“Beer’s fine.”

  “Make it two, Dewey,” Harding told the bartender.

  Brice hadn’t offered his name, and being a Westerner, Harding hadn’t asked. But Brice volunteered it now—sort of. “I’m called Smith,” he said.

  Harding smiled. “A time-honored name.”

  “As it happens, that’s my real handle.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  The bartender placed mugs on the bar in front of them.

  Harding picked his up and went on. “Here’s to you, Mister Smith. That was a hell of a punch . . . and a mighty slick draw, too.”

  “Thanks,” Brice muttered. He lifted his mug and acknowledged Harding’s words, then took a drink. The beer was weak but reasonably cool, which helped.

  “I don’t remember seeing you around Black Hawk before.”

  “Just rode in.” Brice smiled. “I think I got here too late.”

  “Yeah, the town’s dying, I’m afraid. But there’s still money to be made in these parts if a man knows what he’s doing.”

  Harding didn’t elaborate, and Brice didn’t press him for details about what he meant. Brice didn’t want to push the luck he’d already had.

  Harding was lean, a couple of inches shorter than Brice, with a slightly lantern-jawed face and a shock of dark hair under his thumbed-back hat. He was from the hills of Kentucky and his voice still held a faint twang. He had started his outlaw career by holding up stagecoaches and had moved on to robbing trains and banks. Stealing mail sacks from trains had brought him to the attention of federal authorities. As far as Brice knew, Harding had killed an express messenger, a bank guard, two deputies, and three innocent bystanders who’d had the misfortune to get in his way. What Harding had never done was work by himself. He’d always had a gang with him or at least a partner.

  Knowing that gave Brice an idea.

  “What brings you here?” Harding asked after a few minutes.

  “A wandering nature,” Brice replied, which brought a chuckle from Harding. “Actually, I’ve been down in New Mexico Territory lately, and the climate got a mite hot for me.”

  “Well, it is summer.”

  Brice nodded and said, “Yeah, it’s definitely summer down there. At least it’s a little cooler up here in Colorado, even if the pickings do look to be a mite on the slim side.”

  “Not as slim as you might think.” Harding sipped his beer. “One of the mines in these parts is still producing pretty good. Called the Fountain Mine. The writing’s on the wall, though. From what I hear, the vein’s not going to last much longer and so the owners are trying to strip out every last bit of color they can. For now, that means a decent shipment over to the railroad in Golden every week or two.”

  Brice grunted. “Glad to hear that somebody’s still doing all right.”

  “Somebody else could share in that . . . with the right help.”

  Brice wasn’t completely surprised that Harding would approach him so quickly, right after meeting him. The chief marshal had said that all of Harding’s former partners were either dead or behind bars, which meant the outlaw had either been lying low or working by himself, which he was known to dislike. Harding probably needed money, and more than likely he deemed himself a good judge of character. After witnessing the run-in with Clegg and the other miners outside, Harding had pegged Brice as a hard-case, and Brice hadn’t said or done anything to make him think otherwise.

  “Maybe you’d better talk a little plainer.”

  “All right.” Harding pushed the empty mug back across the bar. “I happen to know that a shipment of gold from the Fountain is headed to the railroad at Golden pretty soon. The road goes through a perfect spot to jump the wagon, but the mine owners will have four guards on it, two outriders and two men on the wagon with the driver. One man can’t do the job alone, but two could . . . if they were fast on the shoot and didn’t mind spilling some blood.” Harding smiled. “I’m just talkin’, though. Don’t mean anything by it, if you’re not interested.”

  “I never said that,” Brice replied. “Where’s this perfect spot you mentioned?”

  “Place called Fiddler’s Notch. Want to take a look at it?”

  Brice drained the last of his beer and nodded. “I wouldn’t mind.”

  “Let’s go, then. Not much time to waste if we don’t want that gold wagon to get through there ahead of us.”

  They left the saloon. Brice untied his sorrel and Harding swung up on a big bay. Harding led the way out of Black Hawk, heading north. Over his shoulder, he said, “We’ll hit the trail from the mine a few miles up thisaway.”

