Chapter Thirteen

Ben, Hoss and two ranch hands had ridden hard to arrive in Aurora the evening of their fourth day on the trail. Adam had mentioned in his telegram to speak to the bartender; that the bartender could give them more information than anyone else in town. The four men walked into the saloon and up to the bar.

“What’ll it be for you fellas?”

“Four beers,” said Ben. When the beers arrived, Ben leaned forward toward the bartender. “I’m looking for my son. He was here a little while ago looking for a guide by the name of Mike Dutton.”

The bartender looked around the saloon, and seeing that it was almost empty, leaned forward. “Mister, people come in here all the time lookin’ for Mike. After awhile, they all start lookin’ alike.”

Ben pulled a stack of coins from his pocket and began shuffling them, letting them bounce in his hand. “My son told me he was going into Death Valley with this guide. Does that sound familiar?”

“Did your son dress in black?” Ben nodded. “He left over a week ago, Mister, but there’s no one here that will track him for you. He went lookin’ for the Shoshoni and the Aha macave. The Army knows he’s there and they’re lookin’ for him.”

“Oh? What happens when they find him?”

The bartender leaned close, looking around again before he answered. “If he’s alone, he’ll end up in the lead mines like his brother. If he’s with Mike, he’ll still end up in the mines, and Mike, well, they’ll do some pretty awful things to Mike before they take her to the reservation. If they’re with the Indians, there will be a small war. The Army outnumbers the Indians ten to one. It won’t last very long.”

“Her?” asked Ben, alarmed. “He hired a guide named Mike Dutton.”

“That’d be a she, Mister. She’s part white, part Shoshoni and part Mojave. And she’s real important to the Army. She’s been taking medicine in to the Indians. They’re just waitin’ for her and her Indians to attack the mines to get your missing son back.”

Ben turned to Hoss, “Adam doesn’t know they’re walking into a trap. Is there a guide that knows that area that can maybe draw a map?” Ben asked the bartender.

The bartender thought. “Maybe. You gentlemen take a seat. I’ll send someone after him.”

While they waited, Ben pulled out a piece of paper and a pencil. “What’s that, Pa,” asked Hoss.

“I’ll ask the bartender to send this telegram tomorrow to Colonel Adamson in San Francisco. They won’t be here in time to help us, but they will eventually get here and hopefully close those lead mines down. If the Army here is involved, we can’t trust any of ‘em.”