Leadville by James D. Best Read Free Book Online Page A

sentry. Steve, you take the first few hours, I’ll take the middle, and Jeff the last.”
    “What am I looking for?” I asked.
    “Nothing. You won’t see shit with this moon. Listen. Try to pick out any unusual sounds.”
    “Don’t get mad if I wake you because one of our horses decides to night graze.”
    “I’ll be mad if you don’t. Them horses’ll give us our first warning.”
    I nodded, well aware that I had been given the easiest hours. No one seemed to have anything more to say, so I got out my own rifle to clean in the remaining light.
    “You’re handy with a pistol and steady in a fight, but I don’t expect any close-in work. Ya any good with that long gun?” McAllen asked.
    “Better.”
    “Sounds boastful.”
    “I don’t think you want a demonstration. Might be a bit noisy.”
    “Nope. Take you at your word.”
    I carried a Winchester ’76 that used 45-75 cartridges. My model had the standard extended magazine that held twelve cartridges, plus one in the chamber. Being a gunsmith, I had modified the rifle, just as I had improved my factory Colt. I started with the pick of the litter, lightened the trigger pull, attached a custom target sight, and added a lighter hammer spring. The ammunition was my own load, using English powder for a cleaner burn. It was a fine weapon, and my skill had been honed by practice in my gun shop and in the field. Like my father, I seemed to have a natural way with guns.
    I thought about what McAllen had said. His question about my skill with a rifle meant he intended to ambush the renegades. I knew the numbers dictated surprising the Utes, but shooting men from a distance bothered me. It seemed less like a fight and more like murder. I knew enough about McAllen to know he was tough, but he was not ruthless, and he operated according to a strict code of honor. Still, I wondered if I could trust his judgment when his daughter was involved.
    As I finished cleaning my rifle, Sharp and McAllen crawled into their bedrolls. Not knowing what else to do, I grabbed my saddle and carried it to the other side of a boulder, leaning it against the rock for a backrest. McAllen had been right about the moon, something he probably kept track of in his business. When the sun had completely set, I could not see more than a few yards.
    I rested my Winchester in my lap and listened for all I was worth.

Chapter 9
     
    Our four-day encampment could not have been less eventful. Sharp cooked a respectable breakfast each morning, we ate out of tins in the evening, and, while they lasted, we ate apples midday. Between meals we gnawed on jerky and occasionally sucked a peppermint stick.
    For the most part, I spent the time writing in my journal. When I reviewed my notations, they seemed to dwell on how uncomfortable I was rather than on the breathtaking country. And it was beautiful. The high meadow was exceptionally quiet, except for a soft whistle that came each afternoon with the gentle breeze. The rust-colored mesas that soared above our heads looked grand and ethereal. Misshapen junipers clung precariously to naked cliff faces, while most of the flat ground seemed to be covered by low-lying gamble oaks. The fall colors ran mostly to browns and dull reds instead of the myriad colors I was used to in the East. At first, my prejudices told me that autumn was prettier in New York, but the muted colors of this high desert blended perfectly with the red rocks and dusty green plants.
    This was grander than the nature that Thoreau wrote about. I should’ve been enthralled, not pining for a comfortable chair, a hot drink, and an even hotter fire. I would have reprimanded myself, but I knew that Thoreau’s idealized Walden Pond was actually only a short walk to these same accoutrements that he enjoyed on a regular basis at his friend Emerson’s house. I was about to make a notation along this theme when it struck me that easterners thought Walden Pond was raw nature, unsullied by man. In