Read the sequel here
"We oughta wait for the gold."
"What I say, you do," Mike barked—then walked to his horse; the others followed.
"Hell, we'll be back in half an hour."
It's a hell of a chance for no reward."
"Shut up, Badger. Anything beats sitting in this heat."
They rode down the mountain, staying in the trees—angling their descent to come out just to the side of the wagon—at the south end of the meadow before the narrows.
The McCutcheons' covered wagon—hauled by four mules—rolled across the meadow. Its canvas top was stained with red dust—brown dirt and yellow clay superfluity of the soil they'd been through.
Water kilderkins were lashed to the sides. Tar, for maintaining the wheels—swung in a bucket below the right kilderkin. Maud rode on the front seat. Her sunbonnet covered her face—but her skin was too fair for the frontier—and was now creased by months of sun to dry parchment.
McCutcheon, rail-thin, his once-fine suit coat hanging on his shoulders—glanced at her. In the back Resa rode on a pile of folded sougans. Her red-checked calico, faded to pink—caught the perspiration that ran down the back of her neck.