The big man’s gaze went to the house on the rise above the mine. Maybe he was a little bit shocked by what Della got up to in town, but that didn’t really dim his interest in her. She was an exciting and probably dangerous woman. Just his type.

  Gallardo beckoned.

  “Señor Taggert wishes to see you now, amigo.”

  Savage stood his ground. “Where’s Jackson and Jones?”

  “With Taggert.”

  Savage shook his head. “No good. Tell Taggert to come see me down here.”

  “I am sure he means you no harm, amigo ...”

  “It ain’t you that’d get the bullet in the back if he did. Go tell him.”

  Gallardo disappeared, and Savage drew deeply on his cigar. Finally, Taggert came down the steps.

  “You know him better than me,” Savage said quietly to Gerado. “How does he look?”

  “Not as angry as I expected.”

  Savage straightened and waited.

  “So?” he grunted when the mine boss stood in front of him.

  “I’ll talk to you in private,” Taggert said.

  Savage nodded, and Gerado headed off. The big man studied Taggert’s beefy face keenly, knowing that the man was trying to conceal his hate.

  “You’ve put me in a difficult position, Savage.”

  “Nowhere as difficult as the position Chavez’s widow is in.”

  “All right, we won’t go over that again. The point is, I’ve thought it over, and I’ve made up my mind. If you guarantee that there won’t be anything to slow us down before we send off our next shipment early next week, then I’ll give serious consideration to the Chavez case. Most likely, we can settle it to your satisfaction.”

  “Sounds like a stall to me.”

  “Call it what you like. That’s how it is. You don’t understand these Mexicans, Savage, and you don’t know how things work around here. If I gave in right now, there would be dancin’ and drinkin’ and more demands. In other words, it would stop the work, just the same as if I said no. I just have to get that shipment out on time. I can only do it if the mine keeps working. What do you say?”

  “What if I said I don’t swallow that?”

  Taggert jerked a thumb towards Hogan and Miles. “I’d let you talk things over with my boys.”

  It still sounded like a stall, but it wasn’t an outright refusal. He decided to settle for the possibility of a win instead of a dead loss.

  “Okay, you got a deal. Where can you put us up?”

  “What?”

  Savage grinned. “Me and Gallardo are stayin’ on until you ship out the gold. It’s not that I don’t trust you ... exactly. I guess I’ll just hang around to keep an eye on things until that Dreadnought of yours pulls out.”

  Taggert lifted his chin.

  “And what if I said that doesn’t suit me? What if I told you I wanted you to get the hell out of here before sundown? What then?”

  “Why, I’d just have to talk things over with your boys.”

  “By God, you’ve got a nerve!”

  “So I’m told.”

  “You beat up my men, seduce my wife and almost get Jackson and Jones killed. Then you come out here and strut around like you own the place. I’ve got a mind to call your bluff, Savage. Damned if I don’t.”

  “Don’t go makin’ things worse than they are, Taggert. I’ll give you the time you want if you let me and Gallardo stay on to make sure you don’t pull somethin’ funny. Deal?”

  Taggert nodded angrily and walked away.

  Halfway up the hill, Gallardo was standing near Jackson and Jones. There were several other brown shirts in sight. Savage had been aware of every one of them while he spoke with Taggert. His hands rested on his gun butts now, as he watched Taggert pause for a word with Jackson and Jones. The pair nodded, and Jones went to Gallardo.

  The Mexican started down the hill at once. His battered face looked unusually serious when he reached Savage.

  Jones said they could shift their gear into the shack which had been unoccupied ever since the Number Four Shaft caved in and reduced the workforce by eight unlucky men. Gallardo was uneasy about the offer.

  “Are you sure it is wise for us to remain here, Señor Savage?” he asked softly.

  Savage’s steely stare was focused on the big house on the rise. A slender figure stood on the gallery.

  “We’re doin’ what we gotta do,” Savage said finally.

  Gallardo wasn’t sure he knew what that meant, but it was all the answer he was going to get, Savage wasn’t saying any more. He never believed in talking a thing to death.