  It didn’t matter where the trail was, thought Brice. He just wanted to get Harding out of town before he made his move . . . and Harding had cooperated with that right along the line.

  Harding turned and followed a faint path up the slope with Brice behind him. The climb was steep enough that the horses had to labor some. If Brice had been alone, he would have dismounted and led the sorrel, but Harding didn’t get down from the saddle so Brice didn’t, either. When they reached the top, Harding rode through a gap that ran for about a mile. Pine trees grew close on both sides of the trail.

  Brice was about to slip his gun from its holster and call on Harding to throw down his weapons and surrender, when Harding reined in sharply and wheeled his mount around so he was facing Brice. The trail was barely wide enough for him to do that.

  Harding’s gun was already in his hand. Instinctively, Brice started to draw, but Harding wagged the barrel back and forth and said, “Don’t do that, Smith.”

  “What the hell is this?” Brice demanded, trying to sound indignant.

  “Don’t waste your breath and my time, boy. You jumped at this whole thing way too quick, and that means I can’t trust you. You’re either plannin’ on double-crossing me and taking all the gold for yourself after you shoot me in the back . . . or else you’re a law dog.” Harding chuckled. “With that fresh-faced, innocent look of yours, I’m betting it’s that last. You packin’ a badge, son?”

  “Don’t be a damned fool,” Brice said coldly. “You’re the one who said there was no time to waste. I figured I’d better make up my mind quick. You also said one man couldn’t do the job.”

  “Yeah, but two can, and then one of ’em can gun the other one.”

  “So why didn’t you wait and double-cross me once we’ve got the gold?”

  “Because like I said, I think you’re a lawman and you never would’ve gone through with it. I’m a fair-minded man, though. Convince me otherwise, and I might not kill you.”

  “If you kill me, you sure won’t get that gold today.”

  “I never said the shipment was going through today. I said pretty soon. Fact of the matter is, it’s due tomorrow. So if you want to change my mind, you’ve got time to do it.” Harding shook his head. “I warn you, though, I don’t think it’s gonna happen. I think I’m gonna shoot you and leave you here in the woods for the wolves.”

  Brice had noticed that Harding’s bay didn’t seem to like standing on the narrow trail. The horse was the skittish sort, big and strong but nervous. Easy to spook. That would be running a long chance, and as he pondered the idea, the thought of Denny Jensen suddenly went through Brice’s mind.

  “What’s the date today?” he abruptly asked.

  Harding frowned in surprise. “The date? What the hell?” He told Brice the date and then said, “What does that matter?”

  “I was invited to a wedding today. There was somebody there I would have liked to have seen.”

  “Well, it’s too late for that, ain’t it?”

  “Yeah, it is.” Brice jammed his boot heels into the sorrel’s flanks and sent the horse lunging forward, spooking the bay. At the same time he bent low over the sorrel’s neck.

  The bay tried to twist out of the way as Harding pulled the trigger, and the bullet screamed past Brice, missing by several feet.

  Brice’s Colt was in his hand as he leaned to the side to get a clear shot at Harding and fired. He aimed at Harding’s right shoulder, but the bay was still dancing around some and the slug caught Harding at the base of the throat instead. He rocked far back in the saddle and threw both arms up and out. The gun flew from his fingers, he swayed forward again, and blood gushed from the wound in his throat and from his mouth. His hands pawed at the saddle horn as if he were trying to hold himself on the horse, but his fingers slipped off and he sagged even more forward.

  Seeing the life fading in Harding’s eyes, Brice said, “You were right. I’m a deputy U.S. marshal.”

  Air bubbled from Harding’s ruined throat. He twisted out of the saddle and thudded to the ground with his right foot still hung in the stirrup. Brice moved the sorrel forward quickly and made a grab for the bay’s reins because he didn’t want the horse to bolt and drag Harding’s body along the trail. Taking the outlaw’s carcass in was going to be a grisly enough job without it being battered and busted all to hell.

