Starbuck crawled to a higher point on the ledge and, flat on his belly, scoured the darkening rocks for a sign of Brandon. He was not to be seen and the possibility that he had moved on again came to mind.
It seemed unlikely. That he had started down the trail with the thought of getting a shot at the man he believed was climbing the slope, or had simply pulled back from the shelf to a more advantageous position, made better sense.
Regardless, Shawn knew he must continue although he would again be going up against the man and his rifle blindly, not knowing where or when to expect him—and this time with the further handicap of darkness. He shrugged, swore quietly; nothing was ever easy, it seemed—and the job had to be done. Glancing again to the rocks, now almost wholly dark, he got to his feet, and remembering to keep well back from the edge of the ledge along which he moved, hurried on.
He came to the swale that separated the butte from the summit of the trail. There was no break in the wall, and reluctant to spend any time searching for one, he crossed to the edge, chose what appeared to be a fairly level section on the ground below, one devoid of rocks, and jumped.
It was a good fifteen-foot drop. He struck on the balls of his feet and, off balance because of the slanting grade, plunged forward and went to his knees. But he was up instantly, unhurt, and hurried on.
He went down the near side of the saddle, taking pains only to be as quiet as possible, and started up the opposite slope. Shortly the rocks crowning the crest became more distinct and he slowed his pace. Harry Brandon could have returned; it would be wise to approach with care until he was sure of just where the man might be.
He paused, gave that consideration. It would also be smart to come in from the back side of the plateau. At once he cut to the right, made a circle of the crest, halting when he reached a patch of junipers and oak brush at its lower end. Gauging the distance to the rocks, he dropped low and worked toward the opposite edge of the springy growth, listening intently as he slowly progressed.
A horse stamped wearily, blew. Starbuck halted instantly. Brandon had not moved camp, had only changed his position on the rocks. He was somewhere nearby. Pistol in hand, Shawn resumed the tedious approach. The horse was off to his right, probably picketed in a clearing where there was grass to be had. On beyond that would be the slope; therefore it was reasonable to assume Brandon was to his left.
Scarcely breathing and taking each step with utmost care, Starbuck pushed on until he reached the end of the brush. Low to the ground, he peered through the filigree screen of leaves and branches. A small flat, beginning to brighten with the night’s first stars, lay before him. The two mules and the horse Brandon was riding were in a small pocket of rocks and undergrowth to one side. Elsewhere there was no sign of life.
Shawn settled back on his haunches, easing the strain on his leg muscles. He could cut back, circle to where the animals were grazing, but his appearance could frighten them and cause a racket. Brandon, he thought, would be on the other side of the rocky formation that capped the forward edge of the plateau like a dull, gray tiara, still keeping watch on the trail and the slope. But there was no real assurance of that; the man could be hiding nearby, actually aware of his presence, Shawn realized, and waiting to open fire when he appeared.
Two could play the game ... Starbuck shifted to a more comfortable position and, weapon ready, stared out over the flat. Coyotes barked into the brightening night from somewhere high in the ridges. A pumpkin-yellow edge of the moon appeared on the eastern horizon, began to grow, and the sudden, quiet swish of wings overhead marked the swift passage of an owl. A chill, born of sunset, was moving in, settling over the land and Shawn pulled at the edges of his jacket, drew it tighter around his body.
Dave Gilder would be wondering about the delay. He had expected him to return by the end of the day, would now have assumed that something had gone wrong and could even be contemplating taking the trail himself. It would be a mistake; with Harry Brandon lying in wait with his rifle, Dave would ride straight into a bullet.
Starbuck drew himself up sharply. A dark figure separated itself from the end of the rocks, coming from a shadow-filled hollow along the fringe. Shawn understood then; Brandon had simply exchanged his position on the top of the formation to a more convenient one where he figured he’d be less likely seen but could still cover the slope and the trail.
Tense, Starbuck held himself motionless, watched the man walk slowly into the open. Apparently he had decided there was no point in further surveillance and was likely considering the wisdom of moving his camp. Muscles taut, Shawn waited, allowed the man to reach the center of the plateau where he was in full starlight.
“Brandon—”
At the sound of Starbuck’s voice, Harry Brandon lurched to one side instinctively. His rifle rapped through the stillness as he fired fast from the hip. Shawn triggered a shot at the man as a bullet clipped through the oak leaves crowding about him. He saw that he had missed, and pressed off a second shot at Brandon throwing himself into the brush at the end of the rocks.
