“Plenty of that,” Neill agreed. “If we follow this out, we’ll come to the Middle Fork of the Feather River. We’ll cross it and aim for the North Fork.”
“And where does the North Fork lead?” Jim asked.
“Headwaters start in a place called Big Meadows.”
“Big Meadows sound promising.”
“Several ranches there already, so if it’s wild you want, we’ll go farther up into Pit River country.”
“How wild is it?” Colton asked.
“Couple small towns. Dorrisville—I think they call it Alturas now—it’s less than two hundred. There’s Fort Bidwell, over the Sierras, and Cedarville. They’re all about the same size.”
“I don’t know about east of the Sierras,” Jim said. He remembered well the dry, dusty deserts of Nevada.
“I was thinking west of Alturas, or maybe north. It’s an empty place, or at least it was the last time I was through there,” Neill said.
“Why were you up there?”
“Scouting for a rail line. One of the old gold-camp emigrant trails goes through there. Donovan was with me. Had maybe fifteen soldiers, another ten scouts. We ran into a band of Modocs and had to make a fight for it.”
“It’s Indian country, then?” David asked. “Abigail won’t go anywhere like that.”
“Indians are pretty much gone,” Neill said. “Rounded up and moved into Nevada or Oregon. The soldiers at the fort keep them pushed out.” He turned in the saddle to regard Jim. “Now, I don’t want you getting your hopes up. It’s not a green place, not like here, it’s a high desert. More gray and brown than green.”
“Grass enough for cattle?”
“It’ll take a big place to run very many head. But yes, there’s grass and there’s water. Streams and seeps here and there. It doesn’t rain much, and the winter is cold and dry.” He hesitated for a moment, then went on. “Best I can say is it’s an empty land. No people, not much by way of ranches, last I heard.”
“Why not?”
“Too far from anything. There’s nowhere nearby to take so much beef. You’d have to drive cattle a long way to market. That’ll change someday. Once the rail comes through, and shipping gets cheaper, you can send your cattle wherever. So far, nobody’s been willing to wait that long. Easier places to settle. Places where a fellow can sell his cows quicker.”
“But we won’t need to sell any so quick. Not with the money from the mine,” Jim said. “We can afford to wait as long as it takes.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Neill agreed. “Course you’ll have to buy cattle somewhere and drive them in. That’ll take time too. Might be a good long while before you see any sale money.”
“I don’t mind that,” Jim said.
By noon they’d reached the river, found a crossing of shallow water and smoothed river stones, then pressed on north.
For three days they rode. They took their time, traveling slowly, hunting or fishing, living off the land. The land rose gradually along the way. The peaks grew tall and jagged, with most topping eight or even nine thousand feet. One peak in particular, snow-shrouded Shasta, stood alone in California’s interior, surrounded by fields of broken lava.
“Alturas lies almost due east of the mountain,” Neill said when they’d first caught sight of it.
They resupplied in a place called Susanville, so close to the Nevada border they could taste the alkali dust. From there they went north and a little west once more, skirting the Warner mountains, before reaching Alturas.
“If there’s any place in town we can get a meal, I say we take it,” Jim said. He’d had his fill of camp food and was sure the others would agree.
“We could use more coffee,” David said.
“And flour and salt and salted pork,” Colton said. “Cornmeal too.”
“Stop at the store first, then we’ll see about a meal,” Neill added. “There were a few places, last time I was here.”
On the city’s Main Street, they found a little hole-in-the-wall restaurant and ordered plates of enchiladas, rice, and beans.
Halfway through their meal, a man with a badge and rifle came in. He was a short man with a hitch in his step and a thick beard, black shot with gray. For a long moment, he eyed them. Finally, he started for a nearby table.
“Join us?” Jim said before he could sit. “We’ll buy.”
“I never turned down a free meal,” the man said. He set the rifle in an empty chair beside him and placed his battered hat on top of it.
Jim made the introductions. “I’m Jim Heston. This is my father-in-law, David, his son, Colton, and a friend of ours, Captain Neill.”
“Vern Jolly, local sheriff.”
“You looked us up and down pretty good,” Jim said. “Expecting trouble?”
“Always.” The sheriff’s eyes narrowed a bit. He shifted in his chair so his waist gun hung clear. “You fellows plannin’ on causing any?”
“Not us,” David said.
“We’re up from Onionville. Looking to get a ranch up this way,” Jim said.
“Onionville? That’s where the big gold strike is.”
“It is,” Jim nodded. “Miners are thick as ticks on an old dog’s back. Land’s ruined for ranching. We heard there were a few good places up here.”
