Pale Rider (10 page)

V

The train’s whistle rose to a shriek as it rounded the curve that had been laboriously hacked out of the mountainside. White smoke stained the air above its funnel, then quickly turned black as it fell behind the engine. Soot marred the cars it pulled, impairing the clarity of the thick glass windows.

It was slowing rapidly as it approached the tiny wooden building that served as a station. Above this unimpressive structure was a neatly painted sign that proclaimed to anyone with a view (who was also capable of reading) that they had just arrived at

LAHOOD, CALIFORNIA
—
POP
. 189

The platform in front of the station was deserted, but there was a greeting committee of sorts waiting nearby. Three horses and two men stood in the shade of the big oak that grew just to the north of the station. The saddled horse that stood patiently between Josh Lahood and McGill’s mounts was intended for one of the train’s passengers. Its only important passenger, as far as anyone in Lahood, California, was concerned. Josh held the reins of the riderless mount and tried to pick out a certain face from the many visible through the dusty windows.

The riderless animal was a gleaming black Arabian, an aristocrat among the four-legged serfs who dominated this part of the equine world. The saddle blanket that protected its expensive back was fashioned of the finest crimson-dyed wool, while the saddle itself was an exquisitely tooled curve of fine leather chased with silver. Once it had cushioned the pampered backside of a Mexican don. American squatters and American law had devastated his hacienda. Eventually he had also lost his saddle, to an equally wealthy if considerably more ruthless and less cultured rider.

The stationmaster emerged from the stationhouse. He was a feisty, independent character who’d given up mining for a steady job, something that becomes particularly attractive to a man when he passes fifty. The trainman tossed him a small canvas mailbag and squinted at his colleague.

“Mornin’, Whitey. Any mail goin’ south?”

“Not today, Jake. Had a couple letters for a fella down in Mariposa, but a friend came through and offered to take them to his mate personal. Nothin’ else—unless you want to tell the President what I think of him.”

While the two men chatted, a black porter stepped off the first car behind the mailcar. One hand held a valise while the other reached up to aid a departing passenger.

“Watch de step, Mr. Lahood.”

“Why?” a sharp, no-nonsense voice wanted to know. “Has the damned thing moved since we left Sacramento?”

Coy Lahood ignored the preferred hand and hopped off the train. Retrieving his bag from the porter, he pressed a folded bill into the man’s hand. Sixty-two, with swept-back silver hair, square jaw, and a spine as straight as a clipper ship’s mainmast, he looked quite out of place in his neatly pressed three-piece suit, complete to pearl buttons and gold watch fob.

“Thanks, Mr. Lahood, suh.” The porter mounted the first step and leaned out to wave up the line. The engineer responded with a wave of his own and a blast from the engine’s whistle.

Josh Lahood dismounted and hurried to greet his father.

“I’ll take your bag, Papa.” The elder Lahood handed over the valise, acknowledging his offspring with a perfunctory nod.

“Morning, son. McGill.”

The foreman touched the brim of his hat with an index finger. “Morning, Boss. Good to have you back. How was Sacramento?”

Lahood’s reply sounded wistful. “Paradise. Would’ve stayed another week if I thought I could’ve spared the time. Two politicians for every Chinese laundry, two whores for every politician. Some of the whores as sweet smelling and clean as the laundry.” McGill and the younger Lahood chuckled dutifully at the old man’s joke. “Good food, smart talk about gold and politics and anything else a man might care to discourse on. Civilization.”

“Sounds like fun, Boss.”

Lahood eyed his foreman and shook his head sadly. “It’s more than that, McGill, but I don’t expect you to understand what I’m talking about. I’ll say this about Sacramento: if there was gold in the Delta, I’d move there permanently. That, and if they’d figure out a way to get rid of the damn mosquitoes.”

A second whistle, then the train behind them began to move, inching its way toward the next whistle-stop. Lahood patted his mount affectionately on its neck, then swung himself up into the saddle. He moved with the suppleness of a man half his age.

