Wildstar

Devlin grinned as well. "He was indeed."

"How come you always talk so highfalutin', young fella?"

"It's the way I was raised, I expect. Do you intend to hold it against me?"

Clem tipped back his hat and shook his shaggy gray head. "I guess not."

"Then why don't you tell me why Burke would want the Wildstar enough to kill Riley for it?"

Relenting in his fierce attitude somewhat, the mule skin­ner squeezed his weathered face into frown. "I dunno. I still ain't so sure that's what Burke meant to do. Ash Burke is snake-mean, but I never figured him for a killer. I reckon maybe he jest wanted to scare Riley a bit. Nothin's happened since the shootin'."

"You think hitting Riley was a mistake?"

"Could be. 'Course you could be right 'bout a strike at the Lady J. This here hill's full 'o silver, and me 'n Riley always did think this was the best place to find it. I'll get the boys to see what they can sniff out about a Lady J strike down to town."

It took another half hour to load the rest of the ore into the heavy wagon. When it was done, Devlin saddled up his horse and reluctantly headed down the mountain. With any luck Jess would be occupied with her father.

Behind him, Devlin heard Clem climb aboard the driv­er's seat in order to drive the ore down to the stamp mill in town.

"Up, Nellie! Up, Gus! Gee up thar!"

The heavy wagon wheels began to turn just as a faint noise like the echo of thunder sounded from beyond the crest of the hill at Devlin's back. Because of the wagon's rumble, it was a minute before he recognized the sound as the drumming of horse's hooves, and by then it was too late. The pounding hoofbeats crested the hill in a thunder­ous wave, accompanied by men yelling and the explosions of rapid gunfire.

Wheeling his horse even as he reached for his gun, Dev­lin mouthed an expletive at having been caught unpre­pared. Above him, at the mouth of the mine, riders were attacking the Wildstar—whooping and racing their horses in circles and firing pistols in the air. Devlin couldn't make out exactly how many raiders there were, or who they were; their faces were masked by bandannas. But he spied the distinctive red coloring of a roan horse.

His curse drowned out by the chaos, Devlin rammed his heels into his mount's barrel and started up the steep road at a gallop, his revolver raised. He had taken a sight on one of the riders when he recognized a new danger. The ore wagon, with Clem on board, was headed pell-mell down the mountainside, dragged by a dozen galloping, panic-stricken mules.

The skinner was wildly hauling on the bunch of reins with his left hand, shoving on the brake lever with his right foot, and bracing his wiry body against the footboard in a desperate effort to hold back the racing vehicle. The hold-back chains that locked the rear wheels in place did little to check the momentum.

With the heavy wagon bearing down on him like an av­alanche, Devlin had only an instant to decide. Ignoring the bullet that whined past his head, he abandoned the chase and pulled up his horse. Spinning around, he started back down the road, trying to match speed with the wagon.

"Hellfire and thunderation!" he heard Clem yell above the screech of brake blocks as the wagon shot past. "Whoooooa!" He had planted both feet on the brake, pushing for all he was worth, but it was like trying to stop a bullet with a feather. Galloping alongside, Devlin saw the brakes smoking as the wheels spun faster and faster.

"Jump, man!" he shouted as he drew even with the driv­er's box. He extended his right arm, gesturing for Clem to abandon his attempt to save the wagon.

Just then the left forewheel struck a rock and the brake pole snapped. Clem was nearly pulled off the seat and thrown headfirst into the galloping team, while Devlin barely missed colliding with the wagon body as it veered toward him. He swerved his horse on the narrow road and almost went over the edge. Throwing his weight to the right, Devlin used the reflexes honed by long months of punching cows in order to aid his mount. The horse stum­bled but somehow regained balance and galloped on.

In another four strides they made up the ground they'd lost and again reached the front of the wagon. Clem was still clinging to his seat and trying ineffectually to halt his uncontrollable team.

Looming before them was the hairpin turn of the road. Beyond that was a rocky ledge and a drop of several hun­dred feet.

"Clem, dammit!" Devlin shouted again. "Let it go!" Still desperately clutching the reins, Clem held on to the wagon seat and inched his way to the left.

"Clem!"

Devlin knew he had to pull up now or risk going over himself. He'd just started to draw back when the old mule skinner finally decided the situation was hopeless. Lunging to his feet, Clem jumped free an instant before the mules, the wagon, and a ton of silver ore plunged over the ridge in a cacophony of splintering wood and screaming ani­mals.

With one arm clutching the mule skinner's waist, Devlin savagely hauled back on the reins, bringing his horse to its haunches. They slithered to a halt a scant two yards from the edge. His blood hammering in his ears, Devlin let Clem drop to the ground.

For another instant, neither of them moved. They were both breathing hard, and Clem was staring up the steep road in shock.

"They were fixin' to kill me," he gasped in disbelief. Then he raised his fist and shouted furiously, "You god­damned yellow-bellied buncha sidewinders!"

His cry echoed over the range. The gunfire had stopped and the mountainside was now ominously silent.

Devlin felt a surge of pure rage streaking through him. The disaster had erupted so suddenly

that he'd had no time to consider how to deal with it, but it could only have been a few minutes at most since the shooting had started. The gunmen couldn't have gained that much of a head start.