The Mother Lode by Gary Franklin

scalps?”
    She took a deep breath and replied, “Mr. Moss is mending.”
    â€œSlowly,” Purvis said. “Too slowly.”
    Ellen’s cheeks reddened and she snapped, “Mr. Moss has a broken hip and a crushed foot in addition to some very serious cuts and bruises. And he is not a young man, Mr. Purvis.”
    â€œNo, I can see that.”
    Purvis was in his mid-fifties. Big and strong with chin whiskers and thin gray strands of hair stretched across an otherwise bald head. His brows were black and bushy, and he wore heavy boots and baggy pants with a heavy canvas coat smeared with dirt and manure. His hat was black and flat-brimmed, and Joe’s overall impression was that he was above all else a self-important and humorless man.
    Joe pushed himself up in his bed and glared at the intruder. Purvis had staked out the fact that they were not going to be on friendly terms. He’d made that more than plain from his sharp words and expression of disgust and disapproval. Joe saw no reason to try to be cordial with this man who was causing Ellen Johnson so much fear and worry.
    â€œYou’d be Mrs. Johnson’s neighbor,” Joe said. “I’d be Joe Moss.”
    Purvis didn’t bother to move any closer, much less shake hands. “So how did you happen to run your team off the side of that cliff, Joe? Were you drunk or just not paying attention?”
    Joe’s jaw clenched, and it was all that he could do to remain civil out of respect to Mrs. Johnson. “I was run off the road by a freighter comin’ up the grade.”
    â€œOh, really? Well, that’s a first. I took four strong men down there and dragged you and what stock survived out of that canyon. Took us a full day away from our farms and own chores.”
    â€œI’m grateful to you for that,” Joe said grudgingly.
    â€œAnd in repayment,” Purvis said, “we are willing to take that broken and splintered lumber.”
    â€œI’m planning on bringing that lumber back up to the road and taking it on to sell in Carson City or on the Comstock Lode.”
    Purvis didn’t like that even a little bit. His jaw clenched and he said, “Then how will you repay our community for the loss of our time?”
    Joe reckoned he should have seen that one coming. Charity toward strangers might exist in Mrs. Johnson, but it sure didn’t in the rest of these people toward an outsider. “Will twenty dollars do?”
    He could see that Purvis was surprised by the sum. Men worked in the nearby Comstock deep mines earning three dollars for a ten-hour day, and farm labor often brought only a dollar a day, while Joe had just offered four dollars each to the five men.
    â€œIt will do,” Purvis said. “Providing it is payment in gold and not federal dollars.”
    â€œIt will be.”
    There was a long silence, and then Purvis asked, “Are you a man of God?”
    â€œI reckon God made us all,” Joe said. “And that includes Indians.”
    The man’s eyes widened. “Heathens are not Christians and they’ll go to hell.”
    â€œJudge not lest ye be judged, Eli Purvis,” Ellen said, coming between them. “And now, I have my own chores to do if we’re finished talking.”
    Purvis was being dismissed, and he didn’t like that from how his eyes tightened at the corners. He gave Joe one last withering look of disdain, and then turned and walked away.
    â€œI can see why you’d not want to marry that man,” Joe said. “How many wives does he already have?”
    â€œThree.”
    â€œI feel damned sorry for ’em,” Joe told her. “You’d be better off stayin’ single than marrying a man like that.”
    â€œI know, but I might not have a choice in the matter for much longer.”
    Joe blinked. “Why not? You and your husband owned this farm.”
    â€œThat’s true,” she replied, “but