High Country Greed by Jon Sharpe

Author:Jon Sharpe [Sharpe, Jon]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781101577301
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2012-03-06T00:00:00+00:00

16

The next day at noon they headed for Crooked Creek.

McCullock led a pack mule laden with tools and supplies. He was in fine spirits, and as they left Tarryall behind and started up a dirt road fringed by thick timber, he took to humming again. “Rock of Ages,” of all things.

Fargo followed. Time and again he shifted in the saddle to check their back trail. He was glad to be in the wilds again. He’d always felt more at home in the mountains and on the plains than in a town or city. Part of it was the solitude. He didn’t need to be around other people all the time, like some did. The other part was his wanderlust. He always yearned to see what lay over the next hill, the next mountain, the next horizon.

They traveled northwest until they were in the mountains and followed Tarryall Creek to where it branched. All along Tarryall they passed claim after claim. Men in water up to their knees were panning for color. Others worked sluice boxes or dug with pick and shovel. Unfriendly stares were thrown at anyone who came too close. Some claims were protected by guards with rifles.

Fargo reckoned that by the time they reached Crooked Creek the claims would dwindle. It was the opposite. Every square foot was spoken for. To say there was barely elbow space wasn’t an understatement.

Overtaking his friend, Fargo ventured to bring up, “How can you be sure no one has settled on your claim while you were gone?”

“I filed on it, legal and proper. Anyone tries to steal it is fair game.”

“Do many forget to file?”

“Less than you’d imagine. Most at least have the sense to register. Those as don’t only have themselves to blame if their claim is stolen out from under them.”

“Let me guess who does most of the stealing,” Fargo said.

“Shanks is a genius at it. I’ll give him that,” McCullock said. “Most times, he buys the owners off like he tried to buy me.”

“He wouldn’t ever buy me off,” Fargo declared.

“Like I’ve said,” McCullock responded, “an answer to my prayers.”

It was eight miles to the claim. The sun was low on the western horizon when they rounded a bend and McCullock drew rein. “There she is,” he proudly announced, and pointed.

It wasn’t the biggest. It wasn’t the smallest. Stakes had been pounded into the ground and notices attached informing one and all who the claim belonged to. There was a sluice box that didn’t appear to have seen a lot of use and a lean-to for shelter from the elements.

“She’s not much but we’ll make do,” McCullock said.

“Why do you keep calling it ‘she’?”

“I named her Mabel after the sweetest gal I ever met, back when I was young and spry like you.”

“How come you never asked for her hand?”

“I did. Several times. She always turned me down. Said as how I wasn’t stable enough. And me with a regular job with the army.”

“Could be she was thinking of your hair and your hide.

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