  Chapter Eight – Two Jacks and a Queen

  WHEN SHE WAS at the mine, Della Taggert was in the habit of taking an early morning ride into the foothills.

  She was an excellent horsewoman, and despite her husband’s orders, she usually rode alone. She liked it that way—having the clean, fresh mornings all to herself.

  Once she had her exercise, of course, there were other appetites to consider. That was why Jackson and Jones were waiting for her at the old prospector’s shack.

  They stood side by side, watching her come over the rise with the sun shining on her golden hair and the palomino’s creamy mane.

  Unconsciously, Jackson and Jones held almost identical positions: arms folded, feet planted wide, hats angled forward against the probing sunlight.

  The hardcases shared more than the same job and the same woman.

  There were times when they even thought alike, and this was one of them. Both understood that their association with Taggert’s wife was about to enter a new phase. If all went as planned, the three of them would soon be on their way to California with bulging sacks of yellow gold. They couldn’t help but wonder what life with luscious Della would be like on a full-time basis.

  The three were soon deep in conversation of their plans to plunder Tuesday’s Dreadnought shipment.

  It was Della who had the idea of drugging the gold guards’ coffee. Now she was insisting that it was the only workable plan that wouldn’t put them at risk of getting shot to pieces. Jackson and Jones were not as convinced that all would go as smoothly as she predicted. There was always the unexpected, Jackson argued. He knew more than a little about holdups, having worked both sides of the law in his time. He was prepared to stick with Della’s plan, but he wanted to go over all the details that might cause trouble.

  At the top of Jackson’s list was big Clint Savage. Could they be sure that Savage didn’t have some secret motive for coming to the mine? Had he caught a whiff of the planned robbery, maybe? Could Della have let something slip on the memorable night she spent with the man?

  Della resented that idea and said so: “We had better things to do than talk,” she snapped.

  Jones had his own misgivings. He and his partner had seen the mean side of Clint Savage. It was something to remember ...

  They needed to know that Savage had no suspicions about the shipment, the two men insisted. Guessing and supposing was just not good enough.

  It took a while for the penny to drop for Della.

  “With Cleve watching me like a hawk?” she said. “You must be crazy.”

  “We’re takin’ a patrol out tonight, sugar,” Jackson told her. “You remember those bastards that opened up on us by Jubal’s Gorge the day we gave Savage a workin’ over? Well, our men cut tracks in the valley yesterday. It might be the same bunch lookin’ to take out the Dreadnought. We’re waitin’ until its cool tonight to go take a look. We could take Cleve with us, if you get the drift ...”

  “Why would he bother to go with you when he can send plenty of other men?” Della asked.

  Jones laughed softly. “We can talk him into it—if you want us to.”

  She put her hands on her hips and laughed.

  “Some lovers you are ... trying to throw me into bed with any man who happens along.”

  “Savage ain’t any man,” Jackson reminded her.

  Della sobered and said, “No, that’s a fact ...” she said, shrugging her lovely shoulders.

  “That’s not what we were meaning ...” Jackson scoffed.

  “But it’s what I was meaning.” Della said with a sly grin. “So, are you boys sure you won’t get jealous?”

  They insisted that they would not, and Della kissed them both before swinging back into the saddle and riding off. Jones massaged his right cheek, an eternal reminder of Clint Savage. His partner began to roll a cigarette.

  “Didn’t take much persuadin’, did she?” Jones muttered.

  “Don’t even think about it. She’s only doin’ what we want her to.”

  “She ain’t like any female I ever met,” Jones said slowly. “She’s pretty, she’s smart, she’s got no end of nerve ... but she’s still a goddamn tramp in my book. Don’t you agree?”

  Jackson’s face shadowed. “Ask me when it’s over.”

  “Meanin’?”

  “I ain’t sure exactly what I mean,” Jackson muttered. “But I hear what you’re sayin’, and I’m just hopin’ for Della’s sake that she don’t start gettin’ confused about whose side she’s on and who’s goin’ to be butterin’ her bread.”

