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CHAPTER 5

      AS PURDY and Nugent cleared a rise, there was Tres Marias, visible through the mist — a jumble of lodgepole pine and plank buildings on both sides of a shallow boulder-strewn stream that appeared no more than 30 feet across.

      A pine and aspen-covered mountain sloped up from one side of the stream. On the other side, several hundred yards of gently sloping ground ended at the base of a steep rocky cliff. Many of the trees had been cleared, dozens of buildings had already been erected, and almost twice that number were under construction. Smoke came from the tin smokestacks sticking up through the plank and tarred canvas roofs of many of the buildings. A flagpole was flying the American flag in front of one of the larger structures.

      Nugent pointed out the iron framework of a large building under construction. "That's our mill where the miners will soon be taking their ore to be crushed. I'm proud to say that I own a piece of it."

      In spite of himself, Purdy was impressed. He could see men bolting iron beams together high above the ground. There were enough horses to make several teams were corralled on the flats at the base of the cliff, and large wagons, some still loaded, stood in two neat rows adjacent to the corral. The breath of the big work-horses steamed in the cold air. In a separate corral were four stolid oxen, backs to the wind.

      The snow that had fallen during the night and morning softened the landscape. Overhead the sun was like a dull silver dollar in the sky, and the air was misty with moisture and smoke. From a distance Tres Marias looked like a painting of some European village Purdy had seen once in a museum.

      The ride from Central City had been eased by the decent roadway pressed out by the freight wagons. Purdy had spent years in the plains where the horizon was sometimes a hundred miles away, and there was a comfortable sameness about the land. But here among these jagged peaks, the horizon was often less than a mile away, and each time they came around a bend to new scenery.

      He and Nugent talked easily about the trail and about horses and mining. But with Tres Marias within sight, the conversation turned to the new town. "Well, here it is," Nugent said, "Just about everything a man could need except a railroad!"

      He gave Purdy a sidewise look, as though measuring to see if he was worthy of a coming confidence. "You know, Bill, railroads are where the money's being made. Those miners down there are working themselves to death to make less money than I'm going to make just by shuffling paper. The railroad's coming here, by God — and I'm going to make it happen! I'm putting my fortune into it!"

      Once more that appraising look. " . . . but there's still room for an investor I can trust. How about it, Bill. You interested?"

      Purdy thought for a moment. "You're talking about a narrow gauge?"

      "They're best for these mountains. That's what everybody has. The one over at Leadville is making more money than some of the silver mines. You know how much railroad the United States has now? More than ninety thousand miles of track!"

      Purdy stuck a cigar in his mouth and lit it, and then blew a plume of smoke. "I'll think about it, Frank. I'll put my mind on it."

      Nugent nodded somewhat glumly. "A man of deliberation. I like that. Just don't wait too long."

      Entering the town, they passed a cemetery with several graves, their markers so new the wood had not had time to weather. The buildings, which had looked so picturesque to Purdy from a distance, were raw and ugly at close range, with not a single inch of paint visible, except on signs. There had been little attempt to build a boardwalk, and trash littered everything. The air smelled of woodsmoke and outhouses.

      They reined in before a two-story log and plank building that proclaimed itself a hotel. "It's the best we've got, but it's no Palace," Nugent said. "I'll leave you here, but I'd be honored if you'd take dinner with me and my wife tonight, and a few of my friends. We're going to have a meeting of the Law and Order Committee around five o'clock, and if you'd come up to the house around six we'll be all done, and I'd like you to meet the company."

      Purdy smiled. "I'll be real glad to come, Frank."

      "That's where my house up there." Nugent pointed up at a huge rock and log house facing the town. He started to ride off, then paused. "One thing, Bill. Mention my name to the hotel keeper, and you'll get a better room." He clicked his tongue to his big gray, and she moved off smartly.

      The hotel clerk, a sour-looking man, was going to bunk him in a room with two other men until Purdy mentioned Nugent's name. Then, not looking very happy about it, he put him in a private room on the second floor.

      Purdy carried his roll upstairs. The room was small but fairly clean, and a small window overlooked a stand of aspens, all but a few of their gold-colored leaves already fallen. There was a chair beside the bed, and a table with a washbasin and pitcher, and a big chiffonier with a mirror. He hung his spare clothes from his blanket roll in it and put his underwear and extra socks in one of the drawers. He put his comb and his pig-bristle toothbrush on the table under the window. He hid the badge and the identification paper that said his name was Kenneth Feeney, deputy marshal in Nebraska, inside the top front of the chiffonier where it was well out of sight.

