The Wounded Yankee by Gilbert Morris

Author:Gilbert Morris
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 1556611161
Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
Published: 2005-04-01T07:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

HOLDUP

By April of 1863 Virginia City had swollen from a town of six hundred to a burgeoning mining camp of over four thousand prospectors along Alder Creek. Under the shadow of the Ruby Mountains and the Tobacco Roots, they gutted the hillside with sluices and pans and long toms, where once an old river’s channel had dropped its gold treasure.

Billy Page sat in the Fair Lady, one of the dozens of saloons thrown together from logs and mud, looking at the losing hand he’d just tossed on the table. Fay Nettleton scraped the money together, apologizing. “Sorry. Never saw such a streak of bad luck, Billy. Makes me feel guilty to take your money.”

“Enjoy it, Fay. When my luck turns, you can bet I’ll take yours.” Page leaned back in his chair, his face unruffled. Across the room a bar skirted the edge of a dance floor, and heavy-footed miners whirled the brightly gowned women around for a dollar a dance. On a raised platform at the far end of the room the fiddles and guitars pitched into a quadrille as the announcer twanged out the routine.

Billy stretched and yawned. “Guess I’ll get something to eat.” As he made his way across the floor, the music halted, and the women led their partners toward the bar where they paid fifty cents for two drinks—straight whiskey for the men and ginger beer for the women. Nell Seymore seized Page’s arm, smiling up at him. “Let’s have a dance, Billy.” He only grinned, “Later, Nell,” and left.

The relative quiet of the street was a relief, and he leaned against the building to smoke a cigar, savoring its fragrance. It was the last one he had, and little cash in his pocket. His scanty earnings these days were depressing, and he strode down Holland Street, driven by a gust of impatience.

He had six dollars—all that was left of the killing he’d made in Helena. His hotel bill was overdue and he wondered if he should move on. But he had no way of making a fresh start. Why not stake a claim? Every week some lucky miner hit a pocket and became rich overnight. But Billy’s luck wasn’t running. He was an indolent man, averse to physical labor.

He stopped at the Rainbow for a late supper, which reduced his scanty funds still more. When he was half finished, Colonel Wilbur Simpson joined him. Simpson—tall, thin, with a shock of white hair and steady gray eyes—was a lawyer by profession. “Place is getting rotten, Billy,” he said, sipping his coffee.

“Ought to be good for a lawyer,” Page smiled.

“Only law here to speak of is what the miners make for themselves,” Simpson grunted. “Always that way in these mining camps. Civilization is a thousand miles away, and the only thing a man can look to is a gun in his pocket.” He shifted his position. “And it’s going to get worse,” he added. “Did you hear about Dan Dempsey?”

“No. What happened to Dan?”

“He was killed by a gunman yesterday in broad daylight.

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