Deadman Canyon by Louis Trimble Page A

He was stripped to the waist and his powerfully-muscled body gleamed with sweat as he swung a shovel rhythmically, filling the big box of an ore wagon.
    Damson’s apparent lack of concern warned Clay to caution. The big man seemed to be completely alone, and his gun and belt lay with his shirt some distance away, out of reach. Yet he moved as confidently as though his crew were protecting him. Or as if he had nothing to worry about because Clay was dead.
    Clay looked carefully around. The lanterns cast a wide swath of light, showing him the pile of ore where Damson worked, the big freight wagon he was loading, the hand-driven ore car that sat at the mouth of the mine entrance. Beyond the light, shadows lay thick and heavy and motionless. If anyone was around, he was too well hidden for Clay to find.
    He turned his eyes back to the pile of ore. As it had before, a feeling of wrongness tugged at his mind. His gaze traveled from the ore to the tunnel entrance of Damson’s mine. It was no more than a hole cut out of a mound of the heavy clay soil that formed this part of the foothills.
    Heavy clay soil! An idea danced tantalizingly on the edge of Clay’s mind. He stared at the empty ore car, with its rusted wheels sitting on narrow, rusted tracks.
    And then he knew. The pile of ore Damson was shoveling hadn’t come from his mine. It hadn’t come from anywhere close to here. Two years of swinging a pick in silver mines had taught Clay a good deal of practical geology. And one thing he had learned — metal bearing ores didn’t exist in the heavy clay Damson had here.
    Clay retreated, slipping quietly from tree to tree until he reached the dun. He led it down the road until he was sure he was out of Damson’s earshot. Then he mounted and headed the dun back along the wagon road to his own land.
    He rode a half mile before he found a deer trail leading up into the hills. He followed it, going slowly now as the ground grew steep. He reasoned that Damson was bringing in ore from someone else’s land and claiming it had come from his own mine. But Damson couldn’t haul the ore openly, and that meant he had to have a back trail over which he could carry the ore to the mine.
    Clay swung the dun in an arc, working into the hills and, at the same time, back in the general direction of Damson’s mine. Exultation swept over him as he broke down a slope and onto a wide trail. It was of fairly recent construction and had been used a good deal lately. The prints of pack animals showed clearly in the bright moonlight. He turned away from the mine and rode in a southerly direction, backtracking the pack road.
    The trail was fairly level, following canyon bottoms where it could, crawling over hills only when there was no way around them. Finally it began to rise, twisting its way upward to break suddenly through thick timber and onto the wagon road that led over the pass and out of the valley.
    Clay hurried the dun across the wagon road and looked back. There was no sign of the trail he had just left. The stand of trees hid it completely. He turned and scanned the timber lining the near side of the wagon road. If he hadn’t been looking for the trail to start up again, he wouldn’t have seen it at all. The beginning had been cleverly camouflaged by brush and timber so that it was almost invisible.
    Clay pushed the dun through the brush and went on. He judged that the trail crossed the pass road about halfway to the summit, and now he saw that it was climbing again.
    Clay came out onto a wide flat and stopped. There was no need to go farther. Not tonight. He was on his own land. From here this trail could lead to only one place — the great tumble of rocks above the rear of Deadman Canyon.
    Anger shook Clay. Damson had grown rich and powerful from silver that belonged to him! Now Clay understood what a man like Vanner was doing in Wildhorse. A scheme as difficult to carry out as this one needed the kind of mind Damson didn’t have. And