Twenty-One

They rode into the settlement around noon, and by the time they had led their pack train of yellow gold and lifeless bodies to a halt at the livery stable’s rack, most of the town was gathered about them, peeking at the shrouded shapes in quiet awe and voicing questions in subdued voices.

Starbuck and Dave Gilder, trail-worn and stiff, dismounted and faced the stunned crowd. A man in the front, his ruddy features reflecting shock and disbelief, stared at them.

“You two the only ones left alive?”

Shawn nodded, started a reply, withheld his words as Ed Christian and four other men shouldered their way briskly through the gathering. The one to Christian’s left, small, sharp-faced, with snapping dark eyes, swept the pack train with his glance, whipped it back to Starbuck and Gilder.

“I hear right—there only two of you left?”

“That’s it, Mr. Stratton,” Dave replied. “Just us.”

“My God,” Stratton breathed. “Even Brandon—”

“Even him,” Gilder said, “only wasn’t the way you maybe are thinking. He tried to take the gold himself. He was hooked up with them outlaws—had it all framed up. I got a letter of his proving that. He would’ve got away with it, too, if it hadn’t been for Starbuck. He went after him, brought him and the gold both back.”

A mutter of surprise ran through the crowd. Dave waited for it to die, then, looking about apprehensively, said: “I’ll make a report on what happened.”

Stratton bobbed his head. “Good. We’ll be needing it for the town records.” He broke off, eyes fixed on the badge pinned to Gilder’s shirt pocket. “That Brandon’s star you’re wearing?”

“Yes, sir. I figured the town’d need a lawman, leastwise until election. Seeing as how I’ve already been deputized, I’m volunteering to hold down the job—it’s all right with you and the rest of the town council.”

Someone in the crowd laughed. Several others took it up. Shawn threw a hasty look at Gilder, saw the lines of his face tighten, his skin grow a shade lighter. It was a critical moment, he realized.

“I’m recommending it, if what I say’s worth anything to you,” Starbuck said, speaking in a loud and clear voice. “If it wasn’t for Dave this could’ve all turned out different.”

Stratton shifted his attention to Ed Christian and the three men flanking him closely; evidently they were the council. All nodded.

“All right,” Stratton said, coming back to Gilder. “You’re the acting marshal, temporary until election time. You sure you can handle it?”

“Yes, sir, I know I can—and I’ll prove it to you, to the whole town.”

“You’re getting your chance,” Stratton said. “Now if—”

“Something else,” Gilder cut in. “I’d like to say now I’ll be running for the job, permanent, when it comes up for voting.”

Starbuck smiled. Dave Gilder had gotten the worst part of it over—the declaring of himself—and had discovered he was still alive and breathing and none the worse for it. It would be easier for him now.

Ed Christian pushed forward, extended his hand to Gilder. “I’ll tell you this, Dave, I’m for you. Call on me if you need any help.”

Gilder grinned broadly. “Obliged. I expect I’ll be needing a lot of it—all I can get.” He lifted his gaze to cover the crowd. “I hope I can figure on you all voting for me—”

“They get the gold?”

Shawn turned to face two men moving in from the side. Both were dressed in the customary corduroy suits, lace boots and narrow-brimmed hats associated with the mining companies.

“They did,” Stratton said coldly, motioning toward the pack train. As the pair hurried to reach the mules, he nodded to Shawn and Gilder. “They’re from the Paradise. Been hanging around here since the day after you left. Tall one’s named Blaylock—he’s the superintendent. The other’s Otto Bond, office manager or something like that.”

He turned away then, faced the crowd. “Some of you men unload those bodies, get them over to the undertaker’s. Being there in the sun ain’t helping them any. Tell Amos that Doc Marberry’ll be along presently and do his coroner duties. Can bury them later.”

“Mr. Mayor—” Blaylock said, moving back into the center of the gathering with his partner. “I want to thank you. The gold’s all there. Putting your lawmen on it quick like you did and making the recovery won’t be forgotten by the Paradise Mining Company.”

“There are the men to thank,” Stratton replied, jerking his thumb at Starbuck and Gilder, “them and the ones that died doing it.”

“Sorry about them, and like I said, we won’t forget it. We aim to transfer a part of our business here as a show of appreciation—”

A cheer went up from the crowd. Blaylock raised his arms for silence.

“That’s not all. There’ll be a generous reward for these two men—a generous one.”

Dave Gilder smiled, evidently seeing the possibilities of sending for his family growing brighter. Shawn caught at Blaylock’s arm.

“I’d appreciate it if you’ll just turn my part over to the marshal.”

The mine superintendent frowned, puzzled. “Sure, Mr.—”

“Starbuck.”

“Mr. Starbuck. Whatever you say.”

Dave Gilder frowned. “No, it ain’t right. I won’t let—”

“It’s what I want. Sooner you get your wife and boys here, the better it’ll be.”

Gilder looked down, murmured: “Hell, Starbuck, I don’t know how to thank you.”

“You know all right. We talked it all out back there in the coulee.”

“I guess we did,” Dave said slowly. He raised his head, nodded. “And don’t worry none. I’ll make it.”

“I know you will,” Shawn answered, and taking the sorrel’s reins, started for the stable.

“Now wait, seems we ought to owe you something,” Ed Christian said, halting him with an outstretched hand.

Starbuck turned to him. “Just one thing—a favor. Get folks behind Dave Gilder and elect him marshal. He’ll make you a damned good one.”

“We’ll do it,” Christian said promptly. “But what about yourself?”

Shawn brushed at the stubble on his chin. “All I want is to get cleaned up, do a bit of eating and sleeping and then I’m riding on. I got a brother somewhere. I figure he could be in Santa Fe so I’m going to have a look.”

Otto Bond, standing on the porch of the Grand Central that next morning with mine superintendent Joe Blaylock, watched Starbuck ride slowly down the street and disappear around the corner of the last building.

“Sure cool customer,” he said. “I wish’t we could get somebody like him to take over the bullion wagons.”

Blaylock hawked, spat into the already dry dust. “The right kind, all right, only they never stick. Always move on—like that one we had working for a spell. Damon his name was.”

“Damon,” Bond repeated, frowning. “Oh, sure, I remember him now. Come to think of it, they even look something alike. You reckon they’re related?”

“Names ain’t the same. Don’t seem likely.”

“Still, he could be a relative—cousin or something.”

“Yeah, suppose so. We could’ve asked if we’d thought.”

“Just never come to me. Maybe it won’t make any difference.”

“Why’s that?”

“I recollect Damon saying he was going on to Santa Fe when he quit. They’ll probably be bumping into each other if he’s still there. Santa Fe’s no big town.”

“No, it sure ain’t ... What do you say we eat?”

“I’m ready,” Otto Bond said, and stepped down into the street.