“And I thought for sure,” Stringer said, “you was him.”
“What have you got?” I said.
“I got a posse of six with me and we been at it this afternoon. We got on their trail just about four o’clock.”
“Their trail?” I said. “Thought you said one?”
Stringer nodded.
“We was following all four at first, but they split up. Three of them crossed the river twenty miles back. We went after them first but could not find any goddamn sign of them on the other side, they vanished.”
“They know you are after them?” Virgil said.
“Don’t know,” Stringer said. “Don’t think so, but they split up, that’s for damn sure. The three that went into the river could have doubled back in the water for all we know. So we come back on this side and picked up the trail of the single rider.”
“You sure?” I said.
“More than sure.”
Virgil looked to me, then to Stringer.
“Why don’t you get your men in here, give this a rest right now,” Virgil said.
Stringer nodded and slid his Winchester back in the scabbard and handed the reins of his horse to one of his deputies.
“Round up everybody and bring them in,” Stringer said. “Get a line up for the horses.”
“Yes, sir.” Then the two deputies disappeared into the darkness.
“How’d all this come about?” Virgil said. “How do you know?”
“Place called the Crosscut Depot. An outfitters’ place above the Gila forty miles south of here was robbed—guns, horses, clothes, food, you name it.”
“And you know for a fact it was them?” I said.
“I do.”
“What about the workers at the depot,” Virgil said. “Anybody hurt?”
Stringer shook his head.
“Roughed up some of them,” he said. “But left nobody dead. They showed up in the early hours of the morning, got the jump on everybody. They got to the guns before anybody knew what was happening and shit went south from there real quick, leaving spent horses and taking fresh ones from the depot. We tracked them, got on their trail quick. I got an Indian with me, Kiowa, a hell of a tracker. We were gaining on them until the three broke off.”
“Good chance they could have all split and gone separate,” I said.
Stringer shook his head a bit.
“Chance I took staying after the one tonight, but we been moving slow, taking it steady, and even found some sign in the dark. He’s not been riding the railroad tracks but been keeping them close, been staying on this side of it. Using it for direction.”
I looked to Virgil.
“Appaloosa.”
Virgil nodded.
“I’m fucking tired and I was fixing to stop for the night, but my Kiowa caught a whiff of your fire and I thought for sure we had struck pay dirt.”
Virgil glanced to me, then looked around as Stringer’s men came straggling into camp.
“You fellas settle in here now,” Stringer said.
The posse and their horses were moving slow and the lot of them looked tired and weary.
“We’ll camp here with Marshals Hitch and Cole. Spread out over there.”
The posse did as Stringer ordered and went about settling in for the night.
The Kiowa remained standing, looking off to the north, in the direction of the tracks. He was a slim, dark-skinned Indian with long braids, wearing knee-high moccasins and a buckskin shirt with a Colt holstered around it. He stood holding the reins of his pinto pony with his feet together, a picture of relaxation as he looked off, holding his Winchester by his side with the barrel pointing toward the ground.
“We give it up for tonight, Locky,” Stringer said.
Locky remained looking off into the darkness for a moment, then, without saying a word or looking to Stringer, he turned and walked his horse to the edge of camp, but was careful not to be too close to the others.
“He was a runner before he became a scout for General Crook from Camp Verde. He’s better than a goddamn bloodhound,” Stringer said. “He could track a fucking snake across a flooded lake.”
Stringer moved a bit closer. He sat his big body on a low rock by the fire, then looked over to Skillman, who was lying down now with his back to us.
“I take it the other two weren’t that interested in going back to Cibola?”
“I asked them politely-like,” I said.
Stringer tipped his thumb toward Skillman.
“He say how they got out?”
“No,” I said. “Won’t talk, really.”
“How about the one in Yaqui?” Virgil said.
Stringer shook his head a little.
“Not really. He did say he did not plan the escape or even partake in the plan. Of course, right? He said there was an opening and he took it. Said he wished he’d stayed, said he was on good behavior and had plans to work hard for an early release.”
“That didn’t work out too well,” Virgil said.
“No,” Stringer said. “He fucked that up.”
“What about the prison?” Virgil said. “And the support town?”
Virgil looked to me.
“Wingate,” I said.
Virgil nodded and looked to Stringer.
“Wingate? They know anything new?”
Stringer shook his head.
“No, I don’t know. We just got out and after it, looking for the other four, when we last communicated over the wire. So I got no details from Wingate or Cibola. Don’t know if the line is back up or not, nothing.”
Virgil nodded a little.
“Got any coffee, Everett?” Stringer said as he removed his hat.
“Do,” I said.