Chapter 6

The silver mine was near the northern border of the reservation, which, for fourteen miles, ran concurrent to that line which delineated Sonora County from Jackson County. By crow flight, it was about forty miles from Dorado Springs, which was at the southeast corner of the reservation. By trail, it was closer to forty-five miles. On the other hand, the mine was a bit more than fifteen trail miles from Waypoint and had more water access as it paralleled the Rio Isabella for the first nine miles.

By the time the northbound train left Dorado Springs that April Thursday afternoon, the land agent in the Springs had a positive response from the state land commissioner at Meseta, accepting the Malik brothers’ and Cowboy’s bid to purchase options on the sections and acreage on the Rio Isabella, Toonilini Creek and Long Wash drainages. Moreover, based on the extent of the purchase, Andy had negotiated a price of ninety cents an acre should they exercise their option. He’d also bought a thirty-day option for four more sections straddling Shepherds Ridge, continuing north of their purchase for two miles, and at the same price.

Since the route to the mine would traverse the land they’d just optioned, Andy said he would join the mine excursion, then Christina said she would, too.

Malik gave Christina a questioning look, but she snapped back, “It’s not like I’ll forget that I’m carryin’ a child, dear brother-in-law, so don’t go raising those eyebrows at me! It will be months, yet, before I will have to cut back on my normal pursuits. Most likely by then I’ll probably feel like cuttin’ back. But don’t you be worryin’ yourself.”

The three couples returned to Waypoint on the train, maintaining a festive atmosphere for their little adventure. Malik had arranged the suite at the Old Courthouse Inn to be available for the newlywed couple, as well as covering the cost of their meals. Mitchel Anderson, general manager at the Inn, mentioned to Malik that he’d been toting up quite a bill for the month, what with the rooms and meals he’d provided for various individuals and groups.

“Just let me know if I exceed my annual retainer, Mitchel, or when it seems like I might. I may have a few more rooms and discounts yet this month, including the suite for Judge Westcott on Monday, but I expect my needs will slack off after that.”

“Are you certain you want to retain this arrangement, Emil? You’re the majority owner, after all. There’s no reason for you to have to pay for your guests’ rooms and meals. At the very least, you should only have to pay an equivalent to our junior partners’ share.”

“I’d rather the Inn’s books reflect actual use, Mitchel, plus it allows the cash necessary for operations here. We’ve already worked in an allowance for you, me, and Joe to compensate services for promotional purposes. It’s just that my promotional purposes often extend beyond the immediate needs of the Inn.”

“Dat’s foine by me, den, guv’nor,” Anderson quipped, lapsing into his native cockney phrasing. Then he returned to the posh London accent he affected around the Inn, “I suppose I wanted to make myself comfortable with the arrangements.”

“Any time, Mitchel. It’s not an imposition.”

The Maliks, including Gabriela, all kept horses at Mrs. Kuiper’s. For a monthly fee, she provided both a small pasture and cut hay in the winter, as well as a corral and a stable. For an additional fee, a hostler would tend a roomer’s horse.

The Malik ranch office, located in the building that had been Olin Wisser’s gunsmith shop, had built a small stable in its back lot, off the alley. Horses and mules were kept there, for ranch workers’ convenience, and were rotated out weekly with stock from the ranch.

Andy took two extra mounts and a pack mule from behind the ranch office and the group met for an eight o’clock breakfast in a private dining room at the Old Courthouse Inn. Both the Quincys arrived a few minutes before eight. They were dressed in outerwear that would suit either saddle or mine: long-sleeved flannel shirts, dungarees, and high, laced, leather boots. Each carried a broad-brimmed hat, somewhat the worse in appearance for having traveled in their luggage.

Andy said, “Those hats will look better once they’ve been rained on a for a few hours.”

June Quincy said, “Then I hope mine stays misshapen forever.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Christina rejoined, “Andy said he smelled rain on the air. Do you have rain slickers?”

“We do. They’re in our saddle packs that we left with Mister Anderson, at the front desk.”

“Then you should be fine. The real gully-washers won’t happen until mid-summer or later. The spring rains are usually gentle, if cold and miserable.”

“We have coats with our baggage, too.”

Malik said, “Sounds like you’re set. How about some breakfast?” He led the way to the back dining room, separated from the main dining room by a movable wall partition. Menus and glasses of water were already in place.