“How was business in Sacramento, Papa?”

“Well, I didn’t do us any harm and I might’ve done us some good. We’ll know when this session of the Legislature finishes its work. How’s business here?” He slapped the reins gently against the horse’s neck. Flanked by his son and foreman, Lahood headed toward his town.

“Still pulling low-grade ore out of number-five shaft, but the vein’s about played out.”

Lahood nodded; he didn’t seem surprised. “Uh-huh. I figured as much before I left. What else?”

“We went another twenty feet in the twelve-shaft, pulled out nothing but magnetite, and shut her down. McKenzie came runnin’ out of ten this morning screaming he’d found the mother lode and waving what looked like the biggest nugget of all time.” The foreman spat into dust. “Pyrite. That’s what comes of hirin’ so many new men. Don’t know a damn thing about mining.

“Anyways, I kicked his worthless ass all the way down the river. Gettin’ everyone all excited like that. Main problem is that the placer vein in Cobalt Canyon’s wearin’ thin, too. We’re washing out three times as much dirt and rock for half the gold we were gettin’ when we set up in there.”

“None of which is unexpected. Be nice if the gold in each canyon would last forever, but it doesn’t work that way.” His tone altered slightly but significantly. “What about Carbon?”

His son hesitated until the elder Lahood’s gaze began to narrow. “Well, we ran another raid through Carbon couple days back. Busted up everthing in sight and threw a real good scare into ’em. Didn’t we, McGill? Had those tin-pans running like chickens for their coops.”

“Yep, sure did.” The foreman’s enthusiasm was muted. “Almost drove ’em out this time lock, stock, and barrel. You could see some of ’em startin’ to pack up by the time we hit the west ridge.”

“Uh-huh.” Lahood acknowledged this information without turning his eyes from the road leading into town. When further elaboration was not forthcoming he repeated himself, rather more emphatically this time.

“Uh-huh?”

McGill looked helplessly over at the younger Lahood, who tried to find the right words. Somehow explaining things to his father was never as easy as berating the men.

“Something happened that we didn’t anticipate. It seems this stranger wandered in. Sort of pulled them together, kind of.” He glanced quickly at the foreman. “That the way you see it, McGill?”

“Yep. He sort of—pulled ’em together.”

“Pulled them together? Sort of kind of?” Lahood looked at his foreman, then back to his son. “How—with a lariat? You boys are full of interesting information today, ain’t you? You just ain’t much on explanations.”

Josh Lahood swallowed. “I don’t know how he did it, Papa. They just sort of seemed to get strength from him.”

“This one stranger did that? I thought that Barret was the leader of the squatters.”

“We took care of Barret. Would’ve had him buffaloed good and proper if this stranger hadn’t come along.” McGill’s explanation sounded lame even to himself.

Lahood shook his head in disbelief. “Hell, I expect you boys didn’t explain to him just who we are and how we work things around here. I imagine that once you ‘explain’ things to him, he’ll decide to move on.”

His son’s laugh was brittle. “Sure! Ain’t much for a preacher to do in these parts, after all. Ain’t many churchgoers in these camps.”

Lahood reined up abruptly. His expression was dark. The relaxed, easy-going man who’d stepped off the train had suddenly changed into something far less pleasant.

“Preacher!?” His voice dropped dangerously. “You cretins let a
preacher
into Carbon Canyon?”

Josh looked helpless, and not a little confused by his father’s outburst. “Hell, we didn’t invite him, Papa. I don’t know that anybody invited him. He just showed up one day and sort of took up with Barret, is all. Wasn’t anything we could do about it. I don’t see what you’re so all-fired upset about. What’s so dangerous about a preacher?”

You’re your mother’s son for sure, Lahood thought disgustedly. Can’t see beyond the tip of your nose.

“When I left for Sacramento those tin-pans had all but given up. They were just about ready to call it quits in Carbon, and I thought I’d get back here all set for us to move in. Their spirit was nearly broken, and a man without spirit is whipped.

