Starbuck picked himself up slowly. Dazed, he looked about, shook his head in an effort to dispel the mist shrouding it. He had been unconscious for only a few minutes, he guessed, and he seemed unhurt except for a tenderness along his left temple. Lucky ... He could have collected a broken bone or two as reward for his haste.
He looked down at the pistol, still held tight in his hand. It was smeared with mud. Taking out his spare bandana, he wiped it clean, made sure the barrel was not clogged. He frowned, again shook his head ... The forty-five—why was he holding it? In that next moment it all came rushing back to him.
Mind functioning properly again, he swung his eyes to the slope below the rocks. Dave Gilder was no longer in sight, had evidently made his way to the side of the grade where more brush was available for cover. Whether he was alive or not was a question.
And Brandon ... At once he moved off, taking slow, careful steps. The muscles of his legs were trembling but he pushed on, the feeling that he was needed in the clearing a driving force that pushed aside the uncertainty gripping his body.
He reached the point near which he thought the coulee lay, halted, listened intently. Off to the right he heard a faint rasping sound. Dropping low, he made his way forward until he gained the brush that encircled the area of open ground. There, pistol once more in hand, he stopped short. Three bodies lay in the coulee. Harry Brandon’s was not one of them.
Giving that a moment’s consideration, he called softly: “Marshal?”
There was no response. He repeated the summons in a louder voice.
“Starbuck—that you?”
It was Dave Gilder. Shawn wheeled to the slope. “Here,” he said, and hurried through the undergrowth to the upper edge of the clearing.
Gilder, his neckerchief knotted about his left leg at a point just above the knee, struggled to an upright position as Shawn approached. His eyes were bright and there was a grimness to his mouth.
“What the hell’s happened down there?”
“Three dead men—” Starbuck replied. “Brandon’s not among them. You hit bad?”
“Bullet went clean through, missed the bone,” Gilder said, pulling at the makeshift bandage. “I can manage.”
Shawn glanced up the slope. “You crawl all the way to here?”
Dave nodded. “Figured the marshal was in trouble and I’d best get here to help fast as I could. Just made it when I heard you calling him. Where you reckon he is?”
Starbuck shifted his gaze to the clearing. “Something I’d like to know,” he said thoughtfully.
“Could be dead—laying off in the brush somewheres.”
“Just what I was thinking. I’ll have a look around. Wait here—best you stay off that leg.”
Gilder shrugged. “No, I reckon I can get about all right.”
Shawn studied the man for a moment. It came to him again that this was a different Dave Gilder from the one he’d ridden out of Wolf Crossing with.
“Suit yourself,” he said. “Best we do it quiet, however. I’m beginning to wonder about something.”
Gilder pulled off his hat, ran a hand through his shock of red hair. “What’s that?”
“I’d as soon not say until I’m sure. I don’t like having to eat my own words if I’m wrong—which I’m hoping I am.”
They separated, Dave, hobbling painfully, going to the right, Starbuck to the left. They probed the coulee’s brushy perimeter, turned up no sign of the lawman. Rejoining, the two men moved then into the clearing. Tight-lipped, Starbuck crossed to the side of the nearest outlaw, rolled him to his back. It wasn’t Ben, but to make doubly certain, he knelt, looked close at the eyebrows. There was no scar. He glanced at the two other bodies, neither of which remotely resembled his brother, breathed a sigh of relief. Brandon had just suckered him into joining up—
“This one’s still alive!”
Starbuck came about. Gilder, on his knees, was supporting the outlaw’s head and shoulders and reaching for a half-empty bottle of whiskey standing against a nearby stump. Shawn picked up the liquor, and dropping to a crouch, forced a drink between the man’s lips. The outlaw gagged, shuddered. His eyes opened.
He stared up at Starbuck and Gilder. The slackness in his features hardened, became angry planes. “That goddam ... Brandon ...”
Shawn leaned nearer to catch the faltering words. “Where is he?”