  Brice got the reins, tied them to a tree branch, and then dismounted to begin the grim chore of rolling Harding’s body in a blanket and tying it over the saddle. The smell of blood was going to make the bay even more skittish, he thought.

  It would have been nice if he’d been able to make it to the Sugarloaf today for Louis Jensen’s wedding, he thought. A lot nicer than the ride he had facing him. He wondered what Denny was wearing to the wedding. He would have been willing to bet that she looked mighty nice.

  CHAPTER 19

  The Sugarloaf

  “All right. You’ve got to keep the loop shaken out wide,” Smoke told Brad. “Swing it around over your head a few times.”

  “How do you keep the loop shaken out if you’re swinging it around your head?” the boy asked.

  “Practice. You’ll get to where you can do it.”

  “Like drawing and shooting a gun?” Brad said eagerly.

  “Right now just worry about roping,” Smoke told him. “It’s a lot more important for a cowboy to know how to do that.”

  They were standing out by the corral where Brad had been trying to rope a fence post. The loop kept collapsing on him, but he stuck the tip of his tongue out the corner of his mouth, frowned in concentration, and continued trying to get it right. Smoke stood watching with his hands tucked into his hip pockets.

  Brad did well enough with the rope to attempt another throw, but it fell short. As he gathered up the rope again, he said, “My pa was a cowboy. My real pa.”

  “I know,” Smoke said. “I’ve heard your ma talk about him a few times. Sounded like he was a fine man.”

  “Yeah, I reckon so. I don’t really remember that much. But Louis is a fine man, too.” Brad looked around at Smoke. “Do you think I should start calling Louis Pa?”

  “I don’t figure he’d mind,” Smoke said honestly. “But you should do whatever feels right to you. Man’s got to learn how to follow his own instincts. Most of the time, they won’t do wrong by him.”

  Brad nodded and went back to working with the rope. A few minutes later, one of his throws sailed out perfectly and settled over the fence post at which he was aiming. “Hey, look at that!” he called excitedly.

  “I see,” Smoke said. “But you didn’t pull the loop tight. If that had been a calf, he might have run right out of it.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” Brad jerked the rope tight around the post. “I’ll remember next time.”

  “I’ll bet you will,” Smoke said.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw three cowboys riding out, heading for the range to take care of some chore Cal had assigned to them. One of the riders was Steve Markham, Smoke noted.

  Several days had passed since Louis and Melanie’s wedding. Markham had spent that night sleeping in the hayloft in the main barn, along with some other cowhands who had stayed too late at the dance and hadn’t wanted to start back to their home spreads in the middle of the night. They had all ridden out the next morning, but Markham had stayed to talk to Cal about that job.

  Cal had come to see Smoke later that morning and said, “I hired that fella Markham. Made it clear, though, we were just taking him on for a month to see how he works out.”

  “Was he satisfied with that?”

  Cal had chuckled. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anybody as happy to go along with what anybody else says as he is. Carefree is the word, I guess. He said that was just fine and promised we wouldn’t be disappointed in his work.”

  “A saddle tramp like that usually doesn’t get worried about too many things,” Smoke had commented.

  “No, I guess not.”

  “Did you say anything about Pearlie thinking he looked familiar?”

  Cal had shaken his head and said, “No, I didn’t think that would be a good idea, but I did ask him what other spreads he’d ridden for. To hear him tell it, he worked for every spread in the Texas and Oklahoma Panhandles, and quite a few in Kansas. Seemed like he was telling the truth, and I didn’t have any reason to challenge what he was saying.”

  “All right,” Smoke had replied with a nod. “I trust your judgment. You know that, Cal.”

  “I know . . . but I might be wrong one of these days, Smoke.”

  “If you ever are, we’ll deal with it then.”

  So far, though, Steve Markham seemed to be working out well. Cal had been keeping an eye on him and deemed him to be a good hand, capable of every job he’d been given so far. Given his amiable nature, he also got along very well with the other members of the crew.

  Brad noticed the riders and said, “There’s Mr. Markham. He’s pretty funny sometimes. He sure did want to dance with Aunt Denny at the party the other night.”