  “You ain’t sayin’ she might be sweet on Savage?”

  Jackson headed for their horses. “The only thing I’m sure of is that Della’s sweet on Della. Let’s get back to the mine.”

  As they rode away the bewildered faces of Hogan and the Indian girl with whom he’d spent the night in the old shack, appeared at a dusty window.

  Yaqui Joe strummed his guitar to take his mind off Joachim’s erratic gait as early dusk came down over the rangeland. Although still disappointed by what happened—and did not happen in Highsmith—the little Mexican possessed resilient spirit that let him shrug off misfortune. He could almost always convince himself that tomorrow would be a better day.

  It was too bad the Highsmith horse dealer had not been more trusting. It was disappointing when Savage had not come through with a little badly needed money. But it was not the end of the world. There were always other horses, and once he met up with Savage and Cousin Gallardo, there would be other adventures.

  He was sure that by now the enterprising Savage would have staged some great triumph at the poker tables, or convinced some handsome woman to stake him. Savage could be a difficult hombre at times, and unpredictable at others, but he had a true gift for survival. And surely that was what the crazy game of life was all about.

  When the horse-drawn van rounded a bend ahead, Yaqui Joe didn’t pay much attention. At first. Head-on, it looked like either a gypsy’s rig or a tinker’s van. But as it drew closer, he saw that there were garish placards plastered all over the sides, and that one of the two men on the front seat looked to be about twice normal size.

  One of the placards read:

  HARRY LIMEHOUSE

  UNCROWNED HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION OF THE WORLD.

  Since Yaqui Joe could not read a word of English, the words meant nothing to him. He hauled Joachim to a halt and held up his right hand, palm forward in the universal sign of greeting.

  “Buenos dias, señores,” he smiled as the vehicle drew to a halt. “One fine evening, is it not?”

  The men stared at him coldly, and Yaqui Joe noticed that the giant looked as though he had lost an argument with a runaway stage. They just stared at him, as though he was a talking bug.

  “You come from Bright’s City?” he asked.

  Still no response. These travelers seemed burdened by some depression of the spirit.

  Yaqui Joe tried again. “Can you tell me how far it is on this road to Bright’s City? I am to meet my amigos there, Cousin Gallardo and Señor Savage.”

  That brought a response at last. “Savage is your pard?” rumbled the giant.

  Yaqui Joe made an expansive gesture. “My very finest companero ...”

  The words stuck in his scrawny throat. The giant was climbing down off his seat. Now he was peeling off his coat, flexing heroic muscles and making a fierce growling deep in his chest that reminded Yaqui Joe of a grizzly awakened from hibernation.

  Yaqui Joe could be slow to get something through his head at times, but not that slow. At the sudden, sure smell of danger, he banged his heels against Joachim’s hide so hard that the animal jogged off in a painful, shuffling trot that was just fast enough to outpace the red-faced, cursing giant.

  Looking back, Yaqui Joe saw the towering figure shaking a fist the size of an Easter ham and swearing in a strange tongue that only vaguely resembled English.

  Yaqui Joe shook his head. He didn’t understand. Sometimes, when he was in low spirits, Savage would say the world was full of bastards. Yaqui Joe hated to think that maybe he was right.

  “Judas! How cold can it get?” Buck Coulter complained as he huddled deep into his coat.

  Standing around their leader in shirt sleeves, the outlaws made no comment. It was night, but it sure wasn’t cold for anyone but Buck.

  He was always cold, had been ever since the day in 1864 when his regiment had bombarded a Rebel ‘stronghold’. He had led his men in and was the first to discover the bodies of eleven women and seventeen children who had taken refuge from Sherman’s blue legions in a hayrick. For some strange reason, Buck Coulter never associated that terrible incident with the chill in the bones which had been with him ever since.

  Buck was doomed to die cold, but he was damned if he would die poor.

  Recovering from his shivering, he squatted down to interpret the diagram he had sketched in the dust with a sharp stick. The drawing depicted brush-choked Eagle Pass, where he planned to stage the attack on the Dreadnought gold wagon. Buck was determined that every man should not only understand the plan, but like it.

