man started forward but Trevallion blocked his way.
“Damn you! You’ve no right to interfere!”
“You’ve no claim on her. If I had my way they’d run you out of town. Your kind aren’t wanted anywhere. When you pointed that gun at me, I could have killed you, and probably should have.”
The man backed off, but his plump cheeks shook with fury. “Damn you! You’ll see! I’ll get even! I’ll get both of you!
Both
of you!”
The agent came from the door. “Jim? Here’s a packet of mail. Most of it is for Hesketh.”
“Hesketh? Isn’t he that bookkeeper for the Solomon?”
“That’s him. He gets more mail than his boss, seems like.”
Ledbetter tucked the letters into a saddlebag, then swung to the saddle and led off, the others following. Trevallion fell in behind the girl. She had a nice straight back and sat her saddle well.
“I’m Trevallion,” he offered.
She smiled. “I am Melissa Turney.” The smile left her face. “His name was Mousel. He’s a placer-miner sometimes, sometimes a trapper.”
She offered no comment on Alfie and Trevallion decided it was no time to ask questions.
The morning was cold and overcast. The wind from off the ranges was chilling, and as they mounted steadily they could catch glimpses of snow under the pines.
The Spanish mule had an easy gait and, like most mules, a no-nonsense attitude. The mule knew exactly where he was going to step and was not about to be guided by some casual pilgrim who might or might not be trail-wise. He had his own way, and Trevallion let him have his head.
The trail was badly rutted, and here and there run-off water had cut deep trenches across the way, and the ruts had frozen into a maze of rocklike ridges, making every step a hazard.
Even at this hour the trail was already crowded with a winding, snakelike procession of men, animals, and occasional wagons. Mule trains forged ahead with that complete indifference to the life and limb of others typical of pack mules the world over. Nobody in his right mind disputed the right-of-way with a pack mule who brushed people aside like so many trailside branches or clumps of brush.
Jim Ledbetter was as single-minded as any mule. His sole responsibility was to those who paid to ride his mules, and to their packs, and he forged ahead like the others.
Nobody wished to stop or even pause for fear someone would pass them by in the rush for Washoe. Wrecked wagons were thrust rudely aside, some of them leaning perilously over cliffs, others already toppled into canyons.
At one point a keg of whiskey fell off the back of a wagon and was immediately seized by a passerby who helped himself to the contents. As if by
“You stay out of this!” The man clung to her arm with his left hand, holding the dueling pistol in his right. “This here’s none of your business.”
“Mister, in this country we don’t abuse women. Take your hand off the lady.”
The man let go but he lifted his gun and pointed it at Trevallion.
“Don’t be a damned fool!” Trevallion said irritably. “Your gun’s empty. When you go hunting meat, my friend, you’d better be better armed than that.”
Ignoring him, he glanced at the girl. “Do you want to go with this man?”
“No, I don’t! I want to get away. He, Alfie, he was going to help me.”
“You’re well rid of him. Have you any money?”
“A…a little.”
Jim Ledbetter spoke up. “Her ride’s paid for. So’s his. I can sell that ride and give her the money.” A little wryly, he added, “It doesn’t look like Alfie’s going to show up.”
Trevallion glanced back at the girl. “It will be rough up there. Maybe you should try Sacramento?”
“No. I want to go to Washoe. To Virginia City.”
“Mount up, then.”
The others had started getting into their saddles, some clumsily, others with expert ease. The fat man started forward but Trevallion blocked his way.
“Damn you! You’ve no right to interfere!”
“You’ve no claim on her. If I had my way they’d run you out of town. Your kind aren’t wanted anywhere. When you pointed that gun at me, I could have killed you, and probably should have.”
The man backed off, but his plump cheeks shook with fury. “Damn you! You’ll see! I’ll get even! I’ll get both of you!
Both
of you!”
The agent came from the door. “Jim? Here’s a packet of mail. Most of it is for Hesketh.”
“Hesketh? Isn’t he that bookkeeper for the Solomon?”
“That’s him. He gets more mail than his boss, seems like.”
Ledbetter tucked the letters into a saddlebag, then swung to the saddle and led off, the others following. Trevallion fell in behind the girl. She had a nice straight back and sat her saddle well.
“I’m Trevallion,” he offered.
She smiled. “I am Melissa Turney.” The smile left her face. “His name was Mousel. He’s a placer-miner sometimes, sometimes a trapper.”
She offered no comment on Alfie and Trevallion decided it was no time to ask questions.
The morning was cold and overcast. The wind from off the ranges was chilling, and as they mounted steadily they could catch glimpses of snow under the pines.
The Spanish mule had an easy gait and, like most mules, a no-nonsense attitude. The mule knew exactly where he was going to step and was not about to be guided by some casual pilgrim who might or might not be trail-wise. He had his own way, and Trevallion let him have his head.
The trail was badly rutted, and here and there run-off water had cut deep trenches across the way, and the ruts had frozen into a maze of rocklike ridges, making every step a hazard.
Even at this hour the trail was already crowded with a winding, snakelike procession of men, animals, and occasional wagons. Mule trains forged ahead with that complete indifference to the life and limb of others typical of pack mules the world over. Nobody in his right mind disputed the right-of-way with a pack mule who brushed people aside like so many trailside branches or clumps of brush.
Jim Ledbetter was as single-minded as any mule. His sole responsibility was to those who paid to ride his mules, and to their packs, and he forged ahead like the others.
Nobody wished to stop or even pause for fear someone would pass them by in the rush for Washoe. Wrecked wagons were thrust rudely aside, some of them leaning perilously over cliffs, others already toppled into canyons.
At one point a keg of whiskey fell off the back of a wagon and was immediately seized by a passerby who helped himself to the contents. As if by
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