Slocum whistled again and listened hard for any response from his horse. Nothing. He knew then he had to find shelter on his own or he was a goner. The first thing he had to do was figure out where he was. Dropping to his knees, he scraped away some of the accumulated snow and then walked in a wide circle to determine which way the land rose. He had been heading across the meadow when he was shot out of the saddle, and he intended to continue that way since he knew there was no shelter to be found on his backtrail.

  Keeping the wind chewing at his left side, Slocum pulled down his hat and began trudging until he was certain he walked uphill. When he found faint traces of fresh hoofprints, his heart raced. It was either his horse or the one ridden by the man he pursued, since not much snow had piled up along the rims of the print. Slocum walked a little faster, keeping his arms swinging so the blood flowed freely through his limbs and kept them from tingling with cold. He made good time—then the ground fell out from under him.

  Slocum keeled over and rolled and rolled and rolled until he fetched up hard against a large rock. Dazed by the sudden impact, he tried to stand but couldn’t find the strength. His head hurt, his body ached and his legs were so rubbery he might never get to his feet again. But there was one bright spot amid all the damage done to his body. Being on the lee side of the boulder cut off the worst of the freezing wind and gave him a chance to recover.

  He turned and saw movement in the thick blankets of snow whipping past him. Slocum yelled but his voice sounded muffled, as if someone had stuffed a rag into his mouth. He shouted again, struggled with renewed determination and got to his feet. As fast as he could move, he plunged into the storm.

  “Here!” he shouted, though his voice came out a hoarse croak better suited to a bullfrog’s throat. “Come back. Come on!” He slipped and slid in his haste, but the dark figure loomed ahead, beckoning him on like some half-seen Lorelei amid treacherous rocks. For once luck favored him. His horse’s reins caught in a low-growing bush, preventing the animal from running off.

  Slocum grabbed for the reins, caught them in clumsy fingers and then worked his way back, patting the horse with his snow-encrusted glove, soothing the skittish behavior and finally reaching the saddle. He grabbed the horn and pulled hard, getting himself belly down over the saddle. From here he swung about and properly sat astride the horse.

  “View’s no better from up here,” he said, looking out into the whiteness cloaking the world. At least he no longer had to force his legs to move. He guessed at directions, using the wind as a compass needle, and urged the horse forward. From the way it strained, Slocum knew they made their way upslope. Now and then the rocks would break apart the onslaught of the storm and give him a decent view of the terrain. Rocks. Everywhere rocks.

  Then he found salvation. Slocum tugged hard on the reins and guided the horse toward the base of a towering bluff that vanished into the storm above. The wind shear along the face of the cliff was vicious, but Slocum knew there had to be caves carved into the mountainside. Luck still rode at his shoulder. He found a shallow depression within minutes, dismounted and led his horse inside so it was trapped at the rear of the small cave.

  “Time for a fire, if I can rustle one up,” he said. Rubbing his hands together to keep the circulation, he scouted a few yards away and found enough dried wood for a fire. Lighting it was more of a problem with the invisible fingers of the wind caressing the rock around the cave mouth and occasionally sneaking inward, but he eventually succeeded. The tiny fire blazed merrily so he could warm his hands.

  The next thing Slocum did was melt snow and put the water into his hat for the horse to drink. By this time, Slocum was exhausted. He had been caught like this before and knew he dared not slip off to sleep, not before he put more wood on the fire and ate. Keeping up his strength and doing all he could to retain bodily warmth would see him through the storm.

  Hunched over, arms circling his drawn-up knees, Slocum finally allowed himself to slip off into a troubled sleep populated with gunfire and treasure maps caught on a high wind and blood drenching everything.

  The storm blew itself out sometime during the night. When Slocum awoke, the entire world had turned white with a blanket of untrammeled snow. His arms and legs ached mercilessly, but he forced himself to stretch and work out the pain. He rebuilt the fire and melted more snow and let the horse drink greedily.

