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  “Then maybe you and Jim should have just quit the territory,” said Wes.

  “I wanted to,” Amanda said, “and we have a decent stake, but Jim’s stubborn. He was determined to pan it out to the finish.”

  “Then there must be more at stake than the gold,” said Wes, “unless Brandon Starke’s a fool. He must know there’s no fortune to be made with a sluice box. I can’t see that as reason enough to frame a man for murder.”

  “Brandon Starke wants me,” Amanda said.

  “All the more reason you should have taken the gold you had and pulled out,” said Wes. “Your husband doesn’t know Starke has his eyes on you?”

  “Pioche is a mining camp, with few women,” Amanda said. “When we came here from Tonopah, lots of men had their eyes on me, so Jim didn’t know Starke’s intentions. He’s hounded me since the day we arrived.”

  “You didn’t tell Jim, then,” said Wes.

  “I was afraid to,” Amanda said. “Starke owns Pioche, and Jim’s no match for his paid gunmen.”

  “If he was free to ride,” said Wes, “would he quit the territory?”

  “I don’t know,” she said miserably. “His pride ...”

  “There’s times when the best of men can’t see the difference between being proud and being foolish,” said Wes. “Have you talked to him?”

  “ ‘Til I was blue in the face,” she replied.

  “Then maybe I’ll talk to him,” said Wes. “Where’s your horse?”

  “I’m afoot,” Amanda said. “The night after Jim was jailed, our horses were stolen.”

  “We just happen to have extra horses,” said Wes. “Mount up.”

  She mounted one of the horses and led out, Wes and El Lobo following. They rode not quite two miles, reining up and dismounting before a small cabin.

  “It’s the closest thing to home I’ve ever had,” Amanda said. “I was seventeen when my father died. He was a down-and-out prospector, and in all my years with him, I never had a roof over my head.”

  “There’s worse things than not havin’ a roof over your head,” said Wes. “Will you be safe here, while I ride to town?”

  “I don’t know,” Amanda said. “I shot two of Starke’s gunmen. He’s not the kind to let that go.”

  “Then you’d better ride to town with us,” said Wes. “I think it’s time you leveled with your husband about what Starke really wants.”

  “But he’s in jail, convicted of murder,” Amanda said. “What good will it do?”

  “Maybe convince him there’s no shame in backing away from a fight he can’t win,” said Wes. “You said he’s to be hanged. When?”

  “Tomorrow,” said Amanda. “Starke’s making it all legal, bringing in a hangman.”

  “Then we don’t have a lot of time,” Wes said. “Let’s ride.”

  Pioche looked exactly like what it was: an all but played-out mining town, it’s only touch of elegance being the Gold Dust Saloon. There was a combined livery and blacksmith shop, a café, a general store, and a one-cell jail. There was no hotel. When they reined up before the jail’s office, a door opened and there was no friendliness in the hard eyes of the lawman who stood looking at them.

  “Sheriff Webber,” said Amanda, “I have some friends who want to talk to Jim.”

  “Nobody allowed, ‘cept next-of-kin,” Webber said sourly.

  “As a lawman,” said Wes, “you can’t deny a man a chance to speak to his brother.”

  “His brother, huh?” Webber said.

  “I’m going too,” said Amanda.

  “Nobody goes in there wearin’ guns,” Webber said.

  “Then I’ll leave the guns with my amigo,” said Wes, unbuckling his gunbelt.

  “You sure you don’t want the Indian in there too?” Webber asked sarcastically.

  “No,” said Wes. “He’ll stay out here and be sure nobody listens to our conversation with Jim McCall.”

  Webber stepped back into the small office, allowing Wes and Amanda to enter. From the single cell, Jim McCall said nothing. While Webber unlocked the door, Wes studied the young man behind the bars. Like Amanda, he was dressed poorly, but there was something about him—in his dark eyes and rugged face—that Wes found appealing. Webber swung the barred door open, closing it behind Wes and Amanda. When Webber had turned away, Amanda quickly introduced Wes. McCall listened while she explained how Wes and El Lobo had taken part in the fight at the mine.

