“I’ve scouted,” Slocum said.

  “You’re the man I need, then!” Aiken slammed his open hand down on the table and caused the empty beer mugs to jump about. He leaned forward, as if forcing himself to control his enthusiasm and whispered conspiratorially, “Gold. The hills are gravid with gold, sir. And I need you to take one of my surveyors out to claim it.”

  “That’s it? Who’s the surveyor you want me to scout for?”

  “My right-hand man, he is. Name of Andrew Stevenson. A good man. A fine man,” Aiken said too forcefully.

  “I don’t think so. I’m just passing through. Wish you the best of luck finding the gold—”

  “I know it’s here, Mr. Slocum,” Aiken said. “It’s a matter of getting it registered legally and bringing in miners to work the claim. I’ll offer you fifty dollars a week to ride for me.”

  Slocum flipped through the coins and few bills he had just won in the poker game. It hardly amounted to fifty dollars, and here Aiken offered this much for a simple week of riding, studying the lay of the land, doing things he did anyway for free.

  “That’s mighty generous. Why so much?”

  “It’s only a week or two of work for you, I’m afraid, sir, but it has to be done fast. And you, being a newcomer to Victory and all, are perfect. You don’t have any allegiances to hold you back.”

  “You saying people you might hire locally would try to do you out of the gold?”

  Aiken coughed genteelly then looked up and smiled. Slocum had never seen such cunning in wide-set brown eyes before.

  “When there’s this much gold at stake, I’m not sure I would trust my own mother.”

  Slocum pondered this for a moment. Aiken wouldn’t trust his own blood but he would hire a drifter he didn’t know from Adam. That didn’t make a whole lot of sense, and as rich as the reward for a little scouting work might be, Slocum decided to pass on it. Before he could tell Aiken his decision, the man reared back in his chair and called to the barkeep for a bottle of whiskey.

  “We need to celebrate,” Aiken said.

  “There’s nothing to celebrate,” Slocum said.

  “There’s Stevenson now. Andy! Come on over. This is John Slocum and he’ll be your guide to . . . the spot.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Stevenson said. He was an eager young man, maybe in his mid-twenties, with tousled blond hair and an honest enough face weathered by wind and sun. His grip was firm and his hand calloused. Unlike Basil Aiken, Slocum took a liking to Stevenson. But not enough to hire on.

  Something just wasn’t right.

  “Here you are, gentlemen,” said the hurdy-gurdy girl, putting the bottle on the table and dropping three shot glasses. Slocum decided there wasn’t anything wrong with sampling some of Billy Taylor’s Finest Whiskey. To his surprise, it went down smooth and might have actually come all the way from Kentucky in an original bottle. It might have come from Aiken’s personal supply.

  “When can we leave? I’m real anxious, Mr. Slocum,” Stevenson said. “The sooner we get things squared away, the quicker we can get down to the real work.”

  “Counting our money!” Aiken laughed at his little joke. Stevenson joined in. Slocum took another drink. It was free and all he had to do was listen a bit longer before saying no.

  “You got that right, Mr. Aiken,” Stevenson said, all puppy-dog eager.

  “Is that all right with you? You can leave in the morning?” Aiken eyed Slocum closely.

  Slocum balanced his chance of getting another shot of the smooth bourbon whiskey before saying “no” but hesitated. Peering in the saloon door was about the prettiest filly he had set eyes on in a month of Sundays. That she didn’t enter told him a great deal about her.

  “What? Oh, wait a minute, will you?” Stevenson jumped to his feet and went to the door, spoke a few minutes, then came back. Slocum locked eyes with the lovely woman. She smiled boldly for a lady too well-mannered to enter a drinking emporium, batted her long eyelashes at him, then vanished into the night.

  “Sorry for the interruption,” Stevenson said.

  “Who was that?” Slocum asked, trying to keep his voice level. “Your missus?”

  “His wife? That’s a rich one!” Aiken laughed even more, having to hold his quaking belly. “No, Mr. Slocum, that’s his sister.”

  “Your sister?”

