Some called him a ghost. And if ever men might come back to haunt a place, it’d be a man murdered and left to burn and rot in the middle of a dead wagon train.
The Guardian was why Raddo had gone straight. Well, that and Luth striking it rich and helping all the men claim mines.
Raddo ground his teeth as he stomped off to find his much smaller band. Luth was a powerful man now, and he wouldn’t like knowing Raddo had gone back to his old ways.
But Raddo wasn’t wealthy, and that could be laid right at the feet of his big brother who’d claimed the most prosperous mines for himself and left Raddo with the dregs.
He didn’t need to follow the woman he’d nearly run down. He knew they were heading out to warn the wagon train. He was tempted to act fast, gather the men, and go after her. They could stop her and her saddle partner from passing on their warning.
But were they too close to Carson City? A wagon train moved slowly. It wouldn’t be a good distance from the sheriff yet, who had a reputation as a tough man who paid no attention to a crime committed long miles and many days down a trail, but would come hunting hard at a killing close to his town.
Raddo knew where to find Dalt and Meeks—in a saloon, right where Raddo had been heading when he’d had his lucky run-in with the woman.
Did they dare try and take her before she reached the wagon train? Or was it better to not let Dalt and Meeks know about this? They were already fretting about taking on such a big train. Now add a wagon train that’d been warned and was on alert?
They’d turn yellow and quit for sure if they tried to get the woman and failed.
He tossed different ideas around, not sure what to do. They did need to get out of town, though. If she’d described Dalt well enough, someone might point him out to the sheriff.
Dalt thought he should get more men, and maybe that was the safer bet. Raddo didn’t like sharing, but he’d rather share than die.
Lots to decide, but one thing was for certain. That eyewitness couldn’t be allowed to live. And the man who rode with her knew enough he needed to go, too.
It’d give them one less thing to worry about.
CHAPTER
20
Trace was worrying about Deb more every minute. Not a whimper out of her. Her spine was straight, but her knuckles were white, gripped on the saddle horn. He’d seen her head bob forward a couple of times for a second before she snapped upright again.
The woman was done in for a fact, and it was approaching dark in the short days of late October.
If he didn’t find that wagon train mighty soon, he was going to have to call off their ride and find them a place to camp. And he was mighty sure she wouldn’t like it. Something about properness, which he’d heard of in some of the books he’d read, but really had no idea what it meant exactly. He only knew Deb knew, and she seemed to give it some importance. He watched her, prepared to catch her if she fell off the horse. He could probably carry her until he found the wagon train. He wondered if that was proper enough for her. Well, she’d be asleep and maybe she’d never really figure out what had gone on.
And then as the last of the sun sank behind the mountain and the dusk faded to dark, he saw ahead several blazing fires that outlined a circle of covered wagons.
With a sigh of relief, he swung down off his horse. “Deb, c’mon down. We’re near the train now.” He eased her to the ground and held on, not sure her knees would wobble. “Hello, camp!”
She jumped at his shout and shook her head. He felt her steady herself.
Trace heard rifles cocking. It didn’t bother him; he wouldn’t respect men in the wilderness who weren’t wary.
There was a right way and a wrong way to approach a wagon train. He didn’t know how salty this bunch was, but he let them hear him and see him for as long as they wanted.
“Come on in slow,” someone called.
The two of them walked in, leading their horses. Hands in plain sight, his pistol in his holster with the thong over the trigger, his rifle visible in the saddle’s scabbard.
He reached the first man and asked, “Are you the wagon master?”
The burly man, with overlong dark hair and a beard shot full of gray, narrowed his eyes. Then after long seconds, he nodded his head. “You folks need a meal?”
“We’d appreciate it, sir.” Trace offered his hand.
“Goff Eckley. Call me Goff. I’m the leader of this group. We’re a friendly bunch.” The man thrust his own hand forward.
Trace didn’t believe it was all that friendly, though, considering five men had come out with the boss, and all had their guns to hand.
“I want to talk to you, pass on a warning.” Trace’s eyes slid along from man to man. “Are you the sentries and scouts? I reckon the whole train needs to know, but I’d prefer they hear it from you.”
With a tip of his hat at Deb, Goff asked, “Would you like to join the women and get a meal, miss?”
“She stays with me. She’s a survivor of a wagon train massacre, just a few days’ ride from here on the south fork of the California Trail.”
That got their attention.
All six men holstered their guns and stepped closer.
“Tell us what’s going on.” Goff crossed his arms tightly across his chest.
Trace made it a short, harsh story, sparing them nothing. Deb described the man she’d seen and the men she’d heard.
“We’ll need to double the sentries.” Goff looked at Trace. “I might have more questions. You folks