  “I’m obliged,” McCall said, “but I’ve played out my string. They’re stretchin’ my neck tomorrow.”

  “Only if you stick around for it,” said Wes. “Given the chance, would you ride out and quit the territory, taking Amanda with you?”

  “My God, yes, but how?” McCall said. “You saw the kind of men Starke sent against Amanda at the mine. They’ll ride us down, you and your pardner along with us.”

  “They won’t get that far,” said Wes, “if El Lobo and me have an understanding with them tonight. How many men ride for Starke?”

  “Maybe fifteen,” McCall said.

  “Then he has eleven now,” said Wes, “and several of them wounded. Amanda killed two of them, while El Lobo and me accounted for two more. The rest decided they’d had more than enough.”

  “You’ll never get out of Pioche alive,” McCall said. “From this window you can see Starke’s saloon. Look at all the horses at the hitch rail. He’s gettin’ that bunch ready to do some killing.”

  “Considerate of him, gettin’ ‘em all together,” said Wes. “Is there an honest man in the bunch, or is every one a kill-for-hire gunman?”

  “Killers, to a man,” McCall said. “Pioche’s dying. There ain’t enough honest work here to feed a bunch like that, if they was willing.”

  It was already dark outside, and light streamed from the windows of the distant Gold Dust Saloon. Suddenly El Lobo appeared in the gloom of the corridor.

  “Sheriff go to saloon,” said El Lobo.

  “He’s gone after them,” McCall said, “and you’re trapped in here, just like me.”

  “Not for long,” said Wes. “El Lobo, kill that lock.”

  With a slug from one of his Colts, El Lobo sprung the lock.

  “McCall,” Wes said, “there are two extra horses out front. Take Amanda and ride to your place. El Lobo and me will be along when we can.”

  McCall laughed. “What kind of man do you think I am? I’m used to stomping my own snakes, but this time there’s enough to go around, so I’ll accept your help. But when you face Starke’s hired guns, I aim to be right there with you. Webber had a Winchester out there back of his desk. How are you fixed for shells?”

  “We have plenty,” said Wes. “Amigo, bring McCall a hatful of shells from our saddlebags, and see that Webber’s Winchester is fully loaded.”

  Wes found his guns in the outer office, and El Lobo quickly loaded the Winchester. He passed it to McCall, with a handful of extra shells.

  “I can shoot,” said Amanda, “if I had a gun.”

  “Not this time,” McCall replied.

  “I’ll leave you a Colt,” said Wes, “and you can watch the horses.”

  Wes, El Lobo, and McCall left the jail and started toward the saloon.

  “I don’t know why you bought into this,” McCall said, “but I’m obliged. Starke’s had a stranglehold on Pioche for so long, he won’t give up without a fight.”

  “Then he’ll get one,” said Wes. “We just naturally don’t like bushwhackers.”

  When Sheriff Webber arrived at the saloon, he found Brandon Starke in a vicious and vindictive mood, and Webber’s explanation of the situation at the jail didn’t help matters.

  “Damn it,” Starke shouted, “I’m swearing out warrants for the three of them. They’ve killed four of my men and wounded two others. Lock them up.”

  “Not by myself,” said Webber sullenly.

  “Then take some men with you,” said Starke, “and do it now.”

  Suddenly there was a shot, and the gl
ass from the saloon’s front window disappeared in a tinkling crash.

  “Starke,” Jim McCall shouted, “we’re calling you out.”

  “You’re a convicted killer,” Starke shouted in reply, “and those with you are as guilty as you are.”

  As Starke responded, he was buying time. Motioning to Sheriff Webber and ten of his gunmen, he then pointed toward the back door. But as Webber opened the door, two slugs from El Lobo’s Winchester slammed it shut.

  “Damn,” Webber swore, “I ain’t goin’ out there.”

  “Me neither,” said a gunman. “Hell, this place is lit up like Christmas, and they’re all shootin’ from the dark.”

  “Well, by God, put out the lamps,” Starke bawled. “Do I have to tell you everything?”

