“She might,” Bo said, “but I don’t want to ask her. I never have liked being beholden to anybody.”
“Me, neither,” Scratch agreed. “Do we offer to wash dishes?”
Bo laughed. “It may come to that. Let’s not give up just yet, though. There are other mining companies in Deadwood, and some of them have lost gold shipments, too. Maybe one of them would like to hire a couple of trackers.”
“Worth a try,” Scratch agreed.
They spent the afternoon going from office to office, but with no luck. Although the reception they got at the other companies wasn’t as hostile as the one at the Argosy, no one was willing to hire them to try to track down the Deadwood Devils.
“That’s the sheriff’s job,” they were told more than once.
The Texans were coming out of the office of the Black Hills Bonanza Mining Company when they almost ran into a smaller figure scurrying along the boardwalk. Bo put out a hand to steady the little white-bearded man, who he recognized as Chloride Coleman.
“Take it easy there, old-timer,” Bo said, which drew an angry snort from Coleman.
“Who’re you callin’ old-timer? A few more years and your hair’ll be just as white as mine, mister.” Coleman jerked a thumb at Scratch. “His already is.”
“My hair’s silver,” Scratch corrected. “Not white.”
Coleman snorted again. “You still ain’t that much younger’n me, and don’t you forget it. Now step aside. I got business to tend to.”
Bo inclined his head toward the door. “With the Black Hills Bonanza?”
“That’s right.” Coleman drew himself up to his full height, which was still a head shorter than the Texans’. “I got to see if they want to hire the best dang gold wagon driver in the whole blasted Dakota Territory.”
“I thought you worked for the Argosy Mining Company,” Bo said.
Coleman grimaced and for a moment looked like he was trying to chew a particularly tough piece of meat. Finally he said, “Not that it’s any o’ your business, mister, but word got back to Mr. Nicholson that that rascal Davenport over to the bank was askin’ questions about how come the Devils didn’t kill me like they have ever’body else they’ve held up. Must’ve got him nervous, ’cause he decided they could dispense with my wagon-drivin’ services, as he put it.” Coleman turned his head and disgustedly spat a stream of tobacco juice into the street.
“That’s a shame,” Scratch said. “We’re outta work, too, and been tryin’ to hire on with one of the companies to track down those road agents.”
“None of ’em hired you, did they?” Coleman guessed.
“Not yet,” Bo said. “There’s one more left, though.”
“Which one’s that?”
“The Golden Queen.”
Coleman shook his head. “You don’t want to work for that outfit. Take my word for it.”
“Why not?” Scratch asked.
“For one thing, it’s about to go under. It’s been hit harder than any of the other companies. The fellas who work for the Golden Queen been gettin’ by on promises instead o’ wages for nigh on to a month now.”
Bo rubbed his chin as he thought. “Maybe what we should do is try to find those outlaws first, and then find somebody who’s willing to pay us for what we know.”
“How do we eat in the meantime?” Scratch asked.
Bo sighed. “I don’t like to say it, but maybe we could ask Mrs. Pendleton for some credit after all.”
“Sue Beth Pendleton?” Coleman piped up. “That there is one handsome woman, lemme tell you. Serves up a mighty fine helpin’ of vittles, too. Feisty, though. Mighty feisty. Darned shame about her husband Tom. He was a good fella.”
Bo nodded. “Yeah, she told us about him getting killed. Something else I was thinking about, Mr. Coleman —”
“Call me Chloride,” the old-timer interrupted. “Ever’body does. And come to think of it, you ain’t told me your names. I know you’re from Texas ’cause of the way you talk, but that’s all I know about you.”
“I’m Scratch Morton, and this here is Bo Creel,” Scratch supplied.
Chloride nodded. “Pleased to meet you. Now, what was you sayin’, Bo?”
Bo said, “I was just thinking that if we do decide to see if we can pick up the trail of those robbers, it might be helpful if you’d ride with us out to the place where they held you up. You could show us exactly where things happened.”
Chloride scratched at his beard. “I dunno . . . I got some bad memories o’ that place.”
“It just happened today,” Scratch pointed out.
“Well, they’re still memories, ain’t they? They ain’t happenin’ now!”
“We could cut you in on whatever reward we got out of it,” Bo suggested, sensing that that might have some bearing on Chloride’s reluctance to help them.
The avarice that instantly glittered in the old man’s rheumy eyes told Bo his hunch was right. Chloride nodded and said, “I might could do that. If I got time, that is, once I get a new job.”
“All right. We can find you around town?”
