He rode north out of Bury, following the Salmon River. He headed for a small town called Salmon. A rough-and- tumble mining camp.
He had no intention of going to Salmon; Buck just wanted to see if he was being followed. He wanted to test how much trust Richards had in him.
“Not much,” Buck grunted. He was back in the deep timber, hidden, watching his backtrail. He was watching a half-dozen riders slowly tracking him. Using his spyglass, Buck pulled them into closer view. He knew their faces, having seen them loafing around Bury, but didn’t know their names.
Buck rode deeper into the timber, making a slow circle, coming out of the timber behind the riders. Now he was tracking them. He wore an amused look on his face as he watched the gunhands slowly circling, having lost Buck’s trail, trying to once more find it. Buck rode up to within five hundred or so yards of the men and sat his horse, watching the men.
One rider finally lifted his head, feeling, sensing eyes on him. “Crap!” the man’s voice drifted faintly to Buck. “He’s watchin’
The PSR riders bunched and rode slowly toward Buck, reining up a respectable distance from him. One said, “This ain’t nothin’ personal, partner. We ride for the brand, just like you.”
“No offense taken, boys. Town was closing in on me. I wanted some space. You know what I mean?”
“Know exactly what you mean,” a scar-faced rider said. “We got biscuits and coffee and it’s ’bout noon. Let’s build a fire and jaw some.”
Cinches loosened, bits out, the horses ground-reined, they grazed. The riders sat on the ground, munching biscuits and drinking cups of strong black coffee. The scar-faced rider was Joiner. The oldest of the men, a hard- eyed puncher, was Wilson. Buck took an immediate dislike for Wilson and he sensed the feeling was mutual. McNeil had practically nothing to say. But he kept eyeballing Buck. The man’s head was totally bald. Long was short and stocky. He wore one gun tied down low and his second gun in a shoulder-holster rig. Davis was a long lean drink of water; looked like a strong wind would blow him slap out of the saddle. Simpson was big and mean-looking.
“You familiar with Brown’s Hole?” Joiner asked Buck.
“Been there. Went there lookin’ for Jensen. Grave close to the base of Zenobia Peak. Looks like that’s where Jensen planted his pa.”
“You dig the grave up?” Wilson asked.
“
Davis said, “That’d be a sin. Sorry no good would do that. Let a man rest in peace.”
Wilson looked pained. “Mayhaps that’d be where the gold is buried.”
“How would a dead man do that?” Simpson asked.
Wilson nodded his head. “Ain’t thought about that. You right.”
Then another piece plopped into place in Buck’s mind.
10
1867. Emmett Jensen’s horses had been picketed close to the base of Zenobia Peak. His gear was by his grave, covered with a ground sheet and secured with rocks. The letter from his pa, given him by the old mountain man, Grizzly, was in Smoke’s pocket.
“You read them words on that paper your pa left you?” Preacher asked.
“Not yet.”
“I’ll go set up camp at the Hole. I reckon you’ll be along directly.”
“Tomorrow. ’Bout noon.”
“See you then.” Preacher headed north. He would cross Vermillion Creek, then cut west into the Hole. Smoke would find him when he felt ready for human company. But for now, the young man needed to be alone with his pa.
Smoke unsaddled his horse, Seven, and allowed him to roll. He stripped the gear from the pack animals, setting them grazing. Taking a small hammer and a miner’s spike from his gear, Smoke began the job of chiseling his father’s name into a large, flat rock. He could not remember exactly when his pa was born, but he thought it about 1815.
Headstone in place, secured by rocks, Smoke built a small fire, put coffee on to boil in the blackened pot, then sat down to read the letter from his pa.
Son,
I found some of the men who killed your brother Luke and stolt the gold that belonged to the Gray. Theys more of them than I first thought. I killed two of the men work for them, but they got led in me and I had to hitail it out. Came here. Not goin to make it. Son, you dont owe nuttin to the Cause of the Gray. So dont get it in your mind you do. Make yoursalf a good life and look to my final restin place if you need help.
Preacher kin tell you some of what happen, but not all. Remember—look to my grave if you need help.
I allso got word that your sis Janey leff that gambler and has took up with an outlaw down in Airyzona. Place called Tooson. I woodn fret much about her. She is mine, but I think she is trash. Dont know where she got that streek from.
I am gettin tared and seein is hard. Lite fadin. I love you Kirby-Smoke.
Pa
Smoke reread the letter. Look to my grave. He could not understand that part. He pulled up his knees and put
