The two prospectors led their mules up the red foothills of the Magdalena Mountains. The previous night their horses had been stolen by unseen Apaches at their camp on the Rio Grande and the two Tennesseans had to walk now. The two mules were laden with picks, pans and other mining supplies that clanked and clattered as the miners headed uphill.

The differences in appearance and temperament showed more fully with this latest challenge. The massive black-bearded man lumbered along like a bear, grew more irritated with each mile and he felt anxious, wanting to stop and drink his whiskey. His smaller, thin and agile compadre had light brown hair, was clean-shaven and enjoyed the arduous climb in elevation. He went ahead, energized by the mountain air.

"Just be glad we aren't in that God-forsaken desert, Claw," said the thin man in a southern accent. He stopped and took two sips from his canteen.

"What did you say that damned stretch of rock and sand was called?" asked the big man.

"The Jornada del Muerto, the 'Journey of Death'," said his partner, grinning. He waited up for his fellow Tennessean. "I am glad you saved that liquor for this evening. Otherwise I'd have to leave your pickled arse back there for the vultures to feast upon."

"If I was you, Jimmy Carl, I would worry more about Apaches killing us than buzzards eating on us. Dead is dead. Why didn't they fight us last night?"

"I heard Apaches don't fight at night," said Jimmy Carl Gray. "But it don't keep them from stealing. I guess they don't know how to ease up on a mule and keep them quiet, like they do horses."

"Maybe they don't ride mules," said the black-bearded traveler. "Maybe they just eat 'em. Dammit, I need a snort."

"Save your whiskey for later, Lew," Jimmy Gray advised his friend, Lewis McManus. The two prospectors had left the town of Mesilla shortly before the Confederates captured it. They had planned to head for the Pinos Altos Mountains, but heard the Apaches were still raiding the mining camps. "I don't expect it was Christian charity that made them Apaches spare our mules." Jimmy smiled with his high-cheeked grin and nodded his head like a woodpecker. He felt glad to be alive. "And thank God we're out of the desert,"

"God had nothing to do with it," said Lew McManus. "But I am glad we finally made it to the Rio Grande."

Jimmy Gray started walking again, but his black-bearded partner stopped, pulled out a pint of red whiskey and took a fast gulp. "Maybe they don't ride mules," he wondered again. "Maybe they just eat 'em. I imagine Frank and Duff here would be tough as boot leather, though." The other prospector ignored him and hiked up on the ridgeline.

They soon found a more level site and decided to make camp. The hills and mountains turned reddish in the evening sunlight. From their campsite, they gazed at the top of the San Mateo Mountains and the far-off snowy peaks of the Black Range to the west. McManus pulled out his Sharp's rifle from the gun boot on the side of his mule.

"I'm tired of beans and hardtack every night," he told Gray. "I want to shoot us a deer or maybe even an elk."

"Take my shotgun instead," said Jimmy. "Killing something big now is wasteful. And it might bring them savages down on us, like drunkards to a barbeque. Shoot us a sage hen, a jackrabbit or some quail. There's some good brush down in that arroyo, Claw."

"Maybe I'll head up over to those trees," said the big man.

Gray had grown used to his friend's contrary nature. "Go ahead and git,' he said. "You got about an hour till dark. I'll find us some water and make camp. Maybe your drunk ass can kick us up some quail down in that gully."

The man he called Claw headed instead up a side ridge, towards a grove of pines and piñons. Jimmy shook his head and laughed to himself. Lewis Claude McManus was a dependable friend but did whatever the hell he pleased. They had struck out West for gold or silver two years earlier, but did not make it to New Mexico until the spring of 1861. As Jimmy Gray gathered brush and firewood, he thought about their long journey and the reasons for their delay.

Gray's young wife had died of the cholera back in 1858, leaving him childless and of no real connection anymore to Middle Tennessee. He was a poor dirt farmer from Lawrence County, who was distantly related to Davy Crockett. That same year the price of cotton fell, due to too much production by the rich planters who owned slaves. Other poor whites blamed the slaves, but Jimmy blamed the plantation owners. In late March of 1860 he was forced to sell his miserable patch of hardscrabble property.

Both men were in the mid-twenties and ready for a change of fortunes. The wife of Lew McManus had run off with an Englishman – a "Limey Wink" according to Claw, and he wanted to hunt them down in New Orleans. Gray told Lewis they should go west, where there was news of gold strikes in the Colorado Territory and a silver rush in New Mexico. The money he had earned from selling his acreage would grubstake them both.

Two shots rang out in succession now, as the thin man struck his flint and started the fire. Jimmy blew softly on the tinder and added kindling. Maybe Claw is bringing supper, he thought.

Jimmy nick-named his partner 'Claw', because of his middle name and his huge hands--strong meat hooks that grabbed anything he wanted to eat, drink or fight. Maybe he would pull fortune from the earth. If Claw McManus had found the Fort Worth gambler who had swindled him, they would be running as fugitives now.

In Fort Worth they had met up with a gambler and medicine salesman named Miles Wells. The man said he could speak Spanish and he offered to guide the prospectors to the New Mexican Territory. Alcohol was the reason why they lost most of the grubstake money. Lewis had wanted to stop and drink at every other town with a saloon as they crossed Arkansas and East Texas. Jimmy told him they were on "The Trail of Beers" rather than the Trail of Tears and he joked that McManus had more Scotch whiskey than Scotsman in his blood. After quite a few drinks of liquor in Fort Worth, the Wells character cheated Lewis out of half their money in a game of cards and then disappeared.

Later that same evening, Jimmy Gray found Miles Wells staggering in an alley. He caught the swindler coming out of a ladies' boardinghouse, grabbed him by the collar and held a Bowie knife to the gambler's throat.

"Give us back our money, dog-dammit!" Gray demanded. The bug-eyed salesman was stricken with terror. He forked over a handful of silver dollars and change. "Is it all you've got left, you lusty Dutch cheese worm?" asked Jimmy.

"Please don't kill me!" said Mr. Wells. "The rest I loaned to some winsome waif at Ma Kelly's boarding house here. I will pay you back one day, I promise." Miles Wells half-grinned. "She is a pretty little Swedish immigrant, who found herself in dire circumstances."

"You're lucky my partner is not here," said Jimmy Gray. "Or he would crush your skull like was a damn grape."

"I will find a way to make amends", said Wells.

Jimmy eased off and Miles Wells rose to his feet. He dusted off his jacket. "I suppose you won't be needing my services as a guide then. To translate and guide you through the New Mexico Territory?"

"You can translate for us when we're all in Hell!" Jimmy looked at him, shaking his head in disgust. "We would sooner take that Scandinavian whore."

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