The course Brandon had taken down the treacherous slope was not hard to follow; the difficulty lay in staying upright. Shawn made his way carefully—this was no time for a broken leg or arm—bracing himself whenever possible by catching onto an extending branch or a hand on a boulder.
The route was apparently a familiar one to the lawman, for not once had he ended up in any of the numerous, small, dead-end draws or been forced to backtrack after running into a butte or similar formation. It was as if he had made the descent before but that was not likely, Starbuck was sure. The area was far removed from Wolf Crossing, and while Brandon did profess to be familiar with the country, his knowledge would be confined to the trail itself.
Brandon’s tracks began to veer right, taking a circular course about midway of the slope. Shawn paused, to catch up with his labored breathing. He could not be far from the coulee and it was best he proceed henceforth with caution. He was certain now that the marshal had walked into a trap, was either in bad trouble or dead. Far too much time had elapsed since he left the crowning rocks of the slope and started down the grade for the hiding outlaws.
Breath recovered, Starbuck moved on, placing each booted foot carefully, choosing his own path now while his eyes searched the brush ahead for signs of the clearing where the outlaws were making their stand, and his ears strained for any sounds that would warn him.
He reached a roll in the land, again halted. Wet to the skin, he was cold there in the shadows of the trees where the sun could not find its way. Rubbing his hands together, he looked back up the slope. He could see the ledge-like pile of rocks where Dave Gilder waited and a section of the slope directly below it. Like the plateau where Able Rome and Walt Moody had died, it was open ground with only a few small rocks and stringy clumps of brush to break its steep surface.
He was no more than halfway to the coulee, he realized, gauging the probable location from its remembered position below the summit. At once he resumed the descent, pushed now by a strong sense of urgency to reach the clearing, convinced that something was wrong.
At quickened pace he hurried down the slope, taking longer strides, slipping, sliding, catching himself time after time. Twice he went to his knees, saved himself from falling completely by clutching at the brush.
“Starbuck—Gilder! ”
The shout brought him to a quick stop. Brandon’s voice came from a considerably lower level on the slope and well to his right.
“Come on down here and help me ... I got ’em cold!”
Shawn heaved a deep sigh. The marshal was all right.
Apparently he had managed to close in on the two outlaws and capture them without firing a shot. Glancing to the crest of the slope, he saw Dave Gilder silhouette briefly against the skyline and then move forward to start the descent to the coulee.
Pulling out his handkerchief, Starbuck dried his face and moved on. There was no great hurry now to reach the clearing. Brandon had everything under control.
Abruptly a half-dozen gunshots shattered the stillness of the mountainside. Starbuck wheeled, looked toward the rocks. Dave Gilder was down, rolling frantically to reach the safety of a mound of weedy earth. Bullets were digging into the soil around him, sending up small spurts of sand.
It could mean only one thing; the outlaws had somehow overcome Brandon, had opened up on Gilder with their rifles when he started toward them in obedience to the lawman’s summons. They had overlooked one thing—him.
Grim, he drew his pistol and headed off along the slope at a run. The location of the coulee was established in his mind now, thanks to Brandon’s yell and the gunshots, and he need waste no time searching for it; he had only to bear straight on the slanting course he was taking and be led to it.
In that next instant Shawn felt his feet shoot out from under him. For a fraction of time he seemed suspended in midair, and then he struck hard. Breath gushed from his lips as he slid into the unyielding trunk of a deep-rooted pine. Lights popped before his eyes as his head thudded into a half-buried ledge of granite ... And then all was in darkness.
Harry Brandon hunched low in the brush that skirted the coulee. He could hear Ben Snow and Kastman talking but their voices were low, guarded, and he could not make out the words.
He drew his pistol, examined it, making sure no mud had become jammed in its muzzle during his passage down the slope. It was clean, and shoving it back into its holster, he stood upright.
“Ollie,” he called softly.
“Here.”
The reply came at once. Brandon stepped forward, taking no pains to conceal his approach, and entered the clearing.
“Keep your head down!” Kastman warned hastily. “Them friends of your’s’ve done killed old Charlie. Shoot at everything that moves.”