      It had been around three o'clock in the morning when he'd gotten back to the Palace, and at seven he had met with Nugent and Weitnaur for breakfast, but he'd been up a lot earlier than that. He was tempted to lie down but it was still only a little after noon, and there would be time for that.

      He went downstairs to the outhouse out back, then rode to the livery stable where he turned the sorrel over to the care of a bleary-eyed old man who reeked of rotgut. The man assured Purdy he'd give the horse good care and oats, and Purdy believed him.

      Purdy walked around Tres Marias for a while, trying to get the feel of the place. Although he figured he had been in more than fifty different towns, most of them had been plains and desert towns, many built of mud adobe, and none had look so raw.

      The building with the flag turned out be a mercantile store with all kinds of goods stacked on shelves and tables and against the wall. A balding middle-aged man was behind the counter talking in a low voice to a younger man who was obviously angry.

      Purdy walked over to a pile of shovels up against the wall, and waited for them to finish their conversation. The man behind the counter was shaking his head. "A deal's a deal, Lem. You knew that when you signed."

      The man called Lem said, "I'm not going to give up my claim, Watson."

      "It's right here in black and white."

      Lem shook his head fiercely. "You wrote that in later."

      "Then show me your paper."

      "You know damned well somebody stole it."

      "I'm tired of your lying accusations," Watson said angrily. He drew a gun and rested it flat it on the counter, and glared at the younger man who pulled back, started to say something but decided he'd better not.

      "You get back to me this afternoon with that claim, or I'm going to send somebody after you tomorrow, and after he gets done with you, you'll be damned happy to sign it over to me.

      Lem, his face white with anger, said, "Send 'em, Watson. We'll be ready!" He turned and walked stiffly out the door.

      Watson put the gun away and, shaking his head, turned to Purdy. "Some of these young fellers get pretty hot sometimes . . . have to cool them down." He smiled showing brown broken teeth. "Can I help you, mister?"

      "Got any cigars?"

      "I sure do, the very finest!" He took a box from the shelf and offered it to Purdy who counted out half a dozen and paid for them.

      As Purdy left, Watson called after him, "Let me know if I can be service, sir."

      But Purdy was already striding on the frozen mud looking to see where the young man might be. He saw him through the mist trudging along the path beside the river, heading out of town, and Purdy followed him, until Lem apparently sensed that he was being followed and turned abruptly. Recognizing Purdy, he stopped and waited for him to catch up.

      "Couldn't help but overhear," Purdy said smoothly. He stuck out his hand. "Name's Bill Purdy."

      "Lemenuel Beeme," the other said. shaking with a heavily callused hand. "I guess if you hadn't been there, I'd have been carried out of the store, like some of the others."

      "You called the man Watson," Purdy said. "Is he Elmer Watson?"

      "I believe he is. I know he's a liar and a thief."

      "If he's trying to cheat you, why don't you go to the sheriff about it?"

      Beeme snorted. "The sheriff is the one Watson is going to send after me. I'm pretty sure his deputy stole my paper. You must be new to Tres Marias. This town's run by a gang of cutthroats."

      Purdy smiled, but his eyes were serious. "Yes, I guess so. More like a gang of sidewinder snakes, I think. Can't you buy your supplies someplace else?"

      "Last man who tried opening a store was found eaten by a bear. Had bullets in him, to boot."

      "You shouldn't have any trouble getting people to stand steady with you."

      "I'd like to do more than stand — I'm mad enough to kill him!"

      "Don't be hasty," Purdy said gently. "Never know — maybe somebody'll do it for you."

      They had been walking along the edge of the stream and the path angled sharply upward past a little waterfall. Purdy stopped. "I guess I'd best be getting on back," he said. "Pleased to have made your acquaintance." He turned back toward town, satisfied.

      Purdy stopped in at the barber shop and got a shave from a man who said he could get more gold out of shaves and haircuts than he could when he was panning for it. Then Purdy went back to the hotel and lay down on the bed. Just a little nap, he said to himself. He wanted to be at his best when he dined with the Society of Sidewinders.

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