The Maliks were all familiar with the available dishes, so it was simply a matter of the Quincys selecting theirs. Emmet Quincy noticed that only he and his bride were looking at menus. He asked, “You are conversant with the offerings?”

Malik said, “We come here often.”

“Then, can you tell me, what are Eggs Benedict?” Quincy asked.

Christina said, “The Inn’s dish has a poached egg served on a slice of smoked pork loin, all on top of an English crumpet and swaddled in a Dutch sauce, or, as the French call it, Hollandaise. It’s mostly a butter sauce with egg yolk, a touch of lemon juice, and a hint of nutmeg.”

“What’s a crumpet?” June wanted to know.

“It’s a biscuit, but yeast-raised, and it’s baked on a skillet in a circular baking ring. Then they toast it before serving it. Mister Anderson says they’re a common bread in England, even sold door-to-door. They’re quite tasty. Mister Collins, the chef, prepares all his specialty breads himself. Loaf bread he purchases from the Waypoint Bakery, where Cowboy works,” Christina smirked.

Quincy looked up in surprise. “Cowboy’s a baker?”

Malik chuckled. “Among other things, but he’s more of a baker’s helper, an apprentice, at best.” He smiled and shook his head. “It has to do with Navajo clan traditions. Their heritage practices are centered on the mother’s lineage rather than the father’s and the fact is that Cowboy’s wife and her mother own the Waypoint Bakery. But that’s not the real reason. Cowboy wasn’t raised in a very traditional family, but he’s comfortable with the idea. Mostly, though, he raises horses, in a mountain valley west of here. He’s been developing breeding techniques for the Appaloosa strain. One of his mares is tied up at the rail out back, a first anniversary gift for Gabriela. He described it as a reward for her surviving a year married to me. At the same time, he gave me, as an anniversary gift, his favorite bread recipe, written on a card.”

“I take it you’ve known him a while?”

Malik chuckled. “He’s been my best friend since we were younkers. His father and uncle worked for our Pa, back then. Later, the Tsosies, that’s their family name, started their own ranch in the Flat Grass Valley, about sixty-five or so miles from here, by trail. He’s been my partner in lots of adventures, from the time we were pirate captains on the Manuela Sea.”

“Pirates?” June Quincy queried.

“The Manuela Sea?” Emmet Quincy asked.

“It’s a reservoir on the Rio Isabella, named for our Ma, at the southwest corner of the ranch. Actually, Pa named it Lake Manuela.”

“So I take it the pirates were...?”

“Childhood games. Though we developed some useful skills. Which reminds me, do you folks have sidearms?”

“I have a Smith and Wesson thirty-two caliber hammerless I keep in my trousers pocket. I carry a Winchester Eighteen seventy-three carbine in forty-four-forty and June has a single-barrel twenty-gauge cartridge shotgun. Are you expecting trouble, Mister Malik?”

“Not expecting any, Mister Quincy, but I prefer to be ready for it, as trouble has a tendency to be unexpected.”

“Excellent point, sir. I’ll keep that one in mind.”

“What I’d prefer to do, for this trip, is loan you an Army Colt in forty-four forty, and have you give your wife the thirty-two, assuming she’s familiar with it?”

“She is.”

“Good, then we have a couple stops to make before we set off.”

At the recently expanded Baylor’s Mercantile and General Store, Malik purchased a second-hand Army Colt revolver that he knew to be in good condition. He also purchased a second-hand ten-gauge Greener double-barrel shotgun and cartridges for both firearms.

Following Olin Wisser’s murder by one of Sheriff Banks’ deputies some eighteen months earlier, Waypoint found itself without a gunsmith. Baylor, with Malik’s professional assistance, had worked out an exchange and sales representative agreement with a reputable gunsmith in Fort Birney.

A few doors north on Wagon Road Avenue, Malik and Quincy stopped at Jan Viddick’s leather goods shop. Malik recommended new belts and flap-covered holsters for both pistols and a second-hand saddle scabbard for the Greener. Seeing that everyone else had donned cross-draw rigs, Quincy elected to do the same. Then Malik took his old shortened Scott messenger gun and its scabbard and tied it to Quincy’s saddle, while he took the “new” scabbard and the Greener for his.

