The tracks left by Brandon’s horse and the two pack mules carrying the gold were clear in the soft mud of the trail, and Starbuck had no difficulty in following.
But the need for caution was apparent and he held the pursuit to a slow walk. Brandon would be expecting him, thus every bend in the path, every clump of dense brush and pile of rocks along its twisting course could prove to be the point where the lawman turned outlaw could be lying in ambush for him.
Several times Shawn halted to listen, hoping to pick up the sound of the moving animals, but on each occasion there were only the usual, everyday noises of the high hills. Brandon had gotten a good start on him and it quickly became apparent that he was pushing on steadily to maintain that lead.
Late in the afternoon he drew to a halt at the foot of a long grade. The black he had appropriated was tired and he wished now he had taken the time to get the sorrel, but at that moment he had expected to overtake Harry Brandon much sooner.
Dismounting, he stepped ahead on the trail, examined it briefly, reassuring himself that he was still on the right track, and then crossed to a mound of earth and rock covering the partly exposed roots of a wind-capsized fir. Climbing to its top, he looked out over the land, now beginning to shadow as the day lengthened.
To his left the slope dropped sharply into a deep canyon; to the right it lifted up in an almost perpendicular wall thinly populated by scrubby junipers, mountain mahogany, pines and spruce.
Starbuck nodded grimly. Brandon’s escape route was also his trap; the trail he followed was like an eyebrow on the face of the massive hill, and there was no turning off; he could do nothing but continue on its narrow width and hope to reach a suitable place where a stand could be made.
That could take days, Shawn realized. He swore wearily, another sidetrack, another delay in his search for Ben. It seemed he was forever becoming involved in the problems of others while seeking only to fulfill his own obligations ... But this had been a little different from usual. There had been the possibility of one of the outlaws being his missing brother. He had doubted it from the beginning, but he had felt, nevertheless, that he should be certain.
He supposed he could have pulled out back at the coulee when he had seen with his own eyes that Ben Snow was not Ben Starbuck. His personal interest and reason for being a member of Brandon’s posse had ended at that moment.
But the thought had not occurred to him. His mind had been crowded with the memory of Able Rome and Walt Moody lying dead on a plateau while vultures circled patiently overhead, and the knowledge that they were there because a man who wore a star had used his good offices and the prestige of the law to flaunt his trust to satisfy personal greed.
No man could turn his back on that. Others were dead, the law had been broken by one entrusted with its upholding; it was imperative, therefore, that he be caught, returned and brought to justice. Otherwise the sacred tablet of principles by which all lived would be damaged and thereby lessened.
But why was he always the one to find himself jockeyed into a position of assuming such responsibilities? Starbuck had often pondered that question when he found himself deeply involved. Why could he never find it in himself to ride on, look to his own problem?
Shawn Starbuck had never found an answer—nor did he lose any sleep over it. Perhaps it was his upbringing at the hands of iron-willed old Hiram Starbuck to whom there were only two factors deserving consideration in this life—right and wrong. A thing was either white or it was black and there were no shadings of gray; and while that somewhat uncharitable philosophy had been tempered in Shawn by circumstance from time to time, the basic honesty of it still burned within him and adherence to it was second nature.
He moved off the mound, slipping and sliding a bit on the mud, and returned to his horse. The short rest had helped the black some, but he was in poor condition at best and Starbuck knew he could expect little from the animal. There was but one consolation; the horse Brandon was riding, also one of the outlaw’s string, would be in no better shape and thus, in that respect, they were on equal footing.
It ended with that, Starbuck thought as he swung back onto the saddle and continued up the trail. Harry Brandon had all the advantages. He was somewhere ahead and on a higher elevation that permitted him to look back—and down, simplifying the task of keeping an eye out for anyone following.
Thus he could exercise judgment, either finding eventually a suitable place to halt, set up an ambush or simply continue on, mile after mile, maintaining his distance, and hope to wear down anyone pursuing him and finally lose them.
It was difficult to predict which course Brandon would choose. Probably he would elect to kill—to stop once and for all time anyone seeking to track him down and bring him to justice. Using his gun as a means for accomplishment meant nothing to him, as the murders of his partners proved, and he doubtless would feel more secure in the knowledge that no one who had witnessed his sanguinary acts still lived.
The timber was thinning. They were again moving into high country where there was less brush growth and more firs and spruces interspersed with groves of white-trunked, golden-leafed aspens.
He realized he could no longer rely on the protection of trees that before had more or less obscured the trail, and he began to ride nearer the inside edge of the rough pathway, seeking to make himself a less visible target.
The day was growing late and darkness would be of help, but there was little he could do to take advantage of it. With the sorrel under him he could have kept moving, climbing, certain that Brandon had been forced to halt for the night; the poor condition of the black ruled out the possibility of his use. Head low, laboring with each step, he would have to rest soon or cave in.
Shawn brushed his hat to the back of his head and stared up-trail. He could see short stretches of open ground now through the scattered trees, but there was no sign of Harry Brandon.
Twice Brandon had caught a glimpse of the man so relentlessly dogging his tracks. It was Starbuck, he knew. It could be no one else. Able Rome and the greenhorn, Moody, were dead. He’d seen Gilder go down when Snow and Kastman opened up on him with their rifles. He, too, was dead or badly wounded. Therefore it had to be the big drifter. He swore harshly.
Why the hell couldn’t his luck have held and Starbuck headed down that slope with Gilder like he was told to do instead of going off on some idea of his own! Then it would have worked out just as he’d planned.
