Free Nest of Vipers (9781101613283) by Jory Sherman Page B

into his saddle. “But you either go along with me willingly or I’ll fire you from the case.”
    â€œYou’d do that to me, Brad?”
    â€œI would,” Brad said. “Right now, Joe, you’re on a mighty thin rope.”
    Joe opened his mouth to speak but changed his mind. Brad gave him one more searing look, then rode off down the valley.
    Late in the afternoon they heard a distant boom from somewhere up ahead. They all stopped to listen. They were in thick timber on one of the ridges.
    â€œWhat was that, I wonder?” Joe said.
    â€œSounded like a blast,” Brad said. “Dynamite. There’s a little river up yonder in a wide valley. We just might be heading for one of those mining camps.”
    There was another explosion and another loud boom that echoed, this time, until it faded out.
    â€œYes,” Julio said, “that is dynamite.”
    â€œNo mistake,” Joe said.
    Brad turned his horse and they rode upward onto another hill that gave him a view of the surrounding terrain. In the distance he saw the white shoulders of limestone bluffs.
    â€œYonder lies the mining camp,” he said, pointing to the cliffs.
    â€œI see the bare bones of some bluffs,” Joe said. “Don’t see no camp.”
    â€œThere’s a little creek runs under those bluffs,” Brad said. “I’ve run across prospectors panning in that creek. One of ’em must’ve found some color in his pan.”
    â€œHow far away is it?” Joe asked.
    â€œAs the crow flies, Joe, not far,” Brad said. “But, we aren’t crows and we can’t fly, so it’ll take us better than an hour or so to make it to those bluffs.”
    â€œI’m game. Let’s see what’s goin’ on over there.”
    â€œThat’s just what we’re going to do, Joe. Glad you agree with me.”
    Brad smiled at this small victory.
    Joe tried to smile back, but it just wasn’t in him. He snorted and put spurs to his horse’s flanks.
    Julio grinned like a Halloween jack-o’-lantern.

THIRTEEN
    Smoke and dust billowed out from a hole in the side of the limestone cliff. The third blast still echoed from the far hills and canyons of that region of the Rockies. The cloud of white smoke shredded in the fingerlings of wind that whipped through the long valley. Dust drifted down on the log shacks with their slanted roofs, the few clapboard buildings, the Wild Cat Saloon with its small false front, next to the Gulch Hardware store and the modest Canyon Grocery & Sundries, all scattered along a shelf with a rough road packed down by rock sleds carving a path.
    â€œHell, there’s a damned town here,” Joe said.
    â€œA mining town,” Brad said. “There are dozens of them sprung up in these mountains.”
    They rode up to a crudely painted sign that read ARAPAHO GULCH , and underneath, POP. 86 . The 86 was crossed out with a slash of black paint and another number in red paint read 92 .
    Beyond the rudiments of the town, men lined a small creek while others stood behind log barricades in front of the bluff where a large hole still swirled with wisps of smoke and brownish puffs of grainy dust. Horses, some saddled, some unsaddled, lined the street in front of the stores and the saloon.
    â€œThey got a bar here,” Joe said. “Anybody want a beer? I’m buyin’.”
    â€œFirst we check the brands on all those horses tied at the hitch rails,” Brad said.
    Julio licked his lips but said nothing.
    â€œGet out your list, Brad,” Joe said.
    They rode up to the little café at the beginning of the street. The sign read MABEL’S EATS . There were two horses tied outside the eatery, an Appaloosa and a Trotter. The Trotter was at least sixteen hands high, a tall rangy, deep chestnut gelding.
    The brand on its hip appeared fairly fresh and yet it was difficult to see if it had been altered.
    â€œThe brand reads Bar