  “Daisy is a sweet girl. When we get rich, I’m going to show her the best time ever back in Denver. That’s where we came from. Denver.”

  Slocum ran his finger around the rim of the shot glass, then licked the drop of whiskey he had captured.

  “Sunrise soon enough to hit the trail?” Slocum asked.

  2

  Slocum waited impatiently for Andy Stevenson to show up. The sun had crept above the mountains far to the east almost a half hour earlier. He lounged back and watched as the young stableman went about his chores.

  “You been in Victory very long?” Slocum asked.

  “What’s that? Oh, no,” the man said. He continued pitching hay into the center of the stable, getting breakfast ready for the horses waiting as impatiently as Slocum. “Just got to town a month or so back and Smitty—he’s the owner—gave me a job. Came up from New Mexico when I heard-tell of a gold strike.”

  Slocum had to laugh. Everyone knew of the gold strike and yet everyone pretended it was a deep, dark secret. If anything, the real mystery was why Victory hadn’t exploded at the seams with prospectors rushing in to become millionaires overnight.

  “You decided to feed horses rather than dig gold out of the ground?”

  “Something like that,” the stableman said. “Actually, I talked it out with Smitty. He’s seen ’em come, ’nd seen ’em go. He says the only ones who made any money were the ones who worked hard—at tendin’ the prospectors. I thought on it and decided he was right. For an old drunk, Smitty’s not so dumb.”

  “You’re a smart man,” Slocum said, getting an appreciative grin in response.

  “There you are,” came Stevenson’s aggrieved words. “I thought we were meeting in front of the Sweetwater.”

  “Figured you had to fetch your horse, so here I am.” Slocum said nothing about also sleeping here.

  “Let’s go, then. I’m in a big hurry. Mr. Aiken said we could get to the spot, survey it and be back before sundown.”

  “Must not be too far off,” Slocum said, leading his horse from its stall. He made certain the girth was screwed down tight. This gelding had a tendency to swell itself up, then exhale and send an inexperienced rider tumbling, saddle and all.

  “Here’s the map, sir.” Stevenson passed over a scrap of paper that had been folded so many times that it was falling apart. Slocum took the paper, gingerly turned it about until he got the compass rose aimed in the right direction, then studied it.

  “You’re right. The spot marked isn’t that far off. Wonder why nobody’s found the gold before now?” Slocum scratched his chin, the stubble poking into his work-hardened hand.

  “Victory’s a new town. Well, not real new,” Stevenson said. “The railroad’s only been here a few months. General Palmer cut the ribbon here and everything.”

  Slocum looked at Andy Stevenson and wondered if he was this enthusiastic about everything. He bubbled over with energy as he rose and settled in the saddle repeatedly, anxious to get on the trail. Slocum folded the crude map and tucked it into his shirt pocket.

  “Might explain it, but this part of Colorado’s been pretty well explored over the last few years, thanks to the fighting with the Utes.”

  “Oh, there’s no Indian trouble now,” Stevenson solemnly assured him. “Chief Ouray’s promised that, and he’s an honorable man.”

  “I’ve heard that said of him,” Slocum allowed. “Still, there’re a few firebrands up north who don’t cotton much to his peaceable ways.”

  “We’re here, and we’re going to be rich,” Stevenson said.

  They rode in silence for a few minutes before Slocum worked up his nerve.

  “That woman last night. The one who poked her head into the saloon. That’s really your sister?”

  “Certainly is,” Stevenson said proudly. “Daisy’s a fine girl.”

  “Right good-looking one, too,” Slocum said. For the first time Stevenson turned and glared, as if warning Slocum to keep his distance.

  “Your folks from around this area?”

  “It’s just me and Daisy,” the young man said. “Cholera took our folks. The rest of our people, too. Danged near eighteen Stevensons died in the span of two months last summer.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Slocum said. “Does Daisy work for Aiken, too?”

  “Odd jobs,” Stevenson said. “Not like me. Mr. Aiken said it last night. I’m his right-hand man.”

