jerked meat, and listened to the sound of the creek and the stirring of wind in the cedars. He had never been much of a camp cook, rarely taking time to prepare a meal. When he had finished eating he left the coffeepot on a rock amid the coals and went back to the stream.
Filling the pan nearly full of gravel, he held it just beneath the surface of the water, and holding the pan with one hand, he broke up the few lumps of clay with the other, meanwhile throwing out the larger rocks.
Then, holding the pan just beneath the surface he proceeded to swirl the water about, first in one direction, then in the other, to settle the larger pieces. Lifting the pan clear of the water, he tipped it slightly to allow the sand and dirt that was in suspension to trickle over the edge of the pan. A few sharp blows on the edge of the pan helped to settle the gold particles.
By repeating the process he soon had left only the heavy sands and gold. With tweezers he picked out the more obvious fragments, then put the material aside to dry and started again.
He worked the afternoon through, and in four hours of hard work, handling six to seven pans an hour, he netted approximately four dollars, which was good for the time and the place.
At Spafford Hall’s he had bought a half sack of barley, and he fed a little to the mule, frying some bacon for himself. Adding water, he heated up the coffee.
With his cup of coffee in his hand, he left the fire and walked out to study the rock formations and drift along the stream. That stream, he surmised, would run only part of the year, and possibly only until the snow melted off. He walked back to his fire, convinced he had best use it while he could.
He went back to the fire and poked sticks into the flames. Suddenly irritated, he put down his cup. What was he doing here, anyway? He could pan out a living on this creek, but was that what he wanted? Why not take the job Crockett offered? That was a living, too, and if prospects looked good, he might ask for a piece of the operation for his services would be in demand.
He poked more sticks in the fire, then sat down under the cedars and refilled his cup. He told himself he no longer wished to kill anyone, not even those who so richly deserved it; yet here he was, like an old hound on the scent, following a haphazard trail because he knew nothing else.
He had done just what he had been warned against. He had allowed the hunt, the thirst for revenge, to take up his whole life. What he should do was to leave here, to go back east, somewhere far from all this, and drive it from his mind.
For days now he had been obsessed with a growing feeling of discontent that left him depressed and restless. Moreover, he had been warned on several occasions that men were inquiring for him. He was a man with many acquaintances and no close friends, and the possibility of anybody asking about him was slight.
Unless the hunted had now become the hunters.
If so, why? Who would know about him? Who could? True, two of that crowd had been killed, but everyone who knew Rory had known that sooner or later he would be killed. He was not only a card-cheat but a clumsy one. He was also a quarrelsome man.
As for Skinner, he had come west with Rory, and they had been associated in various crimes along the river and the way west. Skinner had known that his old companion had been killed.
Trevallion recalled the day they met on the trail. Skinner had been riding toward him and Trevallion had recognized him at once. Trevallion drew up, waiting.
Skinner pulled up, warily.
“Hello, Skinner.”
“You know me?”
“You were a friend to Rory. You came from Missouri together.”
Skinner steadied his horse. Every instinct told him this was trouble, but he had no idea why.
“Who are you?”
“You wouldn’t remember. I was only a youngster, Skinner, and I didn’t have a gun. Also I was too scared.”
Skinner let his right hand fall to his thigh, within inches of his gun. “I
Filling the pan nearly full of gravel, he held it just beneath the surface of the water, and holding the pan with one hand, he broke up the few lumps of clay with the other, meanwhile throwing out the larger rocks.
Then, holding the pan just beneath the surface he proceeded to swirl the water about, first in one direction, then in the other, to settle the larger pieces. Lifting the pan clear of the water, he tipped it slightly to allow the sand and dirt that was in suspension to trickle over the edge of the pan. A few sharp blows on the edge of the pan helped to settle the gold particles.
By repeating the process he soon had left only the heavy sands and gold. With tweezers he picked out the more obvious fragments, then put the material aside to dry and started again.
He worked the afternoon through, and in four hours of hard work, handling six to seven pans an hour, he netted approximately four dollars, which was good for the time and the place.
At Spafford Hall’s he had bought a half sack of barley, and he fed a little to the mule, frying some bacon for himself. Adding water, he heated up the coffee.
With his cup of coffee in his hand, he left the fire and walked out to study the rock formations and drift along the stream. That stream, he surmised, would run only part of the year, and possibly only until the snow melted off. He walked back to his fire, convinced he had best use it while he could.
He went back to the fire and poked sticks into the flames. Suddenly irritated, he put down his cup. What was he doing here, anyway? He could pan out a living on this creek, but was that what he wanted? Why not take the job Crockett offered? That was a living, too, and if prospects looked good, he might ask for a piece of the operation for his services would be in demand.
He poked more sticks in the fire, then sat down under the cedars and refilled his cup. He told himself he no longer wished to kill anyone, not even those who so richly deserved it; yet here he was, like an old hound on the scent, following a haphazard trail because he knew nothing else.
He had done just what he had been warned against. He had allowed the hunt, the thirst for revenge, to take up his whole life. What he should do was to leave here, to go back east, somewhere far from all this, and drive it from his mind.
For days now he had been obsessed with a growing feeling of discontent that left him depressed and restless. Moreover, he had been warned on several occasions that men were inquiring for him. He was a man with many acquaintances and no close friends, and the possibility of anybody asking about him was slight.
Unless the hunted had now become the hunters.
If so, why? Who would know about him? Who could? True, two of that crowd had been killed, but everyone who knew Rory had known that sooner or later he would be killed. He was not only a card-cheat but a clumsy one. He was also a quarrelsome man.
As for Skinner, he had come west with Rory, and they had been associated in various crimes along the river and the way west. Skinner had known that his old companion had been killed.
Trevallion recalled the day they met on the trail. Skinner had been riding toward him and Trevallion had recognized him at once. Trevallion drew up, waiting.
Skinner pulled up, warily.
“Hello, Skinner.”
“You know me?”
“You were a friend to Rory. You came from Missouri together.”
Skinner steadied his horse. Every instinct told him this was trouble, but he had no idea why.
“Who are you?”
“You wouldn’t remember. I was only a youngster, Skinner, and I didn’t have a gun. Also I was too scared.”
Skinner let his right hand fall to his thigh, within inches of his gun. “I
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