Read Reilly's Luck (1970) for Free Online Page A

they had scarcely time to stretch their legs before the stage was rolling on toward Steel's Ranch, the last stop before the dreaded Apache Pass.
    It was quiet inside the stage. Val dozed, woke up, dozed again. Once he woke up and saw the other boy staring at him. "My name is Val," he said.
    "I don't care." Then after a minute, and rather sullenly, the boy said, "I'm Dobie Grant."
    His mother was sleeping, and so, apparently, was Will Reilly. The miner looked over at Val. "Boy, would you like to swap seats? I'd surely admire to lean back and catch some shut-eye."
    "Sure," Val said, and moved.
    The miner sat down where Val had been and leaned back. Almost at once he was asleep.
    "That was a nice thing to do," the businessman said. "Are you traveling far, you and your uncle?"
    "To Silver City, then El Paso."
    The man glanced at Will Reilly again, started to speak, but subsided. After a moment he looked over at Bridger, who was watching out the window, his Winchester between his knees.
    "Where you going?" the man asked.
    "Through the Pass ... I hope."
    "Is it as bad as they say?
    "Worse. Maybe we'll be lucky. It's a narrow trail and built for ambush. If they want us bad enough, they'll take us."
    "I can shoot," Val offered.
    "No better than me," Dobie declared belligerently.
    "You may have to shoot, both of you," Bridger said.
    "One thing," the businessman said, "we've plenty of guns and ammunition."
    Bridger Downs did not reply. Maybe that fellow thought so, but with Apaches you never knew.
    They rolled into Steel's Ranch as dawn was breaking, and got stiffly down from the stage, standing in the chill air of morning to stretch their muscles. Val trudged sleepily after Will Reilly as they went inside.
    A coal-oil lamp with a reflector behind it was burning on the wall, and a lantern stood on the table where the hostler had left it when he came from the stable.
    "Breakfast'll be on soon," he said, and then added, "It gets right cold of a morning here."
    Bridger Downs lounged by the door, watching outside, for this was Apache country, and they might not wait for the Pass. Sponseller was standing under a paloverde tree, watching the changing of the teams.
    The driver strolled over to the Australian. "Did you know Reilly before?'
    Sponseller shrugged. "There was a Reilly came ashore from a 'Frisco bark, and he made a play for a girl ... or she made it for him ... and her bloke took exception. There was a pretty bit of a brawl, and Reilly won, which nobody thought he could do, and then the Larrikins took after him."
    "What happened?"
    "Some of them caught him ... the worse for them."
    "He got away?
    "Oh, they'd have fixed his tripe if he hadn't, but the girl smuggled him aboard a China clipper that left whilst they watched the bark he'd come in. The story's often told down along the Cut and in the dives around Circular Quay. I don't know if it was him, but they've the same look."
    "He's a good man to have along, going through the Pass," said the driver.
    "What's the fat feller got in that bunch of long boxes?"
    Pete shrugged. "I wouldn't know. They're heavy."
    "Gold?" Sponseller speculated.
    "Doubt it. Hasn't the feel of it, somehow. Gold is heavy, all of a chunk. You know when you pick it up. This hasn't the same feel."
    The sun came gingerly over the mountains, and the sky and the ranch yard were pale yellow. Pete looked at the mountains for smoke, but saw none.
    He looked around again. With Reilly, Sponseller, Bridger Downs, and himself, there were four good rifles. The miner was a likely shot, and as for the fat businessman with the mutton-chop whiskers--there was no telling, although he had a keen eye and did not, somehow, have the look of a tenderfoot.
    The horses pawed earth, and Pete went over to take the lines from the hostler. Reilly walked outside and lit a thin cigar and squinted at the mountains. He was wearing a black broadcloth suit, a white planter's-style hat, highly polished boots, now somewhat dusty, and a dove-gray