  But when Webber reached for one of the hanging coal oil lamps, it exploded from the force of a slug. Webber shrieked as flaming oil descended on him. A second lamp suffered the same fate, leaving the front of the saloon in shadow. Guns drawn, men crept toward the front door, and standing to the side, one of them eased it open. But there were no more shots.

  “They’re out there,” said Starke. “Go after them.”

  “Go after them yourself,” Webber said. “I quit.”

  “Like hell,” said Starke. “This is my town, and you quit only if I say so. Now get out there and do your job.”

  But before Webber could respond, there was another shout from Jim McCall.

  “Starke, you have us outgunned, but we’ve been to the store. We have dynamite, and you have five minutes to do whatever you have in mind. You men wantin’ to ride out will be allowed to, if you go peaceful.”

  “You’re bluffing, McCall,” Starke shouted, “and I’m calling it.”

  There was only silence for a moment, and then a deafening roar, as the front of the saloon collapsed.

  “That was only one stick,” McCall shouted. “We have more.”

  “By God,” said one of the gunmen, “this ain’t my kind of fight. I’m leaving.”

  “Like hell,” Starke said. “You’ve been paid ...”

  His voice trailed off when one of the men slugged him with the muzzle of a Colt. Just then, McCall shouted a final warning.

  “You got one minute, Starke. What’s it goin’ to be?”

  “Starke ain’t talkin’ for us,” one of the gunmen shouted in reply. “Hold your fire and we’ll ride out.”

  “Where do you stand, Webber?” McCall shouted. “Am I still under arrest?”

  “Not by me,” Webber shouted. “I’ll ride with the others.”

  “Come on, then,” said McCall. “We won’t shoot.”

  They left by the back door, careful to keep their hands well away from their holstered weapons. Except for Webber, they mounted and rode away. Webber started toward the jail.

  “Where are you goin‘, Webber?” McCall asked suspiciously.

  “For my horse,” said Webber sullenly.

  “Go ahead, then,” McCall said. “Just so you don’t change your mind, we’ll be right behind you.”

  Webber had left his horse picketed behind the jail. He mounted and rode away without a word. Amanda was waiting.

  “You handled that just right, McCall,” said Wes.

  “I could never have pulled it off without you and El Lobo,” McCall said. “The dynamite played a part, but having you gents siding me made the difference.”

  “I reckon one of them buffaloed Starke,” said Wes. “You and Amanda should have time enough to get beyond his reach before he can round up another gun crew.”

  “I doubt he’ll be able to,” McCall said, “but we won’t gamble on it. I think we’ll take the gold we have and head for California.”

  “I’m in favor of that,” said Amanda, “but we have no horses of our own.”

  “We have a couple of extras,” Wes said, “and you’re welcome to them.”

  “Only if we pay,” said McCall.

  “No,” Wes said. “We really don’t need them. They were donated to us by a pair of bushwhackers who decided they preferred to walk back to Santa Fe.”

  “In that case,” said McCall, “we’ll accept them. Soon as we return to our place for our few belongings and the gold, we’ll be riding west.”

  “We’re goin’ as far as Carson City,” Wes said, “if you’d like to ride with us.”

  “We’d consider that a privilege,” said McCall, “and if you’re ever in San Francisco, I’m hoping we’ll see you again.”

  “We’ll be goin’ there eventually,” Wes said. “Maybe we’ll be seein’ you then.”

  It was a more prophetic statement than Wes Stone realized.

  Tonopah, Nevada. January 18, 1885.

  “This is where my father is buried, and where I met Jim,” said Amanda.

  “Tonopah’s just another mining town that’s about played out,” McCall said. “About the only sure thing is the Comstock, in Virginia City, and it won’t last too many more years.”

  “Wonder what’ll happen to the mint in Carson City, when all the mines play out?” said Wes.

  “It opened nearly twenty years ago, when all these camps were boomtowns,” McCall said, “and when enough of them die, I reckon it’ll be closed.”8

  There was a hotel of sorts in Tonopah, with an adjoining café. Empty had accepted the McCalls as friends, and the four of them rode out the following day without incident.

  Hawthorne, Nevada. January 20, 1885.