Finally, at Quincy’s suggestion, Malik had borrowed a couple railroad lanterns from Thomas Palmer, the local K&ASR freight yard manager. Quincy explained that the reflector on trainmen’s lamps directed the light forward and away from the user’s eyes, a useful design for mine exploration. Moreover, they were rugged and traveled well.

It did rain, and so it was a cold, damp group that emerged from the head end of Isabella Canyon just after one o’clock. They’d allowed the horses and their pack mule -- the faithful Petal, as it turned out -- to pick their own way along the rain-slick rock that comprised much of the trail through Isabella Canyon. Nor did they hurry the animals.

But the rain ceased and the heavy overcast broke into a sunny, cloud-dappled sky as they entered the Toonilini Valley, making their emergence from the depths of the canyon all the more striking. This was further enhanced by a band of antelope bucks which ran off, after allowing them to approach within thirty yards.

June asked, “Why were there no females with that herd?”

Andy explained, “This time of year, the does go off to have their young, up in the more remote cedar and piñon range. They’ll come back down with the little ones in the latter half of May and early June.”

“How about some lunch?” Malik asked. “Let’s go over by the river. They’ll be no water after this, so we’ll let the stock drink their fill and we’ll need to top off our canteens and fill the big ones.” Everyone carried two canteens, a large one for their horse and a smaller one for personal use. There were also four more large canteens on Petal’s packsaddle. All the large canteens had been left empty up to that point.

After a lunch of ham and cheese sandwiches and boiled eggs, and a few minutes to relax and see to personal needs, they filled the canteens and remounted. Malik soon noticed a faint, weathered trail led the direction they were headed, tracking up the easy grades and avoiding the worst of the cactus and the thickets of spiny desert shrubs.

He called to his brother, who was at the rear of the group, which still was tending to ride single file, an order of march picked up as they traversed the narrow trail through Isabella Canyon. He asked that Andy join him and, after pointing out the trail they weres now following, said, “I don’t remember a trail here, but it seems to be headed toward the mine.”

Andy said, “Maybe the pack trains carrying ore?”

“Could be. I want to talk to Quincy.” He asked his Andy to take the lead while he rode with the young mining engineer.

Malik pulled the roan to the side and waited until Quincy caught up to him, whereat he had the roan keep pace on Quincy’s right.

“Did your uncle tell you about the stolen ore?”

“He did. Quite frankly,...” He paused. “Say, do you have any objection to June being privy to this conversation? I’d prefer she hear of any circumstances first hand as she is a clever woman and often suggests things that would not occur to me.”

“Of course. I’d be glad for the application of another mind. Why don’t you pull off the trail and we’ll let her ride between us.” Which is what Quincy did.

When she found herself riding between the two men, June said, “Gentleman?”

Malik said, “Your husband thought it would likely be more helpful if you were informed in the original discussion.”

“I see. May I inquire after the topic?”

“I’d only asked if your husband’s uncle had told him about the ore thefts, to which he responded in the affirmative.”

“Thank you, Mister Malik. May I ask one more question?”

“Please.”

“How much farther is the mine?”

“If we don’t push the horses, which I’d just as soon not do because of the limited water, then about an hour and a half or two hours.”

“Thank you again. Please proceed, Mister Malik.”

“I had the impression your husband was going to say something more about the ore thefts.”

“Yes, I was,” Quincy said. “I find it remarkable that someone would go through all this trouble to steal silver ore in such a limited quantity that could be packed out for fifteen miles on mules. Silver is only rarely found pure in veins or in chunks or nuggets like one sometimes finds gold. Silver is almost universally bound to, or mixed with, other elements, like copper, or even gold, but mostly with less-valuable material. So, you have to consider that the packs that are hauled out of here actually just contain mostly rocks and dirt with only a very small portion being silver. What’s more, extracting that small portion requires significant processing.”

Malik shrugged. “Truth be told, some of the criminals we’ve had around here were not known for their mental acumen.”

Quincy went on. “But have you considered the implications for the Sonora in operating the mine, Mister Malik? How is sufficient ore going to be removed in an economic manner to bring it to a hammer mill or a smelter? No one has ever found mule packing to be workable in the long run, not even for gold ore. Over short stretches, mule trains work because the steady flow doesn’t require many animals. But over fifteen to twenty miles, even if the production was constrained, it would require dozens, maybe many dozens of mules, and the men and resources to support them.”