“But a preacher, he could give ’em faith. Shit, one ounce of faith and they’ll be dug in deeper than ticks on a hound.” He considered the problem for a long moment, then flicked the reins. The Arabian obediently started forward again.

Josh Lahood rode in silence next to his father for as long as he thought prudent before asking, “So what do we do about him, Papa?”

Lahood, who’d been on the verge of exploding only moments ago, now seemed his old relaxed self once more. “I expect I’m going to have to talk to this fellow myself. You boys go throw a rope around that man and bring him to me.”

Josh and McGill exchanged a glance. Just about anything else the elder Lahood could have suggested would have been more to their liking. Both had already suffered embarrassment at the stranger’s hands. Neither had any wish to repeat the experience. But there wasn’t a thing they could do. Coy Lahood had given them an order.

Their silence saved them from themselves. To their great relief, the old man changed his mind. “No. On second thought, if we get too rough, we’ll make a martyr out of him. Don’t want to give them a martyr. A dead preacher can be more dangerous than a live one.”

“Didn’t you get any help from Sacramento, boss?” McGill inquired hesitantly, anxious to divert the conversation away from the subject of the Preacher.

“Sacramento? Sacramento ain’t worth moose piss!” the elder Lahood snorted derisively. “Sometimes I think things were better when the Mexicans were running the territory.” He gazed thoughtfully down at his silvered saddle. “It’s easier to do business with people when they’re running scared. Them bastards in Sacramento are all pumped up with themselves. Every one of ’em thinks he’s going to be a United States senator one of these days, and you can’t talk sense to any of ’em.”

“They didn’t sign the writ?” Josh looked surprised.

“Nope. Not only that, but there’s talk of much worse.”

His son frowned. “What are you talking about, Papa?”

“It’s hard to believe, but some of those dumb politicians want to do away with hydraulic mining altogether. ‘Raping the land,’ they call it.”

Josh’s eyes widened. “That’s just talk, ain’t it, Papa? They can’t do something like that.”

“No telling what a bunch of politicians will do when you put ’em all together. They start listening to each other’s speeches. You weren’t in Sacramento with me, boy. Things are changing. It ain’t like the old days when I was getting started.

“The farmers, them dumb dirt-scrabblers, are putting their own lobby together, and every month there’s a few more farmers and a few less miners. They’re worried about the silt from hydraulic tailings washing down into the valley and contaminating their land and crap like that.” He shook his head sadly. “They’ve a mind to ruin the whole business for those of us that made this country, and those damn fool politicians just might help ’em do it. If they get paid enough.

“So far it’s a standoff, but it’s going to get worse for hydraulics in this state before it gets better. I’ve got too much invested in our setup to give it up and go back to straight shaft mining. We’ve got to move on Carbon and cut deep and cut fast, ’cause the way the smoke’s blowing, in another couple of years we may be out of business. That’s all we need anyway, is one more big strike, and I’m betting that Carbon’s going to be it. Then let ’em ban hydraulic mining if they want to. We’ll have enough in the bank to be able to afford to junk the equipment, raise the right kind of capital to float a really big company. We’ll buy up every claim in these hills and go set ourselves up proper like I’ve been wanting to in Frisco. Let somebody else get their hands dirty for a change. The Lahoods’ll just sit back and collect dividends.” He looked past his son, toward the mountains that towered behind them.

“But we need to strike pay dirt in Carbon, and we need to do it fast.”

Josh and McGill rode along silently, hanging on the elder Lahood’s every word.

“Those tin-pans have got to go and go this week. We can’t afford to wait any longer. I want us set up in Carbon and cutting ground before the farmers’ bill is put on the governor’s desk, because the dumb bastard’s just liable to sign it. That means that preacher has to go, too. We’ll have to figure out a way to handle him.”

“Maybe we could—” Josh began hopefully. His father cut him off.

“Shut up, boy. If you could’ve taken care of him you would’ve done so already. So keep quiet and let your old man think.”