  He left the dubious shelter of the shallow cave and found clumps of grass poking up enticingly through the snow. He put hobbles on the horse by this meager fodder and let it graze the best it could while he went back to his hardscrabble camp to boil some coffee and fix his own breakfast, which turned out to be more of the same hard-tack and beans as the previous meal. Food had never tasted better.

  Belly full and the aches a distant memory, Slocum felt like he could whip his weight in wildcats. Remembering why he had come out into this early storm, he worked through layers of clothing and drew his Colt to be certain it was still serviceable. Satisfied that the night cold had not impaired it, Slocum worked it back through his duster and coat to rest easily on his left hip. Then he finished the remainder of his tepid coffee and knew it was time to get on the trail.

  Either his quarry had gone to ground as he had to weather the worst of the gale or he lay dead along the trail. Nobody kept moving through such a powerful late autumn storm for long.

  Slocum mounted and rode about in the sharp sunlight, hunting for the trail he had followed the day before. Snow veiled everything, but the vee-shaped depression leading downhill to the west showed the course of his tracks. The snow slumped into the trail itself going up into the hills, giving him his bearings again. Slocum sighted in on several peaks jutting proud and sharp in the distance before getting his horse moving in a slow walk eastward.

  He lost track of time, but the sun was over his shoulder by the time he found tracks on top of the snow. Slocum bent low and examined them from horseback, seeing no reason to study them closely. He had found either Preston’s killer or someone else caught by the storm. If the latter, Slocum knew the traveler would have noticed any other rider out and about. One way or another he would find the man who had gunned down Preston and then recover the stolen map.

  Slocum judged the length of the horse’s stride and saw an unevenness to the gait that signaled trouble. Some of the horses making the trip to the Comstock were not shod—it was expensive getting a set of shoes for a horse and many prospectors were stone broke. Buying equipment and the supplies necessary to keep themselves alive tapped them out. But from the impressions Slocum saw, this horse carried a full set of shoes. Or it had when it began the trip into the Sierras. Somewhere along the way it had thrown a horseshoe and now hobbled.

  That made it easier to overtake the rider. Slocum spotted him less than an hour shy of sundown. Any question of the man’s identity was erased when he turned, spotted Slocum and tried to get his horse into a gallop to escape. The horse balked and almost threw the rider.

  “Give up!” Slocum shouted. His words carried through the cold, crisp air and bounced off distant hills in ghostly echoes. This only spurred on the man in his attempt to get away.

  When Slocum saw the man dragging out his rifle, he drew rein and waited. Shooting from horseback was hard, and the shot that had taken Slocum out of the saddle back in the meadow had been more lucky than expert. The man swung about and fired five times. Not a single slug came anywhere near Slocum this time.

  “You’re going to hang for killing Preston,” Slocum shouted. The echoes died about the time the man forced his horse into a canter. Slocum followed at a more sedate pace, knowing what would happen. By the time he reached the spot where the man had fired on him, the shoeless horse had pulled up lame and stranded its rider.

  A hundred yards separated them. Slocum drew his Winchester and took careful aim. Years of experience and the cold calm of a trained sniper gave him a clean shot. The man yelped and clutched at his leg as he tried to scramble into rocks to make his stand.

  Slocum’s second slug spattered across the rocks above the man, causing a minor avalanche that bore him back to the trail amid dust and gravel. A new round jacked into the chamber of the Winchester, Slocum approached cautiously. The man was befuddled and tried to shake off his confusion at all that was happening. That made him as dangerous as a cornered rat.

  “I’ll kill you. By God, I thought I had killed you back in the meadow. You ain’t gonna get it. It’s mine, damn you, mine!” The man fired wildly. One round caused his horse to rear. In his panic, the man turned and fired point-blank into the horse’s belly, bringing it to the ground with a convulsive shudder. It hit hard, kicked once and died.