Malik said, “I see your point. It had occurred to me that transportation might be a problem, but I hadn’t considered that it might put the kibosh on the deal. And it certainly makes this thievery all the more inexplicable.”

Into the pause in the conversation, June Quincy inserted, “On the other hand, it could just be the Sonora’s mine produces a very rich ore.”

Both men looked at her. Then Quincy quietly and slowly repeated, in an apparent thoughtful state, “On the other hand, it could just be a very rich ore.” He rode along for a few moments, then he grinned and looked over at Malik and hooked a thumb in his wife’s direction. “Didn’t I tell you?”

Malik asked, “Will you be able to determine that?”

“I brought some chemicals and testing equipment, but it will only be a rough estimate from a very, very limited sample. To perform an adequate assay will require several small sacks of material from different locations in the mine, or at least along the working face.”

“I reckon time will tell,” Malik said.

They rode in silence again for a few minutes, then Malik said, “Just so you know, I believe we are following the trail left by the mule trains which carried the stolen ore. It’s faint and weathered, so I can’t be sure. It doesn’t look like it’s been used for at least several months.”

June Quincy asked, “So where does the canyon trail actually go?”

“Not much of anywhere. It really doesn’t continue beyond the mouth of the canyon, as a noticeable trail. We’re in a region known locally as the ‘Dry Valleys.’ There are four roughly parallel ridges running north-south and, except for the Rio Isabella, which is on the reservation for most of its upper drainage, there are no dependable water sources, just seasonal flow. There’s not enough dependable graze to make it worthwhile to bring in cattle, or even sheep. About sixty miles north of here, just before the valleys merge, there’s better grass and a couple good springs which make up Cleveland Creek. There’s a ranch up there, the B-Bar-L. But, in this part of the valleys, there’s no real direction for a trail to go that isn’t reached easier by some other path. The Smoky Valley and the Flat Grass Valley are easier to reach on a trail from Dorado Springs, and even that trail has limited water.

“Cowboy’s family’s ranch is west-southwest of here in a fourth valley, called the Flat Grass Valley, where there’s good water year ‘round and good range for sheep, cattle, and horses. They run all three. But it’s much easier for them to reach the railroad at Dorado Springs or the Wagon Road at Border Wells. Same with Gabriela’s place, which is further south, but also up against the mountains. Just like the Tsosie ranch, it’s in a well-watered valley.”

Quincy asked, “I take it Border Wells is on the border with Mexico?”

“It used to be, before the folks back east got finished re-arranging western real estate with our south-of-the-border neighbors by means of the Gadsden Purchase. For all that, there’re still towns around that have Spanish as the common language. I like wandering into one or the other, and stop to have a meal. It reminds me of the origins of this part of the country.

“Didn’t you say your mother was Mexican?” June asked.

“Well, Spanish, supposedly. The way she told it, her father had been adamant about the difference, claiming to trace their lineage directly to the original Spanish immigrants without any non-Spanish bloodlines being introduced. She said he probably had the idea he was a descendant of the conquistadors. Quien sabe? (Who knows?) Maybe he was. When we’d compliment her meals, though, Ma would always say she probably was descended from some conquistador’s cook. Fact is, Spanish versus Mexican is a class distinction in this part of the country, but Ma never made an issue out of it and Andy and I play it down altogether. In many ways, it’s the kind of thing that can make it more difficult in doing business or in just trying to get along.”

“So ‘Malik’ isn’t Mexican?”

Malik chuckled. “Not even Spanish. My father was Polish. He was an officer in the Prussian army, Prussia having control of that part of Poland. He was sent to the US as an observer during the Mexican-American War, and decided to stay.”

June said, “My mother always said I could tell people I could trace my roots back to the Mayflower.” She smiled, “Or at least to Mayflower, Virginia. That’s where they were living when I was born.”

Quincy said, “Uncle Morton warned us never to look too closely at our roots. He said he was fairly certain that our immigrant forbears were likely indentured servants who’d been released from an English debtors prison. But that was in jest. We really don’t know much, other than our name is English, of Norman origins.”

Just then, Andy called, sharply, “Emil!”

