“Yeah, it didn’t take long for all the little fellas to get crowded out,” Chloride agreed. “A lot of ’em wound up sellin’ their claims for little or nothin’, then stayin’ on to work for wages from the big outfits.”
“We saw the same thing happen in California and Nevada,” Scratch said, “and when we moseyed up here to Deadwood a few years back, we could tell it was gonna be the same story all over again. That’s why we didn’t bother stayin’ around and breakin’ our backs lookin’ for gold.”
They rode around a bend and saw the mine buildings up ahead on their right. The bunkhouse, cook shack, and mess hall were on the fairly level ground at the bottom of the canyon, along with a sturdy log structure that housed the superintendent’s quarters. The mill was built on the slope, at the head of the main shaft sunk into the ridge. A few smaller storage buildings were scattered around, and Bo spotted a squat building made of thick logs a hundred yards up the canyon. That would be where the supply of blasting powder was kept. A while back, he and Scratch had worked at a mine down in Mexico, a long way from here but a setup that had been remarkably similar in some ways.
Bo saw a corral with a dozen mules in it, and a couple of empty wagons were parked next to the enclosure. He pointed them out to Scratch and Chloride and said, “I guess we’ll be using one of those to haul the gold.”
“Can you handle a wagon like that, old-timer?” Scratch asked.
“There you go with that old-timer business again!” Chloride sputtered. “You ain’t no spring chicken! And I can handle anything with four wheels and mules hitched to it!”
Bo grinned as he turned his horse toward the superintendent’s house. “We’d better find Andrew Keefer and give him Miss Sutton’s letter before he starts wondering who we are and gets nervous,” he said.
However, it was too late for that. As they rode up to the house, the door opened and a stocky, balding man with bushy, rust-colored side-whiskers stepped out with a shotgun in his hands. He pointed the Greener at the newcomers and bellowed, “If you’ve come to rob us, you damned Devils, I’ll blow you right out of your saddles!”
CHAPTER 10
Bo and Scratch were experienced enough to keep their hands well away from their guns in a situation like this. Bo could only hope that Chloride would do the same thing. The man on the porch was already spooked, and it wouldn’t take much to make him pull the triggers on that scattergun.
“Take it easy, mister,” Bo said in a calm, steady voice, just like he was trying to settle down a skittish horse. “We’re not here to rob anybody, and we’re sure not members of the Deadwood Devils. Are you Andrew Keefer?”
The question seemed to take the man by surprise, but it got through to him. He lowered the shotgun slightly as he frowned. “I’m Keefer,” he admitted. “Who in blazes are you?”
Bo nodded toward his companions. “This is Scratch Morton and Chloride Coleman. My name’s Bo Creel. Miss Sutton sent us out here from Deadwood to pick up a shipment of ore and take it back to the bank.”
“Coleman,” Keefer repeated as he studied the old-timer. “I know you. You drive for the Argosy.”
“Drove,” Chloride corrected. “I don’t work for Nicholson no more.”
“What happened?”
“You haven’t heard about the Argosy gold wagon being held up a couple of days ago?” Bo asked.
“Nobody from out here has been to town and back the past few days,” Keefer said. “No reason to go. Nobody’s got any money to spend.” The shotgun’s twin barrels rose again. “How do I know you’re who you say you are?”
“Miss Sutton sent a letter with us,” Bo said. “If you’ll let me reach inside my coat without your trigger finger getting too itchy, I’ll get it for you.”
Keefer nodded. “Go ahead. But be careful now,” he warned.
Slowly, Bo reached inside his coat and drew Martha’s letter from the pocket. He brought his horse closer to the porch and held out the paper. Keefer lowered the shotgun again and stepped up to take it. He moved back quickly, just in case this was some sort of trick, Bo suspected.
Keefer grunted as he looked at the wax seal, no doubt recognizing it. He tucked the scattergun under his arm, broke the seal, and unfolded the letter. His eyes scanned it quickly, and as he read, Bo saw him relax a little.
“It appears you’re who you say you are,” Keefer said as he folded the letter and stuck it in a pocket in his brown corduroy trousers. He also wore work boots, a gray wool shirt, and a brown vest. He was so short and stocky that he appeared to be almost as wide as he was tall, but there was an air of strength about him. He wasn’t fat, but rather thick with muscle instead. Bo would have been willing to bet that Andrew Keefer had swung a pickax in many a mine shaft before he ever became a superintendent.
Keefer went on. “Come on inside. You can put your horses and that mule in the corral later.”
The three men dismounted, tied their reins to porch posts, and followed Keefer into the sturdy log building. A fire crackled in the fireplace, combating the November chill that seeped in from outside. Keefer had a fire going in a cast-iron stove, too, with a coffeepot sitting on top of it.
“Coffee?” he asked. “That was probably a pretty cold ride from town.”
“It was,” Bo admitted. “Coffee sounds good.”
This front room was an office, with a desk cluttered with maps, diagrams, ledger books, and assorted paperwork. There was an armchair in front of the desk and a sofa against the wall opposite the fireplace. When Keefer had filled tin cups for all of them, he went behind the desk and waved for his visitors to have a seat. Bo took the armchair, while Scratch and Chloride sat on the sofa.
“Tell me about what happened to the Argosy gold wagon,” Keefer said.
Chloride told the story of the holdup, then Bo took up the tale of their efforts the previous day to follow the trail of the road agents, including the ambush attempt. Keefer listened with rapt attention, and when Bo was finished,