Brandon moved in behind the two men, took up a position between and slightly to the rear.
“Was wondering which one of you it was. Deputy jumped the gun on me, started shooting before I could stop him. Sure hate it.”
“So does Charlie,” Ben Snow said laconically. “We was expecting you sooner.”
“It was that damned storm—and then one of them fool posse members fell down the side of the mountain. Had to waste time dragging him back up ... Everything all set?
“Just waiting on you to give the word,” Kastman replied. “Horses and mules are right down the trail a piece.”
“What’re we doing about Charlie?” Snow, a scarred, dark-faced man with a week’s growth of beard on his jaws, asked.
“Leaving him lay,” Brandon said promptly. “Makes it look like there was a real, stem-winder of a hoedown between the posse and you—us. Two dead men up there on the ridge, be two more on the slope and him down here. Works out good.”
“That all of the posse that’s left—two?”
Brandon nodded. “Was only me and four of them to start with.”
Ben Snow chuckled. “Nailing them two was like picking off them little ducks in a shooting gallery, way they was running across there.”
Brandon glanced at the sun. “Reckon we’d best get things going. I’ll sing out, like I told them I would, and they’ll start coming down the slope. That’s when you open up.”
“You just get on with your signaling,” Snow said. “Me’n Ollie’ll do the rest.”
Brandon pulled back a step to where the brush would conceal him, and drawing his pistol with his right hand, cupped the left to his mouth.
“Starbuck—Gilder! Come on down here and help me ... I got em cold!”
He remained motionless until he saw the first figure step into view at the edge of the rocks and start down the slope. Gilder, he thought. Starbuck would probably show up at the opposite end of the pile.
Abruptly Ben Snow began to fire. Kastman also opened up. He saw Gilder stumble and fall, then scramble on all fours to reach cover. Starbuck—where the hell was that goddam Starbuck?
There was no time to wait, to wonder where he was or curse his two partners for not holding off until both men were in view. Starbuck could have taken it upon himself to follow him down the east side of the mountain. It would be like the sonofabitch to cross him that way. Regardless—there was no time to lose.
Crouching, he brought his weapon to bear on Ollie Kastman’s broad back. He pressed off a shot. The impact of the bullet at such close range drove the man forward, knocked him sprawling into the clearing beside Charlie Cole.
Snow, still levering shots at Gilder, paused, half turned. His features were blanked with surprise and fear.
“Hey—?” he said in a high pitched voice. “What the hell—”
Brandon’s second bullet caught him in the right breast, slammed him into the stump next to which he was sitting.
His mouth pulled into a hard, tight line, Harry Brandon drew back farther into the brush, ears straining to pick up any noise that would tell him of Starbuck’s location, if he was nearby. There was only silence.
He swore feelingly. Starbuck had screwed up his plans but good! He was supposed to be laying dead there on the slope with Gilder—dead as the two whose job it was to kill them. Why the hell hadn’t he stayed put like he was told, and then come down the slope with that lousy drunk of a Gilder the way it had been planned? All that careful scheming blown to hell...
Brandon shook his head. There was no use getting all spooked over it. It wasn’t that serious. He’d simply wait for Starbuck to show up, then put a bullet in him same as he had Ollie and Ben Snow.
He frowned, giving that thought. Maybe that wasn’t the best thing to do; maybe it would be smarter to get the horses and the pack mules and move on. That way he could settle with Starbuck, who was sure to follow, in his own time and on his terms. Waiting there at the clearing could be risky. He’d have to watch all sides, never being sure just which way Starbuck, a tricky bastard if ever he saw one, would move in from.
No, best to move out, grab whichever of the horses looked good, and with the pack animals, head south with the gold—the whole hundred thousand dollars worth ... My God, a man could hardly realize just how much money that really was! A hundred thousand dollars—and it was all his just like he’d planned it would be.
Stepping forward, he snatched up the rifle that had fallen from Ben Snow’s hands. A long gun would be better to use on Starbuck; it would give him distance as well as greater accuracy. He wheeled, started down the trail at a run. A good head start on Starbuck would help, too, afford him time to pick a spot where he could pull in, set up an ambush.