behind, and Walt and Hank on the wagon. Cain was driving the wagon and Hank sat beside him. Walt sat on the gold boxes, riding backward to make sure no one came up behind them.
Cain said he had lost three good men so far in the last six shipments, but had managed to get the gold out every time. But the robbers had gained in numbers each time, and it seemed like the focus was on Cain’s shipments more than the other mines in the area.
Fargo didn’t much like the sound of that. Sure, Cain was doing well, but if he really was being targeted, that meant there was a lot more behind this than just a gang of robbers taking opportunities as they came down the trail.
As they pulled onto the main Placerville road from the Sharon’s Dream side road, Fargo had the wagon slow down. He wanted to give himself time to scout ahead on his big Ovaro stallion.
As the wagon moved slowly along, he was often a good distance from the road, moving along high ground to scout out what was ahead before circling back. He knew the Placerville road. He had been in the area a number of times as the gold boom exploded. With luck, he could clear this band of robbers out of the area in a few weeks, while enjoying some time with his old friend.
It was from a ridgeline to the north of the trail that he saw the five men taking up positions in a stand of tall trees and thick brush to ambush the gold shipment.
He had left his horse and moved silently down on them.
From the looks of the two men crouched in front of him, Cain had gotten Fargo on the job just in time. The wagon and the men guarding it didn’t stand a chance against five guns blazing a short distance from the narrow corridor between the trees.
The two thieves were dressed like miners. They wore stained and faded overalls over dirty white undershirts, rough work boots, and thin-brimmed hats. These men were not professional robbers. They had been hired by someone to do this, which meant Cain had a much bigger problem than these five. This was no gang of trail thieves and gun sharps. This sounded like another mine owner with money who was after the gold ore coming out of Sharon’s Dream.
The rumbling of the heavy wagon echoed ahead through the trees and brush, and the two men both raised their guns, their attention completely on the road. With his Colt in hand, Fargo stepped toward them.
Fargo could move silently like a mountain lion when he wanted to. He was within a step of the closest robber when the man glanced around and said, “What . . . ?”
It was his last word before Fargo smashed his fist into the man’s face, the punch slamming him back into a boulder. The man slid down, unconscious.
“No!” Fargo said, pointing his Colt at the other man, who was just now turning to fire on Fargo.
Fargo put two bullets into the man’s right shoulder. Fargo could see him teeter, then fall to the ground. But the man wasn’t done yet. Lying flat on his back, he fired as he brought his gun up, his shot smashing wide and splattering into a tree behind Fargo. Fargo put two quick shots into the miner, then ducked behind a tree to make sure he was out of the way of fire coming from across the trail.
“Harry!” someone shouted from across the road. This one was hiding in a stand of trees about thirty paces away and slightly up the road toward the wagon.
It seemed that one of the two men had been named Harry. Fargo didn’t much care which one. They had planned on bushwhacking and killing good men trying to do an honest day’s work. They didn’t even deserve names on the crosses over their graves. Actually, as far as Fargo was concerned, they were better served as buzzard meat.
One man eased out from behind a tree, glancing first up the road at the now stopped wagon and then over at where his friends were.
“Get back!” another robber said from his hiding place.
At least one of them had a slight bit of sense.
Taking no chances, Fargo aimed at the man who had left his cover and smashed his gun hand with a clean, quick shot. The man spun like he’d been dancing with a pretty girl in a saloon, then went over backward in a dance move no one would ever want to try to repeat.
Two guns opened up, splintering bark chest-high from the tree Fargo was using as a shield.
Fargo dropped to the ground, spotted where one gun was firing from, and patterned the area with three quick shots.
The shout of pain and then the sound of a body falling into the brush were clear as Fargo sat with his back against the tree and quickly reloaded all six cylinders.
For a moment, the forest was silent; then came the sound of a man crashing through the brush as the last ambusher ran for his life, trying to make it to where they had tied off their horses.
Fargo dashed across the road, his heavy boots pounding the dust.
Down the road he could see that Cain and his men had done exactly as he had told them to do when they heard gunfire. Cain had pulled the wagon off the road and into the closest shelter available. Everyone had dismounted and taken cover, their guns up and ready.
Up ahead of him, the ambusher was making a lot of noise as he scrambled up the open rock slope to the horses. Fargo burst out of the trees on the other side of the small grove just as the man worked to mount a reluctant steed. He also looked like a miner, but the horse and gear he rode didn’t fit him.
And he clearly wasn’t used to mounting and riding fast as he struggled to hold the horse still enough for him to get in the saddle.
Fargo took a deep breath. No point in killing him. Fargo almost smiled. The way the man was riding— looking like he was ready to fall off his horse—maybe he’d kill himself anyway.
Carrying his Colt in a ready position, Fargo climbed up the hill the rest of the way to check on the remaining horses. They were well kept and the tack was expensive, the type you’d find the owner of a ranch using, not a fellow dressed like he was fresh out of a mine. Or, for that matter, the man down in the trees who looked like a typical rustler. Someone with money was behind this and had given them good horses for the job.
Marshal Tal Davis pushed his way through the batwings and strode into the saloon. He recognized just about everybody in the place.
He was looking for faces he
Irish had sent a runner to tell the marshal that a suspicious-looking man was sitting in the back of the place playing poker and bullying the other four men sitting in.
A long bar of crude pine ran along the west wall. A small stage ran the length of the back wall. The tables filled up the eastern part of the place. A low fog of tobacco smoke hovered over everything.
Davis didn’t have any trouble figuring out who the probable gunny was. At the moment the man was slamming his wide fist down against the table, making it dance, toppling poker chips. His harsh voice was made even harsher by his drunkenness and anger. “You think I don’t know when a bunch of rubes are cheatin’ me?” he said.
The other players watched in shock and fear as the gunny suddenly produced a shiny Colt .45 and pointed it at the face of a bald man.
“You been cheatin’ me all along,” the gunny said, “and now you’re gonna pay.”
“This is an honest game, Kelly,” the bald man said. He managed to sound calm. “You’re havin’ a run of bad luck is all. And to be honest, it don’t help that you managed to put away all them drinks while we’ve been playin’. Now my advice to you—”
“I don’t want no advice from you!”
The few drinkers who hadn’t been watching the card game now swung their attention to the man holding the gun on the cardplayers. They also paid attention to Davis. He now stood no more than six feet in back of the gunny, his own Colt drawn.