  Slocum pointed to a game trail leading westward off the main road and let Stevenson fall in behind as they rode single file for a mile, gaining altitude rapidly and entering more rugged, rockier territory. Slocum kept a sharp eye out for any trouble, but the countryside was as quiet here as it was noisy around Victory. They disturbed some wildlife, mostly marmots, and the sight of a fat buck rabbit made Slocum’s belly growl. He had skipped breakfast, thinking Stevenson would be early and eager to get on the trail. Instead of taking a shot at the quick rabbit, he reached back into his saddlebags and pulled out some venison jerky. He offered a piece to Stevenson, who hesitated, then shook his head.

  “You can scrape off the green fuzz. It’s not so old yet that it’ll kill you,” Slocum said, biting down on the tough meat and chewing methodically, letting his saliva soften it before swallowing. Even then, it went down hard and caught about halfway down his swallow pipe. He took a long pull from his canteen and this washed the reluctant jerky all the way to his belly. Although he had fresher food he had bought in Victory, he wanted to finish what he already had. Waste not, want not.

  “Thanks, but I’m too excited to eat. I’ve never been this close to being rich before.”

  “This gold find? It’d be yours?”

  “Oh, no, it’s Mr. Aiken’s since he found it and is putting up the money to exploit it and—”

  “How’s he know there’s anything out here?” Slocum looked around. He was no geologist but had some experience when it came to finding gold. The rock in these parts might be good for something, but finding gold in them wasn’t one of them. Not like up in California Gulch or around Cripple Creek. The rock here looked like . . . rock.

  “He—I don’t know,” admitted the young man. “He’s struck it rich before, so he knows ’bout all there is when it comes to gold mining.”

  “Do tell,” Slocum said. He wasn’t much impressed with the way this hunt for blue dirt went. A small stream meandered down from higher ground but nothing caught his eye in the small pools of water. Not so much as a golden glimmer to show there might be flakes of the precious metal here.

  “Is this the area?”

  “Could be. Hard to tell from the map,” Slocum said. Stevenson pulled out a notebook and a stub of a pencil and began scribbling frantically. Now and then, like a chicken taking a break from pecking at grain, the young man looked around, then went back to his frantic writing. Slocum had no idea what had impressed Stevenson so mightily that he had to record it.

  “Is this spot known to anyone else?”

  “How could it be? Mr. Aiken is the only one who knows about it. Him and us, that is. Why do you ask?”

  “Somebody’s come this way recently,” Slocum said, shielding his eyes against the bright Colorado sun as he studied the muddy area around the pond where he had first looked for specks of gold. At least four riders had watered their mounts here. Their deep hoofprints in the mud had filled but were still visible, leading Slocum to believe the riders were gone only a half hour or so.

  He looked around, then caught sight of a few broken twigs on a shrub. He pointed them out to Stevenson.

  “What’s it mean?” Everything the young man said reinforced Slocum’s belief that this was as close to roughing it as he had ever gotten. Since Stevenson was such a tenderfoot, that meant Daisy Stevenson was the product of a city, too. That set Slocum thinking in other directions, mostly about Daisy Stevenson, but he shook his head to clear his thoughts. This was no time to lose concentration, not with a band of unidentified riders nearby.

  “From the direction the bigger limbs are bent and the twigs broken, they went uphill. Might be they’re on the ridge now, watching us.”

  “No, they can’t. They can’t know about the gold.”

  “There’s no gold here,” Slocum said irritably.

  “You said this was the spot marked on the map.”

  “It is,” Slocum said, “but I don’t see any gold.” He reached over and slid the leather keeper off the hammer of his Colt Navy. It was quiet. The riders might have travelled on and could be halfway to Cortez by now, but a cold knot formed in his gut that told him different.

  “I need to put out stone markers.”

  “You get your survey equipment out and tend to the mapping,” Slocum said. “I’ll scout up there.”

  “Equipment?”

  Slocum swung in the saddle and stared at Stevenson. The young man was genuinely puzzled.

  “Aiken said you were going to survey the area. You need equipment for that.”

  “I . . . I don’t have anything like that. I was only going to put up stone markers—piles of rock. And record it.” Stevenson held up his notebook as if this explained everything.

