working, and there were a couple of men busy at the Slum Bucket.
Nathan Bly's down there, Matt. He killed a man a couple of days ago who'd accused him of cheating."
"He asked for it, then. Nathan Bly never cheated anybody."
"He's fast, Matt. Quicker on the shoot than he used to be, and he doesn't go as far with them.*
So Bly was losing his patience, too? Was it that, or had they both become killers? Had they, somewhere along the line, lost their perspective? Had the ability to kill become a willingness to kill?
"What about Thompson?" he asked.
'Ala, now. There's a bad one, Matt. He's mean, he's vicious and low-down. But he's fast. He drinks a lot, but he shoots just as straight when he's drunk. And many a time he acts the drunk when he's cold sober. He likes it, Matt. He makes his brag that the man doesn't live who can stand face to face to him with either fists or guns. I'd say he weighs about two hundred and sixty, and not over five to ten pounds of it blubber. Over at Eureka he smashed Tim Sullivan down, then put the boots to him. Crippled him for life.
"He made his reputation whipping loggers up in Oregon. He was a river man until he found he could live easier with a fist and a gun. They say he's killed twenty men. Cut that in half, if you're talking gun or knife battles, but he killed one man with his fists.
"And Peggoty Gorman is almost as bad. He's a sandbagger or a knife man, does his work in an alley. He used to be an acrobat in the old country, but they shipped him out for murder."
Leaving Fife chewing on the stub of a cigar and listening to the town, Matt went into Clyde's quarters and pulled off his boots, then hung up his gunbelt, the butt of his gun close at hand.
The last thing he remembered was the muttering of some drunken miners as they wandered past the building. Clyde was already asleep.
It was cold and dark when he awoke. He lay perfectly still for a few minutes. The town was quiet. There were no sounds in the room except for the breathing of the Wells Fargo man. Matt struck a match, and shielding it with his hand, glanced at his watch. It lacked a few minutes of five o'clock.
He swung his feet to the floor, and dressed swiftly and silently. Then he went into the next room, and having lighted the coal-oil lamp, he shaved and combed his hair carefully. Taking his hat, he stepped out into the darkness of predawn.
The stage was already standing in the street and he helped Burke hook up the trace chains.
Dandy Burke was a slender man of thirty-odd. He was smoking the stub of a cigar when he came around the lead team. "Are you ready for this?" he asked.
`Ready as I'll ever be. I could use some coffee, though." "Come on over. Felton's up, and Dan Cohan just took the pot off the fire."
Four men stood around nursing cups and looking as if sleep was still in them that the coffee had not warmed away.
"Shotgun." Felton pointed.
I've got my own," Matt said.
Burke picked it up. T11 take that I've seen the time I wanted one."
Matt Coburn let his eyes take in the group. Felton, Cohan, Zeller, and Newton Clyde, who had come over while Matt was helping Burke with the team. Clyde was a good man these Wells Fargo men always were, and they were in every new camp, ready to ship gold before there was even a post office.
Matt's eyes dropped to the cases on the floor. These in addition to the cases across the street? 'Well be carrying more than fifty thousand, then," he said, indicating them. Felton looked at him. "An even hundred thousand: he said, "if their figures match ours."
Matt took a deep breath. If Harry Meadows knew there was that much he would take the gamble, Matt Coburn or no.
"We hit a pocket," Cohan said. "We lifted one nugget that weighed nine pounds, and we hit some thick seams just loaded with it"
You could not keep a thing like that quiet, and Matt knew it. He saw Dandy Burke's face. The Irishman looked grim.
"I made a bargain," Matt said quietly, "but Dandy ought to have more
Nathan Bly's down there, Matt. He killed a man a couple of days ago who'd accused him of cheating."
"He asked for it, then. Nathan Bly never cheated anybody."
"He's fast, Matt. Quicker on the shoot than he used to be, and he doesn't go as far with them.*
So Bly was losing his patience, too? Was it that, or had they both become killers? Had they, somewhere along the line, lost their perspective? Had the ability to kill become a willingness to kill?
"What about Thompson?" he asked.
'Ala, now. There's a bad one, Matt. He's mean, he's vicious and low-down. But he's fast. He drinks a lot, but he shoots just as straight when he's drunk. And many a time he acts the drunk when he's cold sober. He likes it, Matt. He makes his brag that the man doesn't live who can stand face to face to him with either fists or guns. I'd say he weighs about two hundred and sixty, and not over five to ten pounds of it blubber. Over at Eureka he smashed Tim Sullivan down, then put the boots to him. Crippled him for life.
"He made his reputation whipping loggers up in Oregon. He was a river man until he found he could live easier with a fist and a gun. They say he's killed twenty men. Cut that in half, if you're talking gun or knife battles, but he killed one man with his fists.
"And Peggoty Gorman is almost as bad. He's a sandbagger or a knife man, does his work in an alley. He used to be an acrobat in the old country, but they shipped him out for murder."
Leaving Fife chewing on the stub of a cigar and listening to the town, Matt went into Clyde's quarters and pulled off his boots, then hung up his gunbelt, the butt of his gun close at hand.
The last thing he remembered was the muttering of some drunken miners as they wandered past the building. Clyde was already asleep.
It was cold and dark when he awoke. He lay perfectly still for a few minutes. The town was quiet. There were no sounds in the room except for the breathing of the Wells Fargo man. Matt struck a match, and shielding it with his hand, glanced at his watch. It lacked a few minutes of five o'clock.
He swung his feet to the floor, and dressed swiftly and silently. Then he went into the next room, and having lighted the coal-oil lamp, he shaved and combed his hair carefully. Taking his hat, he stepped out into the darkness of predawn.
The stage was already standing in the street and he helped Burke hook up the trace chains.
Dandy Burke was a slender man of thirty-odd. He was smoking the stub of a cigar when he came around the lead team. "Are you ready for this?" he asked.
`Ready as I'll ever be. I could use some coffee, though." "Come on over. Felton's up, and Dan Cohan just took the pot off the fire."
Four men stood around nursing cups and looking as if sleep was still in them that the coffee had not warmed away.
"Shotgun." Felton pointed.
I've got my own," Matt said.
Burke picked it up. T11 take that I've seen the time I wanted one."
Matt Coburn let his eyes take in the group. Felton, Cohan, Zeller, and Newton Clyde, who had come over while Matt was helping Burke with the team. Clyde was a good man these Wells Fargo men always were, and they were in every new camp, ready to ship gold before there was even a post office.
Matt's eyes dropped to the cases on the floor. These in addition to the cases across the street? 'Well be carrying more than fifty thousand, then," he said, indicating them. Felton looked at him. "An even hundred thousand: he said, "if their figures match ours."
Matt took a deep breath. If Harry Meadows knew there was that much he would take the gamble, Matt Coburn or no.
"We hit a pocket," Cohan said. "We lifted one nugget that weighed nine pounds, and we hit some thick seams just loaded with it"
You could not keep a thing like that quiet, and Matt knew it. He saw Dandy Burke's face. The Irishman looked grim.
"I made a bargain," Matt said quietly, "but Dandy ought to have more
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