  “I hope there’s a hotel here,” said Wes. “We’re in for another storm.”

  “There is,” McCall said. “Aurora’s just a few miles west of here, and both towns are a stone’s throw from California. We’re not that far from Wellington, and just beyond that is Carson City.”

  The storm blew in during the night, and the snow was drifting deep by first light. It continued for most of the day before diminishing at sundown.

  “We’d better lay over another day,” Wes said.

  “I reckon,” McCall agreed. “There’s mountains between here and Wellington.”

  Wellington, Nevada. January 23, 1885.

  Reaching Wellington—just a few miles shy of Carson City—Wes decided it was time to part company with the McCalls.

  “But we’re still a day away from Carson City,” Amanda protested.

  “I know,” said Wes, “but for your own safety, this is as far as you go with us. We’ve enjoyed your company, but we have enemies who will be watching and waiting for us in Carson City.”

  “Both of you sided me against my enemies,” McCall said. “It seems only fair to me to return the favor.”

  “Not this time,” said Wes. “I want the two of you to pass through Carson City ahead of us. We’ll remain here another day, until you’re on your way to San Francisco.”

  Despite their reluctance, the McCalls yielded and rode out, leaving Wes and El Lobo in Wellington.

  “We’ll leave for Carson City tomorrow,” Wes said.

  Carson City, Nevada. January 25, 1885.

  The weather had grown unseasonably warm as Wes and El Lobo again rode west. Empty ran on ahead, exploring the new country.

  “What we do first?” El Lobo asked.

  “I think we’ll avoid the hotels and cafés,” said Wes. “We’ll make camp somewhere away from the town, until we learn what we’re up against. Then I reckon we’ll have to approach the man in charge of the mint.”

  “Malo,” El Lobo said. “Per‘ap like New Orleans.”

  “Maybe not,” said Wes. “I can’t believe all these government people have sold out to the Golden Dragon. They don’t know when or if we’ll ever reach Carson City, so there’s a chance we can accomplish something before they learn we’ve arrived. We won’t ride in until after dark.”

  Carson City seemed a quiet town, even with its quota of saloons. Wes had no trouble locating the mint—a squat, flat-roofed structure—with an armed guard before it. A Winchester under his arm, he watched them until they reached the next street.

  “
There’s the address,” said Wes.

  They reined up in the street, in the shadow of several trees, avoiding the lamplight from nearby residences. From his pocket Wes took one of the coins with a dragon on one side and a numeral two on the other. Leaving their horses in the shadows, Wes and El Lobo crossed the yard, avoiding the light streaming from an open door. El Lobo remained in the shadows, allowing Wes to knock on the door frame. The lamp was extinguished almost immediately, and a voice spoke from the gloom.

  “Who are you, and what do you want?”

  “I’m Wes Stone, and my amigo is Palo Elfego. We want to speak to Elton Murray. We are friends, and mean you no harm.”

  “Come in,” said the voice. “Walk down the hall and into the parlor. I am armed.”

  Wes entered the hall, El Lobo following, and they went into the parlor. There a single lamp burned, and when they turned to face the door, they could see a shadowy form in the hall.

  “I am Elton Murray,” said a voice. “What do you want of me?”

  “You have friends in Washington who are concerned about your situation here,” Wes said, “and we’re here to help you. Your enemies are our enemies. Here’s their sign.”

  Wes extended his hand palm-up, the fierce image of the dragon glittering in the pale lamplight. There was the ominous snick of a pistol being cocked.

  “I know you,” said the angry voice behind the gun. “You’re with them!”

  “No,” Wes said hastily. “You can telegraph Washington, if you must identify us, but it might cost us our lives. Remain where you are, but hear us out.”

  “I’m listening,” said Murray.

  Quickly, Wes related as much as he safely could of what Bryan Silver had told them of the conspiracy, including the theft of newly minted coins from the Carson City mint.

  “That’s all I can tell you,” Wes said, “without revealing things we have been told must remain secret.”

  “Maybe that’s enough,” said Murray grudgingly, “but neither of you strike me as the kind Washington would hire for such an investigation. What happened to the Pinkertons?”