  “Yeah, I saw them dancing,” Smoke said.

  “I think he likes her.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  Denny had brought up the subject of whether Markham was going to be working on the ranch, and when Smoke told her that he was, he hadn’t been able to tell for sure how she felt about that. She’d seemed a little annoyed, but at the same time, she was the one who’d asked about him.

  In the year that Denny had been home, Smoke had grown accustomed to cowboys falling in love with his daughter. It was almost impossible for young men to be around a girl as pretty as Denny without falling for her. So far, she had seemed impervious to their attentions.

  Smoke Jensen was no snob. A lot of forty-a-month-and-found cowpokes had the makings of something much better, and if Denny fell in love with some ambitious young man and they wanted to make it on their own, Smoke was just fine with that. He didn’t worry about her getting involved with some shiftless chuck line rider because that just didn’t seem like something Denny would do. Hombres like that might be fine fellows in most ways, but they were better off without wives.

  To all appearances, Steve Markham fell into that category . . . and yet Denny was thinking about him, even though at the same time she seemed to be avoiding him. Smoke hadn’t seen them together at all since Markham had signed on. He wondered if that was going to last . . .

  The sight of some dust boiling up into the air in the distance broke into Smoke’s thoughts. Markham and the other two cowboys had seen it, too, and reined in. Smoke frowned as a wagon being pulled by a team of four horses came into view, barreling toward the ranch headquarters on the trail that led up to the higher reaches of the ranch, where much of the Sugarloaf’s stock had been moved to summer pasture.

  Earlier that morning, the supply wagon being manned by Andy Sawyer and Tex Bell had set out to deliver provisions to several line camps, Smoke recalled. Even though he couldn’t see the two men on the seat well enough yet to identify them, he was pretty sure that was the supply wagon coming toward ranch headquarters. Andy and Tex shouldn’t have been back until sometime that afternoon, he thought as alarm bells began to clamor in his head. Something had to be mighty wrong to make them race back to headquarters.

  “Brad, give me the rope and go on back in the house,” Smoke said without taking his eyes off the approaching wagon.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Didn’t say anything was wrong, I just think you need to go in the house.”

  “But I can tell—” Brad stopped short at the stern glance Smoke gave him. He handed over the lasso, which he’d been coiling up before trying another throw. “Do I need to tell Miss Sally that something’s going on?”

  “No,” Smoke responded firmly. “Don’t say anything to Sally or Denny just yet.” No point in upsetting the women if this turned out to be nothing—even though Smoke didn’t believe that was the case.

  “All right. But if you need me—”

  “I’ll know where to find you.” Smoke dropped the coiled rope over the fence post and walked a few feet to pick up the Winchester that leaned against the corral gate. He didn’t wear a handgun around the ranch.

  It was the twentieth century, after all, and the wild old days were over . . . or at least most people thought so. There was usually a loaded rifle or shotgun within easy reach, though. Smoke just didn’t feel comfortable otherwise.

  He strode forward, toward Markham and the other two cowboys who still sat their saddles, waiting for the wagon to get there.

  Markham said, “Them fellas are comin’ like bats outta hell, Mr. Jensen. That ain’t normal, is it?”

  “No, it’s not,” Smoke agreed. He looked at the other two men, who were veteran members of the Sugarloaf crew. “That’s Andy and Tex, isn’t it, boys?”

  “I believe so, Smoke,” one of the punchers replied. “They weren’t supposed to be back from the line camp supply run until this afternoon.”

  “Yeah, the same thought occurred to me.” Smoke had cradled the rifle under his arm, but he shifted his grip on it so he would be ready to use it if he needed to.

  Smoke could see the two men on the wagon seat better. Chunky, curly-haired Andy Sawyer was handling the reins with Tex Bell perched tensely beside him. Andy hauled back on the reins to slow the team. The cloud of dust kicked up by the horses’ hooves and the wagon wheels billowed forward and obscured the vehicle for a moment, as well as making Smoke’s eyes and nose sting. The saddle mounts on which Markham and the other two cowboys sat shifted nervously.