“Who are you?”
“Dale Weatherly, ma’am. I work for Whip Bolan.”
Mary knew Bolan’s name. She remembered Cole meeting him and saying he was a Texan, a cattleman who cut a wide swath. But not a bad man. She remembered Cole saying Bolan seemed like a good man, even if he swaggered a little.
He had a place a few miles away.
“Yes, come over please, Mr. Weatherly,” she said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Weatherly handed the reins of the extra horse to the wagon driver and rode forward. Drawing close, he took off his hat and nodded. “Ma’am, I’m really sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
“My boss, Mr. Bolan, he was real sorry to hear about it, too.”
“Well, please give Mr. Bolan my thanks.”
“He says sorry he couldn’t make it here to talk to you himself, but he had to leave town on a train today. Heading to Denver.”
“That’s quite all right. I do appreciate his condolences.”
“Well, ma’am, Mr. Bolan sent more than sympathy. He told us to ride over with that wagon yonder and leave it and the mules if that would be helpful.”
She was so bowled over, it took her a second to speak. “Why?”
“Mr. Bolan was over to the hardware store this morning and heard about everything and how you was staying and rebuilding and all. And over at the livery, he heard about you buying the mule and cart. But he figured that wouldn’t be enough, so he’s lending you a wagon and some mules and us, too, ma’am, whenever you can use our help.”
She could only blink at him, it was all so unexpected. Suddenly, she felt like crying again. But she mustn’t. No matter what, she mustn’t.
“No hurry, ma’am,” Weatherly said. “Just know that if you want our help, we are at your disposal. That’s what Mr. Bolan told me to say. We are at your disposal.”
“Well, thank you, Mr. Weatherly. Thank you very much.”
She felt a surge of hope, and in her enthusiasm, she almost asked him to stay and help her get started right away, but then she caught sight of George’s face, which looked nervous and disappointed.
“That’s a very kind offer, and the use of Mr. Bolan’s mules and wagon would be most helpful. I am blessed to have my brothers with me. This is George. I know George can handle everything, especially with our brother James’s help.”
The man nodded at George. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” George said, returning the gesture and, she noted, standing a little straighter again.
“Well,” Weatherly said, “I’m glad to hear y’all have it covered, but the offer stands. Many hands make light work.”
“You’re right, of course, Mr. Weatherly. Many hands do make light work, and the snow could fly any day. My brothers and I will get started at once, but we might be in touch to take you up on your kind offer.”
28
Conn and Sheffield rode up into the mountains through alternating patches of open, sandy ground and sagebrush, past islands of pine and juniper, the trail growing rockier every step of the way and narrowing as they left the valley and scaled the slope. The scrub first gave way to ponderosas, then to lodgepoles, and the trail became a dim rivulet winding ever upward.
They came to a ridge where the trail forked. Many times while climbing the mountain, they spotted the tracks of Toole’s gang, and they saw them again here, heading south, as expected.
They pointed their horses in that direction and crossed the ridge saddle, buffeted by strong winds as the sun sank lower in the western horizon and their shadows seemed to stretch out impossibly long, down the eastern slope to join with the sea of shadow that was the lodgepole forest beneath them. Beyond, down in the valley, South Park stretched away like a limitless promise, pink in the evening light.
But of course, even the great promise of this beautiful land had its limits. You could not enjoy its remarkable bounty if a gang of bloodthirsty outlaws murdered you.
They rode slowly across the high ground, following the tracks of the killers, and stopped an hour before dark to change horses. The horses had handled the climb with seeming ease, but the air up here was cold and thin, and Conn didn’t want to overwork their animals.
Here and there, game trails crossed their path. In other places, old mining roads plunged into the pines or switched back beneath the rimrock. Once the trail tightened to a razor’s edge, their horses stepped lightly as they crossed a narrow spine of stone from which pebbles skipped away and slid into the open, tumbling breathlessly into the void that yawned to either side.