  Slocum’s luck continued to hold. After he had settled accounts with this yahoo, he would have had to shoot that horse. It had pulled up lame and would never have been good again. Without wanting to, the man had done the right thing and put his own horse out of its misery.

  Now it was time for Slocum to afford Preston’s murderer the same fate.

  He snugged the butt plate on the Winchester against his shoulder and squeezed off another round. His target moved at the last instant and did not sustain any injury. But the shot sent Preston’s killer scrambling over his fallen horse to take refuge behind it. Slocum saw the rifle barrel rest on the saddle as the man hid. His chance for an easy resolution was past. The man had twelve hundred pounds of carcass protecting him now.

  Slocum jumped to the ground and led his horse down into a draw where it would be safe and then fumbled around in his saddlebags for more ammo. He dumped a box of cartridges into his coat pocket before scrambling back up the gravelly slope to the trail. Slocum half expected the owlhoot to have tried to escape, but the rifle barrel still poked over the side of the dead horse.

  “Come on out and I won’t shoot you. I will take you back to Truckee to stand trial for killing Preston, but I won’t kill you here.” Slocum knew the man would never fall for such an offer. Better to die cleanly with a bullet in your heart under the clear California sky than to take a drop from a gallows platform, noose knotted around your neck and a crowd jeering as you died. What he wanted was for the man to rise up enough for him to get a decent shot, but the murderer refused to take the bait.

  Slocum edged closer, then froze. Something was wrong, deadly wrong. He threw himself to the far side of the trail, crashed into the stony path and kept going as a hail of bullets rained down on him. Slipping and sliding down the far slope, he finally caught himself and swung around, rifle aimed back toward the trail.

  A cold lump formed in his belly. The killer was smarter than he had thought. Not only had he decoyed him into believing he cowered behind the dead horse while he circled and tried to gun Slocum down from behind, he had gotten between Slocum and his horse down in the ravine. Cursing, Slocum dug his toes into the shale and powered his way back up to the trail in time to hear his horse whinny in protest.

  Rather than go chasing down the far side of the trail into the arroyo where he had left his horse, Slocum spotted a large boulder and scaled it in time to see the outlaw mounting and trying to keep the horse under control. The horse had a natural crow hop to it and used this technique to throw the unwanted rider about. From the way he flopped around Slocum knew that Preston’s killer had never busted broncs.

  Slocum raised his rifle to his shoulder and bided his time. Eventually the man got control of the horse and started up the ravine, away from the trail. Slocum squeezed off a perfect shot that caught the man smack dab in the middle of the back. Arms flying upward, the man tumbled off the horse and fell into the rocky ravine.

  Slocum had no choice but to make a killing shot. From this distance, with his target on a bouncing horse, it would have been folly to try to wing the rider. Even if he had succeeded, the man might have ridden off with lead in a shoulder or leg. Sliding down the curve of the boulder Slocum landed hard on his feet, staggered a few paces and then broke into a lope to reach the man’s side. Either he would recover soon enough so Slocum could finish him off, or he might cling long enough to life to blurt out a few words that would help Slocum find Preston’s brother.

  If he was dead, fine.

  Slocum slowed his run and approached cautiously. His Winchester aimed squarely on the recumbent form, he circled and came up so he could kick away the six-shooter near the man’s hand. Only then did he kneel and grab the man by the shoulder to roll him over.

  Slocum’s marksmanship was proven again. The bullet had caught the fleeing killer in the spine, smashed through and exited his chest. Any of a half dozen resulting injuries would have been enough to insure death.

  “You died way too easy,” Slocum grumbled. He stood, went and caught his frightened horse and returned to the dead man’s side. The horse smelled blood and got spooked, so Slocum led it back to where he had staked it out earlier. By now, he was eager to find the map and see what had caused the death of two men.

