Page 4 of Follow the Lonesome Trail
Julia laid a pair of leather saddlebags on the table and took a seat by him. “It was smallpox,” she explained softly. “It struck months ago, before Seamus arrived. A third of the folks around here lay abed with it at any given time. No sooner would oneget better than another would fall ill. We all… every family lost someone. Pop and I, and a few others who’d had it before and couldn’t catch it a second time—we just went from house to house, day after day. Making sure folks had water and food and a blanket. Taking out and burying those who’d died.”
“And O’Rourke?”
“He wandered into town at the tail end of it. We couldn’t let him leave again, not with the risk of him carrying it around to other places. We thought if he stayed in the livery stable, away from folks, he’d escape it, but… he didn’t. When he realized he’d gotten sick, he sent you that letter. He figured if he lived, he’d stay here getting strong again until you came down out of the mountains in the spring. And if he didn’t, well, you’d know from the letter where to come.”
“He wrote he had something for me.”
“Yes.”
“Is that it?” Hansen gestured at the saddlebags.
“No, only his possibles, as he called them. A deck of cards, his handgun, a Bible, things like that. He asked that I keep them for you, in case you wanted them. I suppose he wanted to surprise you with the rest. He seemed fond of surprises.”
“He was. What’s the rest? Did he tell you?”
“It’s a poke of gold dust.”
“Gold dust?” His numbness intensified until he almost thought he was floating in a dream. Or a nightmare. “Where would O’Rourke get gold dust?”
“He found it in a stream, he said. He’d been trapping beaver, and he thought the riverbed looked promising, so he panned it for color, and there was enough to keep him panning a little whenever he had time. He wanted to go back up there with you and see if, together, you could find where the gold was washing down from.”
“Did he tell you where it was?”
“No. And he wouldn’t draw any map, for fear someone else would get hold of it. The secret died with him. But that poke of gold, he left for you.”
“He seems to have confided a good deal in you, Mrs. Masterson.”
“He trusted me. And Pop.”
“And your husband?”
“I’m a widow.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am.” A flash of warm sympathy stabbed through his numbness. She’d said every family there had lost someone to the epidemic. “The smallpox?”
“No, no.” Julia Masterson twisted her fingers together where they rested on the table. “It was our—my third son that the smallpox took. My husband died out on our ranch more than a year ago. Thrown by a horse he was breaking for spring round-up.” She gestured vaguely around the kitchen. “Pop insisted I move here with the boys. It was supposed to be temporary. One day, I will move back to the ranch. We proved up on the land, but I simply can’t keep it running on my own. Pop helped me sell the stock, but the rest is still there, waiting for someone to come along and run cattle again.”
She pointed at the saddlebags. “Anyway, this is all that’s left of Seamus’s things. He told us to sell his rifle and horse and saddle to pay for Pop’s doctoring, and for his room and board here. I mightn’t have done it, except…” Her voice sank, and she glanced away, making it hard for Hansen to catch her last words. “Times have been lean here since the smallpox started up.”
“If he told you to sell them, I’m sure he meant it. No shame there, ma’am.”
Abruptly, she stood. “More coffee?”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Masterson.” Hansen rose politely, picking up the saddlebags and his hat while he sidled out from behind the table. “If you’ll give me that poke of gold, I’ll begoing.” He would ride out, spend the night up past the tree line. The idea should have comforted him. Mountains were always a place of solace for Hansen. But instead, regret soured his stomach. Maybe it was too soon for leaving. He ought to say goodbye to O’Rourke, that was it. “In the morning, if it’s not too much trouble, could you show me his grave? Before I ride out.”
“I’d be glad to. But, I’m sorry—I don’t have his gold dust.”
“Who does?”
“Mr. Carter.”
“The bartender?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He has a safe. It’s the only one in town. O’Rourke wanted his gold dust kept secure until he got well again. Or… for you, instead.”