  Slocum shook his head.

  “You stay here. Don’t stray far.”

  “What’s wrong? You know something you’re not telling me.”

  “Don’t go drawing any attention to yourself. Water your horse, then go set yourself down under that tree.” Slocum pointed out the one affording the best cover. “You don’t want to take too much sun.”

  Stevenson started to protest, then clamped his mouth shut and looked a tad petulant. Slocum ignored the reaction. The feeling of something being seriously wrong grew. He itched to draw the Winchester from its sheath and lever a round into the chamber, just in case. But he rode slowly along the same path taken by the earlier band, every sense alert. He heard Andy Stevenson grumbling back at the shallow pool along the stream, and he ignored him so he could concentrate on other, smaller sounds. Wind through the aspen leaves, through the pine needles. The sound of a distant animal thrashing about in the brush. A deer? Slocum paid it no attention. Ahead he heard the soft nickering of a horse.

  He rode, back straight, eyes ahead and knew now what he was getting himself into. Any show of fear would mean his immediate death.

  A grim smile came to his lips. Even if he showed no fear, he might be killed. Turning and running, even a cautious retracing of his route this far, might result in instant death.

  The glint of sunlight off the front sights of a rifle alerted him to the sniper on his left. He heard movement in the brush to his right; this was intended to draw his attention away from the Indians working their way into an ambush ahead, just under the ridge line.

  Slocum drew rein and leaned forward, so his hand rested near the butt of his Colt Navy. He did not grab for the six-shooter but wanted to be more than halfway to it if things turned nasty.

  “Greetings,” Slocum called. He shifted into Shoshone, which was close enough to what the local Weeminuche Ute spoke to get by.

  “We speak English,” came the angry reply.

  “Better than I speak your language,” Slocum said.

  “You are on Ute land. Get off!”

  “Didn’t know this was yours,” Slocum said. “Fact is, by treaty your land’s a ways to the north. You hunting? Game is mighty scarce farther north, I hear.”

  “This is our land.”

  “I saw a deer a mile or so back,” Slocum went on, ignoring the man who stepped into plain view. The others with him remained hidden. Slocum felt the hair on the back of his neck prickling. The others were hunters and all had their rifles trained on him.

  “You do not ride alone. Why did the other remain at the river?”

  “Thirsty,” Slocum said. “He was mighty thirsty from our ride.” He considered lying, saying that they were scouting for a much larger group but knew the Utes weren’t likely to buy that for a second. If anything, it might spook them into killing him and Stevenson before hightailing it. Better to palaver for a while. Didn’t cost anything and the Ute leader didn’t seem inclined to open fire. Not yet.

  “More white eyes come to our land.”

  “Reckon that’s true,” Slocum said. He saw the surprise on the Indian’s face. “A whole bunch of white folks are moving in, according to the treaty your Chief Ouray signed back in Washington.”

  “Ouray,” the brave spat. “He rides in a fine carriage and forgets what it is like to hunt. The Great Father gives Ouray everything he wants. We starve!”

  “Sounds like your beef is with your chief,” Slocum said. “Not me. Not us. And your land is farther north about twenty miles.”

  The brave gestured and six other Utes magically appeared. Slocum had a good idea where three had been. The other three were too well hidden to be seen. Seeing how many he faced, he was glad he hadn’t shot first and parleyed later.

  “You do not fear us.”

  “You’re wrong. I do. But it’s no good to go screaming and shouting about it.” Slocum again surprised the brave with his frankness. “If you want to bag that deer I saw, you’d better get after it. Mule deer.” He hadn’t seen any deer, only heard what he thought might be a deer foraging in the undergrowth, but this little lie went further now that the Utes had him pegged as a man who spoke the truth.

  “You have gift?”

  “For a great warrior such as yourself, I certainly do,” Slocum said. He slowly reached down and drew the knife sheathed in his right boot top. A quick flip brought the blade into his palm. He held it out, every movement precise and slow. “For you. To skin that deer.”

  The brave walked over, looked down his long roman nose at the knife, then took it. A single quick nod was all the acknowledgment Slocum got.