  Slocum dropped to his knees and fumbled open the man’s coat. It took several minutes of searching before he found the leather case hidden away in a false pocket. Opening the wallet revealed a single sheet of paper. Slocum pulled it out and unfolded it, then frowned. There was only half a sheet here. He hunted through the rest of the wallet but couldn’t find the part torn away.

  A more thorough search failed to uncover the rest of the map.

  Slocum closed his eyes and concentrated on remembering everything he had seen when this owlhoot had gunned down Preston at the saloon. To the best of his recollection, the half sheet was all he had stolen off Preston’s body.

  “Not much of a map,” Slocum observed, turning it over and over in a vain attempt at orienting it. Not only couldn’t he determine which way was north on the map, he found it hard to understand the crabbed legend or the X’s that probably represented mountains. It was nowhere he had seen.

  “This was worth a man’s life?” He glared at the dead outlaw. He hardly included this life. The robber would have died sooner or later, by bullet or noose, but Preston was another matter. The saloon owner had family.

  And Slocum had promised to get this scrap of paper to a brother in Virginia City. He shook his head at the task before him.

  “Anything else?” he asked the dead man as he went through his pockets one last time. Slocum jerked back, his finger cut and bleeding. “What caused that?” He ripped open the dead man’s shirt to expose a chain around the neck. Hanging on it was half a gold coin with the sharp edge that had drawn his blood.

  Slocum jerked the chain off the dead neck and held up the coin. It was a tiny twenty-dollar gold piece that had been cut in half leaving a sawtooth edge. A scratch on the back was still bright and shiny but the front of the double eagle was . . . ordinary.

  No one carried an ordinary coin around his neck as this man had. Or put away a scrap of paper into a special wallet as if it were the most valuable item in the world. Slocum was missing something important.

  The only way he could find out what all this meant was to find Preston’s brother and ask.

  He set about burying the dead murderer, then rode deeper into the Sierras, until the last dying rays of sunlight vanished and plunged the trail into utter darkness. He pitched camp for the night and this time his dreams were of jagged gold coins and mysterious maps.

  4

  The storm had left the pass looking like a wonderland of white, with pines and spruce poking through to lend green accents along with the rusty brown and red rocks that reminded Slocum of the Rockies. He let his horse pick its way up the trail, and before he knew it, he was looking down a winding road on the far side of the pass. As he rode he thought and even fingered the curious map that had been stolen from Preston.

  Most of all, he puzzled over the half gold coin. It had been meticulously cut in two, as if someone had used a jeweler’s saw to produce the precise zigzag pattern. But stranger yet was the scratch. Slocum held it up so the sunlight glinted off the tiny coin and highlighted the scratch. From one deep cut it ran diagonally across the coin to a notch on the edge. As straight as it was, Slocum doubted it had been accidental. Slocum tucked it back into his pocket. Worrying about it did no good without more information. If nothing else, he had half of a double eagle to spend.

  As his horse made a sharp turn in the road, he saw Virginia City stretched up and down the eastern side of Mount Davidson. He had been passing mines for some time and had skirted the road leading to Gold Hill, the town on the far side of the mountain from Virginia City. Slocum wanted to find Preston’s brother quickly, give him the map and then move on. The storm had convinced him that he would be caught in the town if he waited until another roared down from the north. Winter was coming early this year, and Slocum had no reason to stay in a boomtown like Virginia City.

  Slocum couldn’t remember how many towns like this he had seen. Right now, with silver flowing from the Comstock Lode like water down the Mississippi, men crowded the narrow streets and filled them from side to side. Some were prospectors looking to make their fortune by finding the big strike, the mother lode, the draw hole that would make them richer than Leland Stanford or Collis Potter Huntington. Others held more realistic goals, looking only to work in established mines. Still others sold merchandise to the miners and mine owners.

  The mine owners got richer by the day because of the backbreaking labor of the miners. But perhaps the best of all were those merchants selling the goods necessary to keep the boom flourishing. They provided a service that kept the town alive, made a decent profit and breathed clean air and stood in bright sun.