Malik looked up toward the front of their small caravan. Ahead, about two hundred yards, two riders were spurring hell-for-leather, heading north. One of riders fired two shots toward them from his pistol. At that distance, it would have been only extremely bad luck that would have found one of them being hit.

Andy looked back toward Malik. “Should we follow?”

Instead, Malik began to dance his horse. “No, let’s look like we’re in disarray. You women quickly ride off south a hundred yards, Quincy, do the same back east. Go! Now! Andy, dance your horse back here.”

Petal, not on a lead rope, started in one direction, only to stop and start off in another. Meanwhile, the gunman and his companion had ridden out of sight. Andy, on a now quiet Beowulf next to Emil, gave a sharp whistle and the pack mule trotted to his side. Andy addressed the mule, scratching between her ears, “There you go, Petal. Sorry for the confusion.” By now, the others had stopped and were returning.

“Why the show, Emil?” Christina asked, upon rejoining the group.

“Because I think we are about to come into possession of a string of pack mules laden with silver ore, and I don’t want those two to think that we’re anyone they need to worry about. In fact, I’m hoping that they’ll decide to come back for their mules. Let’s just ride up to this next shoulder ridge and see what we see.”

As they neared the top of the rise, Petal gave a loud bray, which she repeated several times, until Andy gave another whistle. She fell silent, though still agitated, especially when there were answering brays from ahead, beyond the intervening rise.

As they topped the shoulder, they could see two strings of five alert pack mules watching them approach, tall ears aimed their way, most with brayed accompaniment. Andy said, “Let me go calm them down before we all come up on them.”

Andy rode ahead, Petal following, while the others stopped on top the ridge. Malik watched north, the direction the two men had ridden. The others observed as Andy rode among the pack animals, scratching heads and speaking to them. Soon, a few of the animals began searching for graze amid the hardy, if barely nutritious, desert growth. Andy looked up and waved the others to come ahead.

When the group was together, again, Malik said, “Andy, I want to keep an eye on those two. I’m going to follow this shoulder to up near the top where I can stay in the piñon and cedar. Can you take these mules to the mine and I’ll meet you there, later?”

Andy said, “Sure, but what about water for all of ‘em?”

“Well, if those yahoos didn’t make some provision for it, we’ll lead ‘em out tomorrow without any packs. We can water ‘em at the river as soon as we get to the canyon. They should get along ‘til then.”

“Maybe. You’re assuming they’ve had water recently.”

“Yeah, good point.”

“What do you want to do?”

“We’re not that far from the mine. Let’s drop their packs here and you can take the string back to the mine with you. They don’t look particularly dry, so they shouldn’t have too much trouble. But I need to get onto those two yahoos before they surprise us again. I’ll see you later. Best set up camp in a defensible position.”

“Go. We’ll figure things out.”

Malik walked his roan over near Gabriela’s Appaloosa and leaned over to kiss his wife. She kissed him back and said, “Go, Shadow. We’ll be fine.”

He looked briefly at Quincy and said, “I’m not sure how much time we’ll have for you to look things over, so best get to it as soon as you can.”

“I will,” Quincy assured him.

“See you later on, then.” He reeled the roan and set off quickly up the slope, staying below the rise of the shoulder ridge, where the two riders could not see him if they had already chosen to return.

Malik had crossed to the west side of Shepherds Ridge before turning north. After a few minutes, he dismounted and ground-reined the roan. He carefully crossed back over to the east side on foot, where he proceeded north, moving cautiously amid the low, sparse trees. About every hundred yards, he would cross back to the west side and whistle for the roan to catch up.

It wasn’t but a half hour before he spotted the two ore thieves riding south, back toward the spot they’d abandoned the ten mules. They were taking but minimal care, riding amid the lowest reaches of the cedar and piñon, but proceeding as if no one were about, talking in normal tones and not slowing for any purposes of caution.

Malik crossed back to the west side and retrieved the roan, then mounted up. Before starting off, though, he reached into the inner pocket on his jacket and removed the commission case. He opened it and worked the badge out of its round display slot. Then he pinned the Deputy US Marshal star to the front of his jacket.

He brought the roan down to the trail of the two men, then pushed the mare slightly to catch up. He pulled the Greener messenger gun from the scabbard and carried it in his right hand, resting the barrels across his legs and the front of his saddle.

