The outlaw looked over his shoulder with a look of pure hate, but he spurred his horse into a run and quickly disappeared down the trail.
When he was gone, two more shadowy riders appeared from deep in the trees. While waiting, Jim dismounted and picked up the outlaw’s discarded guns. Despite the outlaw’s filthy appearance, both pistol and rifle were immaculately clean.
“You think that was wise?” Neill said when they arrived.
“We can’t play his game,” Jim said. “If we dance to Bannen’s tune, we’ll catch nothing but lead.”
Colton gave them both a pensive look. “I’m not sure my sister would approve.”
“She didn’t,” Jim said, “not at first anyway. But I talked her through it and she trusts my judgment.”
“You talked about this with her?” Colton seemed dubious.
“We knew there were a number of possibilities. Including that Walt and Alma are already dead,” Jim said. “You saw the man, and you know a little of Bannen. Does he strike you as the kind of man who’d care for two children?”
“It would be just as easy to kill them and then kill you for the gold,” Neill said.
“Ellen didn’t think it was likely,” Jim said. “I wasn’t sure. From what I’ve seen, Bannen has an explosive temper.”
“Then how can you be sure Walt and Alma are still alive?” Colton asked.
“Greed. I think he’ll keep them alive until he’s sure he has the gold. After that…” Jim shrugged.
“After that, he’s likely to kill them and everyone else he can reach,” Neill said.
“Unless he thinks holding them could lead to even more gold,” Jim agreed. “We can’t win a game like this. Not one where he’s calling all the shots.”
“So you changed the game?” Colton said.
“I did, and now,” Jim nodded in the direction the outlaw had ridden, “we’ve got a trail to follow.”
* * * *
Neill took the lead.
The captain was, despite Jim’s growing skill, the best tracker of the three. They followed the trail for two miles. Then they found where the outlaw met his companion and shared a smoke. Rather than keep to the road, they followed a game trail through the woods. Neill led the way.
The trail wound through the trees until coming to a small stream. It followed the stream for a half mile, ending in the mountains at the bottom of a high waterfall.
“Where to now?” Colton asked.
“I’ll go right,” Jim said.
“And I’ll get the left,” Neill agreed. “Come along, Colton, and I’ll show you a few things.”
They spent several minutes searching. Jim crossed the stream, dismounted, and walked slowly onward. The waterfall ended in a pool. He’d hoped to find a muddy track or some sign that they’d ridden this way, but the pool was lined with boulders and gravel before yielding to tawny yellow grass, thick tree roots, and a mat of discarded pine needles. He saw a round depression bigger than the palm of his hand. A place a horse might have stepped? He couldn’t be certain.
Kneeling down, he imagined where the horse’s next step would have been. Nothing. On a hunch, he followed on. He looked up along the path the horse might have taken. Something caught his eye, something out of place, something he couldn’t identify.
He squatted on his haunches.
Neill and Colton were behind him. The noise of the waterfall masked whatever sounds they might be making. Even the sounds of the Appaloosa greedily cropping grass were gone. Jim sat on his heels in a world of light and shadow and falling water.
He saw the branch then, or rather, where the branch should have been. A fresh yellow scar stood out against the black-brown of the pine trunk.
Where is the branch?
Jim went to the tree. He ran a hand over the scar. Fresh. the branch was a little over a foot long, lying in a slight depression, five feet from where it should have fallen.
Far enough that a horse might have dragged it with his hoof. Jim knelt over the branch. A partial print showed underneath.
He went back to the waterfall and waved the others over.
“Found something,” he said.
They followed the faint trail for two hours. The needles hid their passing well; they had to double back and find the tracks again several times. Finally, they broke out into a broad plain Jim recognized. They were north of Donovan’s Valley, maybe ten miles south of the Feather River. Jim had ridden a few miles east of here on his way up to Bidwell’s with that first load of gold. If they kept going east, he’d soon cross that same path.
So much has happened since that fateful ride.
The trail turned north for a line of mountains. When the daylight faded, the three hunters camped downwind from a fallen pine. Grease sizzled in the pan, hissing and popping between strips of white-and-red fatback. Beside the pan, coffee bubbled and steamed. They added some of the morning’s biscuits to their meal. Ellen, Abigail, and Delphi had baked a few batches to see them through.
Afterward, each man sat alone with his thoughts.
Jim warmed his hands over the fire. They were high up, at least a thousand feet higher than the floor of Donovan’s Valley, and the air held a bitter chill. Mist rolled in from the west.
“Going to be a cold one tonight,” Captain Neill said. “Damp, too.”
“Looks like,” Jim said.