“Run ... for it ... Double-crossed me ... and Ben ... Took ... the gold.”
“Double-crossed?” Gilder echoed. “You telling us that Harry Brandon was in on the holdup and killings?”
The outlaw coughed. Blood dribbled from one corner of his mouth. “Was him ... setting ... it up. Sent for me ... letter ... in my ... pocket.”
Shawn reached into the man’s shirt pocket, withdrew a soiled, folded envelope. It was addressed to Ollie Kastman, Great Western Saloon, Dodge City, Kansas. Unfolding the sheet of paper that was inside, he read it quickly and passed it to Gilder.
“Can ... use another ... drink.”
Shawn took up the bottle and helped the outlaw down a second portion of the liquor. Kastman’s eyes were glazing but he managed a weak smile.
“Obliged ... to you.”
Starbuck bent over the man. “This ambush Brandon’s idea, too?”
Kastman moved his head with effort. “Was ... to wipe out ... the posse. Wanted to make ... it look like ... a big shoot-out. Aimed ... to swap duds with one of ... you so’s nobody’d know ... he was in ... on it.”
Gilder had finished the letter, was returning it to its envelope. Starbuck shook Kastman gently.
“Where were you going then?”
“South ... Mexico.”
“You figure that’s where Brandon’s headed?” Dave asked, thrusting the letter into his own pocket.
“Sure ... No place else ... to go.”
Undoubtedly Ollie Kastman was right, Shawn thought, except for one thing; Brandon would not be lining out straight for Mexico just yet. He had rid himself of his partners and the necessity to share the gold, but not all of the posse members were dead, as he’d planned. He would have noticed that only Dave Gilder appeared on the slope to face the bullets of the outlaw rifles and that would have stirred up a strong worry within him.
Only with everyone involved dead could he feel safe, and he would set about to repair the hitch that had developed in his scheme. Somewhere close by, Harry Brandon was waiting to finish what he had started.
Starbuck turned his attention back to Kastman. The outlaw was sucking for breath, his features again slack.
“Your horses and the pack mules—where’d you leave them?”
“On the trail ... below a ways ... A drink ... like to have ... one more.”
Gilder took up the bottle quickly, held it to Kastman’s mouth, watched him gulp the fiery liquid. When he had taken sufficient, he shook his head.
“Obliged again ... You going ... after Harry?”
Shawn said, “No choice.”
“Good ... The sonofabitch’s got it ... coming to him ... Man can’t ... play both sides ... of the ... table.”
The outlaw’s words faded into silence. Dave Gilder hunched low over him, drew back.
“Dead,” he said. “Wonder he lived long as he did. Brandon must’ve been standing right behind him when he put that bullet in his back.”
Starbuck drew himself upright. In the sky above the rocky plateau the buzzards were circling low, bolder now that there was no more shooting and they no longer saw movement along the slope. He faced Gilder.
“There’ll be two horses around here somewhere, if Brandon didn’t drive them off. I’ll take one, go after him—he’ll be ahead of us on the trail, I figure. You take the other, go up and get Rome and Moody, and our own animals, make camp here.”
Gilder nodded, pointed at the outlaws. “What about them?”
“Wrap them in their blankets and we’ll tote them back to town, same as we’ll be doing Rome and Moody.”
Gilder smiled grimly. “Be quite a sight, us riding down the street, packing all them bodies—”
“I’m hoping you’re right—that it’ll be the two of us and not just you.”
“Same here,” Gilder said, sobering. “How long you want me to wait?”
“If I’ve got Brandon figured, he’ll be holed up somewhere along the trail, watching for me to show—he’s looking for me because he thinks everybody else is dead. And he won’t go far before he sets his ambush. With luck I ought to be back by sundown.”
Gilder bobbed his head. “I’ll be here,” he said, throwing a glance at the buzzards. “Let’s find them horses. Want to get up to the rocks before them carrion eaters take a notion to light.”