After a few minutes, the two men came into view, riding abreast. They gave no attention to their back trail and the noise of their passage meant that Malik’s more cautious approach went unnoticed. The roan had been trained to silence at Malik’s command. As he drew closer, Malik felt there was something familiar about the men.

Eventually, one of them caught Malik’s movement out of the corner of his eye and he turned quickly, his hand going for the gun on his hip before he even noticed that Malik already had his shotgun out, held now just in his right hand and aimed forward. The abrupt movement alerted the first man’s companion, and he, too, turned quickly and reached for his sidearm.

Malik shouted, “Stop! US Marshal!” but his finger was already tightening on the trigger, as neither of the two men hesitated. One man died as Malik’s first blast of heavy buckshot put several deep holes into his throat, face, and the frontal lobe of his brain, brutally excising pieces from the top of his skull.

The other was luckier. Malik’s one-handed grip on the 10-gauge Greener meant that the first blast caused the shotgun to jerk wildly off target. This gave the second man -- Trey, as it turned out, one of Bill’s assassins -- a chance to get a shot off in Malik’s direction. Trey’s bullet, though well-aimed, didn’t reach Malik. Instead, it hit the roan square in the forehead. She immediately fell to her left while Malik kicked free of the stirrups and pushed off as the roan went down. The momentum caused him to roll away into the brush.

Trey continued to fire, but his frightened horse was frog hopping and he couldn’t steady his aim. His second bullet missed the falling Malik by several feet. But Trey’s third bullet dug into the ground a mere inch from Malik’s right hip as he rolled to a stop. Then, as Malik struggled to bring the shotgun to bear, Trey’s fourth bullet severed the trunk of a young cedar tree, against which Malik’s left shoulder had come to rest. Trey’s fifth bullet went into his own left thigh, just after Malik’s buckshot tore into his upper chest and right shoulder. He fell from the saddle, hitting the ground with a loud exhalation of air and blood. His horse ran off through the brush, with the other gunman’s horse close behind.

Malik rose unsteadily to his feet, then pulled his Army Colt from its flapped holster. He glanced toward the roan, but he could see the small, black hole where her forelock usually hung. He walked over to the groaning Trey, who had blood bubbling on his lips. He knelt next to him to examine the wound. The star on Malik’s jacket caught the assassin’s eye. “Should ‘a known,” he burbled.

“Trey, there’s no help for you, even if we were close to town. You’re lung shot and it will do you in.”

“So go ‘way,” he gasped.

“Tell me this: why kill Bill Edwards?”

“Eat my turds” he gasped,”lawman.”

“Well, then tell me this: does it hurt when I squeeze right here?” Malik asked, as he pinched the thigh wound, hard, between his thumb and fingers.

Trey gasped again and coughed up blood. When he settled down, he said, between ragged breaths, “Saw the kid ... lookin’ ‘round ... Banks’ corral ... boss said ... kill ‘im.”

“Your partner over there, was he the man with you?”

“Yuh.”

“What’s his name?”

“Ollie ... Snow.”

“You took the ore to Banks’ place and loaded it into the Black Diamond freight wagons,” Malik said, more a statement than a question.

Trey appeared to try to respond but instead grabbed Malik’s coat sleeve and coughed hard twice, bringing up a flow of blood. Then he released his grip and slumped into death.

Malik regarded the body for a moment, shook his head, then rose and walked over to the roan. He knelt at the horse’s head and reached to pat her neck. “Thank you, girl, for the years ... and for this,” he rasped, as he touched her forehead. Tears began to roll down his cheek, he stood up and shook himself. Then he took a deep breath and walked to Ollie Snow’s body and dragged it over next to his partner’s.

He looked around for a moment, reloaded the shotgun, then set off after the two killers’ horses.

Just after sunset, Malik called loudly, “Hello the camp! Hello, Andy!”

“We hear you, Emil! Come get some coffee.”

Malik set the horse to a walk toward the firelight.

After he’d retrieved the horses, which, as were their wont, hadn’t run very far, he’d found them to be trained cow ponies. That made it easier for Malik to rig the tether rope he carried, and another he found on one of the dead men’s horses, to manage the horses in pulling the roan’s weight off the saddle skirt and cinches and one side of his saddle pack while he pulled all of it free. Luckily, the stirrup had not been caught under her. He even managed to recover the saddle blanket, though his big canteen had been crushed.