But he reckoned he should be satisfied that only one slip had developed in his carefully plotted scheme—and a minor one at that. He was still holding all the high cards despite Starbuck, and when the proper time came, that moment when he could be absolutely sure, he’d play the ace that would end the game and set him free to enjoy the new life he longed for.
He threw a glance at the pack mules. They were barely moving, making their displeasure evident, as mules would do, at being forced to continue when they were tired and believed they had done enough for one day. He’d make them keep moving until dark, then pull in. The horse he was riding was in a hell of a shape, too.
He gauged the sun. Still another hour or so until it set—and that much time, more or less, would put him pretty well up on the summit at that flat place that was a good spot for camp as well as offering a position from which a man, so desiring, could make mighty good use of a rifle.
Harry grinned, rubbed at the side of his head in a satisfied way ... He’d never forget the look on Ben Snow’s face back there in the coulee when he turned and saw that six gun pointing at him! Surprised just wasn’t a good enough word for it.
He supposed he ought to feel a little guilty about double-crossing him and Ollie and Charlie Cole. They had pitched right in with him on the scheme and not only done a good job of grabbing the gold and taking it to the agreed-upon rendezvous, but had followed out all his instructions—even to firing a bullet into the fire that first night to let him know they were just ahead and on schedule—just as he had directed.
But a man couldn’t afford to get soft-hearted when it came to staking his claim on a fortune. He had to think only of himself and make plans accordingly. Hell, there wasn’t any big loss, anyway! All three of them were living on borrowed time. Sooner or later they were bound to get themselves killed off.
He reckoned he was entitled to a pat on the back; everything had worked out fine when you considered it, except for Starbuck. If he was to fault himself on any one thing, he guessed it was for misjudging him and talking him into riding with the posse. But he did need one man a cut better than the three who’d volunteered, and he was the only available prospect. How was he to know Starbuck wasn’t just another saddle-tramp, anyway?
Harry Brandon shrugged, spat. The hell with hashing over Starbuck. He’d take care of him, come dark, and that would be the end of it. What if he had made a little mistake and was being pushed a bit when he’d planned on being able to take his time, just fade out, vanish? It would all work out to the same end in the long run.
There was one thing that would pose a bit of a problem, once Starbuck was taken care of; he had no grub. Moving out in a hurry the way he’d been forced to do in the coulee, he’d had no time to grab the supplies Kastman and the others had been carrying. He didn’t know whose horse he’d taken, but it wasn’t the one packing the grub. He’d get by, however. He’d kill himself a rabbit or one of the numerous tassle-eared squirrels he’d noticed running around under the trees. That would keep him going until he reached one of the Mexican settlements he knew he’d find once the ridge was topped out and he dropped into the valley country on the other side. What the hell—for a hundred thousand dollars in gold a man could afford to go hungry for a couple of days!
The mules began to hold back. He halted, again looked to the sun. He could stop anytime now, he decided, swinging his gaze about. A hundred yards farther, a small flat, covered with thin grass and bordered on two sides with boulders, caught his attention. It was exactly what he had been looking for.
Goading the horses and yanking impatiently on the mules’ lead rope, he moved into the clearing and stopped. Immediately the smaller mule lay down, ears slung forward, eyes half shut in a stubborn declaration of no further work.
Brandon, ignoring the brute, led the horse to a nearby stump, picketed him and the two pack animals. Wheeling, he jerked Ben Snow’s rifle from the saddle boot and doubled back across the small flat to the ledge of rocks at its lower end. Pulling himself up onto the highest point, he looked down onto the trail.
For a time he saw nothing and the thought came to him that Starbuck had given up after all and was returning to Wolf Crossing. That set up a disturbance within him at once; he didn’t want it that way; the final success of his plan depended on there being no survivors of the ambush. That damned Starbuck—a man couldn’t figure—
A grunt of satisfaction slipped through his lips. A solitary rider had come into view, rounding a bulge of rock on the trail far below. It took only a few moments’ steady observation to verify the identity; it was Starbuck, as he had been sure it would be.
Flattening himself, he rested the rifle on a slight hump in the storm-scoured surface of the ledge and sighted in on the next open area in the trail that Starbuck would shortly be entering ... A long shot but an easy one.
Settled and waiting, Brandon glanced back to the clearing. The smaller mule, apparently concluding that his day’s labor was finally over, had gotten to his feet and was now grazing contentedly alongside his associate. It would be a good idea to pull off the pack saddles for the night, give the contrary bastards a good night’s rest, Harry Brandon thought. Like as not their loads hadn’t been off their backs since they left the Paradise Mine ... Besides, he wanted a look at that gold and run his fingers over its smooth softness—and, by God, he just might eat a little of it! Yes sir, he’d shave a bit off one of the bars and swallow it so’s he could tell around that he’d eaten gold ... That would open some eyes.
He shifted his attention back to the trail. Starbuck was still hidden from view by an outward swing of the slope ... That was something else he would do, actually must do—go down to where Starbuck would be lying and get rid of the body. It wouldn’t do to have him found by a search party, so it would be into the canyon for him, where the buzzards and the coyotes could take care of the remains. The horse he’d keep. Between it and the jughead he was riding he might have the makings of one good animal.
There he was—Starbuck. Brandon levered the rifle, checked to be certain a live cartridge was in the chamber. He wished he’d brought his own weapon. This one of Snow’s was an old Henry whereas the one he packed and was accustomed to was a later model Winchester. But it didn’t matter; a rifle was a rifle and one make would kill a man as dead as another. Drawing a bead on the approaching rider, he caught his breath and squeezed off a shot.