  The outlaws glanced up at the sound of hoofbeats. Their hairy comrade was riding in on his burr-tailed mustang. He had been out scouting and he brought back news. Several miles to the northeast he had sighted Taggert, Jackson and Jones on the wagon route from the mine. The three had eventually turned back, but it seemed that they were searching for somebody or something.

  “You reckon they got a smell of us, Buck?” a man asked.

  “Doubt it,” Buck replied, rubbing his hands together. “But it wouldn’t matter much if they did. Taggert is so cocky about that Dreadnought of his that he wouldn’t lose much sleep if he knew the James gang was out here, I reckon.”

  This comment met with deep silence. Some of Buck’s men had their own doubts that the Dreadnought could be so easily plundered.

  Gallardo jumped at a sudden sound. He relaxed a little when he saw that it was only the night workers, wheeling ore carts out of the mine, but he was still on edge. How else could he be, with Savage and Señora Taggert in the darkened shack and a bright moon overhead that could light Taggert’s way back to the Lost Frenchman at any hour?

  He didn’t want to be too critical of Cousin Yaqui’s great friend, for Gallardo liked the señoritas, too. But he didn’t believe there was any one woman who was worth getting drawn, quartered, castrated and maybe hanged for, and he suspected this fate was about the best Savage could expect if Taggert caught him with his wife again.

  Gallardo paced back and forth. Savage had said he just wanted to talk with the woman, to find out if her husband really planned to pay the money to Rosario Chavez. Gallardo wanted to believe him, but it was a struggle.

  The young Mexican went very still at the sound of horses. Two brown shirts emerged from the stables with bedrolls and warbags strapped to their saddles. As they rode up between the buildings, Gallardo’s curiosity enticed him out into the moonlight.

  “Hey, amigos,” he called, “where do you go?”

  “Get out of our way,” growled Hogan, as they rode on by.

  Puzzled, Gallardo resumed his pacing. Then he looked into the distance—and saw three riders coming towards the mine. He swallowed, rushed to the shack and banged on the wall.

  “Señor Savage. They come!”

  A short time later, Savage and Della Taggert appeared in the doorway. They embraced warmly, and the woman smiled brightly at Gallardo as she came down the steps and walked up to the big house in bright red shoes.

  Gallardo brushed sweat from his top lip. “You play with death, amigo.”

  Savage lit a cigar and sat on the top step, watching the incoming horsemen.

  “Looks like they didn’t catch any outlaws,” he remarked casually.

  “Pray that they do not catch you.”

  “You’re a lot like your cousin; you worry too much.”

  “Did you find out anything?”

  “Plenty.”

  “I mean about Taggert!”

  “Oh. No, not much. Matter of fact, I had the feelin’ she was tryin’ to quiz me ...” Savage gazed at the hills. “Where were those two fellers headin’ just a while ago?”

  “Who knows? They took much gear with them, and they seemed in a great hurry.”

  Savage frowned as he exhaled blue smoke. “Funny.”

  Cleve Taggert thought so, too, when he discovered the following morning that Hogan and Miles had quit. No notice, no explanation, they had just packed up and left in the dead of night.

  Taggert sent Jackson and Jones to find out why two good men had pulled up stakes and left.

  Jackson and Jones were the wrong ones to try and get to the bottom of the mystery, for a very good reason. Hogan had overheard the plans to rob the Dreadnought. If anybody but Taggert’s wife and his two top men had been involved, he would have gone straight to Taggert. But every man at the Lost Frenchman was more afraid of the two top guns than he was of Taggert. Telling what he knew would be dangerous, Hogan could see. Riding with the Dreadnought would be no better. Hogan had told Miles, and the two of them warned their fellow brown shirts before they lit out. By the next night, another two guards had disappeared ... and then two more.

  Taggert was getting desperate. He would not dare to trust the gold-laden Dreadnought to an escort that was under-strength.

 

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