Starbuck, not about to let himself be trapped, leaped to his feet, and snapping another at the point where Harry Brandon had disappeared, raced for the massive pile of boulders. The mules and the horse were milling around anxiously, frightened by the gunshots, but they were making no effort to break loose. They were either picketed securely or hobbled.
Shawn reached the rocks, reloaded his weapon as he began to circle the formation. Brandon could only be at the opposite end or else retreating down the trail, which was not likely. He halted suddenly, ears picking up the faint scrape of boot leather against stone.
Pulling in tight against the cool granite, he hunched in the shadows, listened, striving to pin down the location of the sound. It came again—from somewhere above. Brandon was climbing to the top of the pile, hoping to catch him below.
Shawn rode out the breathless moments. There was silence again, and then once more that scraping noise. It was closer. A change came into the starlight—as if something had moved through it. He pulled back from the boulders, eyes sweeping the arcing level of the pile.
Harry Brandon, crouched, was silhouetted against the night ten paces away. Head cocked, he held his pistol ready, having given up the rifle for a more quickly managed six gun.
“Last chance, Brandon,” Starbuck murmured. “Don’t—”
Brandon spun, went to one knee. The weapon in his hand burnt a small orange hole in the night in the same instant that Shawn fired. Starbuck felt a bullet whip past his arm, and fired again.
Brandon slumped forward. His gun slipped from his fingers, clattered noisily upon the rocks. He twisted half about, fought to regain his feet, fell heavily instead and rolled limply back into the clearing.
Starbuck, motionless in the pale glow, sucked in a deep breath. He had hoped to take the man to Wolf Crossing alive, but Brandon had not seen it that way. Holding his pistol in his right hand, Shawn rodded out the spent cartridges, and while tension ebbed slowly from his tall frame, reloaded.
Afterwards he circled the rocks to where Brandon lay. For a time he stared at the slack face and then, bending down, unpinned the star from the man’s pocket. Dropping it into a pocket, he turned away.
The night had been long and cold and a deep thoughtfulness had weighed heavily on Shawn Starbuck. He had tried to avoid a shoot-out—twice—but Harry Brandon, aware no doubt that he had closed all gates behind him, had made his own desperate choice.
At sunup, Shawn roused from his place beside the fire he had built, and crossing to the horse Brandon had been riding, dug around in the saddlebags for food. He found none. A search of the packs the mules carried also failed to turn up anything. Brandon had departed the coulee in such haste he had neglected to take any grub—only gold.
Low in spirit and hungry, Shawn returned to the fire. He could, he supposed, take Brandon’s rifle and do a bit of hunting in the grassy saddle beyond the plateau. He’d find rabbits there, he was sure, and one broiled over flames would take the edge off his need and keep him going until he could get back to camp where Dave Gilder waited.
But the idea didn’t appeal to him for some reason obscure even to himself, and after a bit, he kicked out the fire, and leading the horse to where Brandon lay, he loaded the body on behind the saddle and secured it.
He turned then to the mules, made certain their loads were tiding properly, and linking the string ropes, brought them into the center of the clearing. There he mounted to the saddle. The horse grunted a little under the additional weight and Starbuck knew he was in for some walking before the return trip was over, but it didn’t matter. All he wanted now was to get back to Wolf Crossing, rid himself of the unwanted responsibility that had fallen on him, and be on his way.
Moving off the flat, he swung onto the trail and started down the steep grade. A short time later he passed the horse he had been riding when Brandon’s bullet had come reaching for him and found, instead, a different target, and then around noon he came into sight of the high, rock ridge where Able, Rome and Walt Moody had died.
A thin curl of smoke twisting up from the base of the slope below it told him that Gilder was still there, likely had coffee and a meal on the fire. The thought induced him to put spurs to the lagging horse and jerk impatiently at the rope leading the stolid mules.
Dave was standing at the back edge of the clearing when he rode in. Face expressionless, he made brief acknowledgment of Starbuck’s greeting, touched the lifeless shape of Harry Brandon with a glance, and brought his attention again to bear upon Shawn, now swinging off the saddle.
“I’m hating to do this,” he said in a tight voice. Starbuck pivoted slowly. “What’s that?”
“You heard,” Dave Gilder replied coolly. “I’m taking that gold.”