Chapter 1
The night was cool. In the air was the hint of snow. It was late in the season to be heading deeper into the forested mountains, but the mink and beaver pelts would be prime and only add to the pelts he’d taken already, earlier in the season. Rowdy Delts crouched near the campfire and poured himself another cup of coffee. He listened to the sounds be-yond the crackling of the campfire and heard, first, his horse and pack-mule snorting. Above him, the treetops were brushing back and forth against one another. Farther off, be-low his camp, was the talking of the water in the river as it fell over the smooth rocks. All were sounds Rowdy would expect to hear in the mountains while still below the timber-line. There was something else though. Hearing it didn’t frighten him, but it did make him instinctively move away from the firelight. He set his cup of coffee down without spilling it. He got into the shadows of the cool night and as he did, he withdrew one of his Navy Colt revolvers from his
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sash. He let his eyes adjust to the darkness before making another move, low to the ground.
He could smell the men approaching before he heard them. They were talking between themselves. Rowdy could tell they were cautious men. They hadn’t walked right into the firelight. They became silent for a moment before doing what was customary in the wilderness—one of them called out, "Hello, in the camp, anyone there?"
Rowdy hesitated. He listened to hear if the two men were talking between themselves. If they were, it was a sign of conspiring. When it was only silence between the two men, Rowdy called back, "Come on in where I can see ya. Slow."
The two men were tall and lean. Both of them were bearded and longhaired. They’d not seen a town in a while, quite a while, but they wore store-bought clothes, patched and worn threadbare, but store-bought all the same. Rowdy determined they were not mountain men. But he couldn’t help but wonder what they were doing here in the wilder-ness on foot, up in the altitude near the timberline.
"Help yourself to coffee if you want," Rowdy said.
"Where you at, mister? My name’s John Edwards, this here is my partner Graham Nixon." The one with the dark beard was doing the talking.
"I’ll be in directly. Just taking care of some natural business," Rowdy lied. A person could never be too careful. Strangers were liable to be any kind of man, especially the kind that goes walking in the mountains during a day’s dark hours.
Rowdy watched his guests as they squatted next to the
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diminishing campfire. They warmed their hands over the flames for a moment. Then the man with the red beard, Gra-ham Nixon, withdrew from their only saddlebag a jug and two cups. They mixed into their cups coffee and a dash of what was in the jug—shine, most likely. They both made satisfied sighs when they’d drunk.
"Go on and sit down," Rowdy called from the darkness, "I’m coming back directly."
The two men muttered something to themselves and then sat cross-legged on their bedrolls. It was another full minute of studying the two men before Rowdy showed him-self. He still had his pistol in his hand, held down at his side. The second of the pair he’d left in his sash. He stepped into the fading firelight and said in an even tone, "Name’s Rowdy Delts. You boys are living dangerous walking in the dark, up in these mountains."
* * * *
The fella who’d called himself John Edwards, with the long dark beard, smiled up at Rowdy. He’d seen right off the pistol held in Rowdy’s hand. Saw that it was held ready if needed. He’d also noted to himself that Rowdy was buck-skin-clad, a true man of the wilderness, who was accus-tomed to many a long month away from civilization. He’d also noticed Rowdy to be a tall rangy individual. John Ed-wards judged the mountain man as being quick with his wit and weapon as he’d been cautious in dealing with strangers such as himself and his partner.
