All in Good Time (The Gilded Legacy) - By Maureen Lang Page 0,1
you just keep steady.” Then with one hand he fished inside the man’s jacket for the pouch containing the best output from his employer’s mine: gold ready to be converted to specie in Denver. Henry ripped it away with less trouble than he’d expected.
“Your reputation is too kind, sir,” Uncle Tobias rumbled. “Rumor has it the recent robberies along here didn’t create any unnecessary suffering.”
“And it’s still true,” Henry said softly, aiming his response at the man from whom he’d taken the pouch. “It was never really your money, now, was it?”
“I’m available if you need help spending that,” invited the redheaded woman who’d been ordered to stand off to the side with the men, though Henry had spared her the indignity of bound wrists.
In spite of his need to hurry off, Henry shot the woman a grin, the unfamiliar beard tickling his cheek. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He turned his attention back to the stage driver. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Zeb.” He backed away from the coach. “Rest assured me and my boys will not be delaying you again. I bid you farewell and good tidings for a prosperous future, along with profound apologies if my mischief has resulted in any trouble for you.”
With that, Henry darted beyond the bushes and boulders that lined this portion of the road. As before, he shot into the air once he was well away—mostly to hasten the coach in its departure, but even to his knowing ears, the echoes sounded as if his “guns” from above might be going off.
The rough, loose, rocky terrain once again aided him. He was confident none of the passengers would risk the wide gullies, treacherous incline, sharp granite, and precariously balanced boulders threatening any crossing. It was a terrain Henry had practiced navigating both on foot and by horse.
The whistle of a bullet proved his confidence wrongly placed. Instinctively Henry ducked. Without looking back, he shifted his route to the most dangerous path of all: a trail on the other side of the ridge barely wide enough for the elk, deer, and bighorn sheep that were the only creatures sure-footed enough for such a spot as this. It took Henry in the opposite direction from his horse, but he figured to circle back once he lost whoever was tracking him.
Even as securely as he’d fastened the brown muslin covering him from the top of his head to the bridge of his nose, with holes cut wide enough to let him see, he needed every bit of his sight to navigate the treacherous path that loomed above the deepest of all the ravines. At the bottom, the icy force of the mountain’s winter snowmelt churned mightily.
He tugged the mask away, too late realizing his grip wasn’t secure as a breeze ripped the material from his hold. There was no time to retrieve it. And why bother? Even if found, the bit of muslin couldn’t be connected to him. Or to his mother, from whose sewing box he’d stolen it.
It wasn’t long before the detour served him. By the time he reached the curve in the deer path, he looked back to find it empty.
Nonetheless, Henry lost no time returning to his horse by circling around and downward to the tree line. Having gone this route meant he couldn’t retrieve his wooden “rifles.” It was a good thing this was Henry’s last robbery; the secret that he’d acted alone would be out as soon as investigators returned to the pass.
No matter now. He found his horse just where he’d left him, hidden in a cluster of bristlecone pines. It had taken only a few minutes to reverse the horseshoes into prepared holes in the horse’s hooves. A casual tracker would think him going the opposite direction altogether; a closer, experienced inspection would at least delay any chase.
It was near dark by the time Henry returned to town, minus his disguise. He stopped at the smithy, once owned by his parents, that now stood next to his mother’s mercantile, pretending concern over the horse’s shoes as he slipped them back into their proper positions. Not much later, he walked home, leaving his horse behind. No one would ever know what was hidden in his saddlebags. Tomorrow he would return to his special spot: a hole in the ground that no miner would be able to find, and no bear, goat, or snake was likely to occupy thanks to the pungent coal tar he’d applied to