Chapter Eighteen

As was his habit when in town, George Wilson was taking his noon meal at the hotel. He was pleased to see Sheriff Winslow come in and motioned for the sheriff to join him.

After they had exchanged pleasantries, the sheriff remarked, “Heard you had a weddin’ out your way.”

“Yes,” George replied. “It came as a surprise to most folks, but some of us have seen it coming for a long time.”

“Hurts to lose our schoolteacher so quick like, but I don’t reckon she would’ve been around long anyways, with her bein’ so well fixed an’ all.”

George smiled. He had no intention of revealing Priscilla’s financial situation to the gossipy sheriff so he changed the subject. “It was just fortunate for Mrs. Rogers that we were able to find a buyer so quickly for her place. Of course, she had another offer on it, too, just a few days after selling it to Miss Bedford, er, Mrs. Rhoades, I should say.”

“Oh, yeah, an’ who was that?” asked the sheriff, perking up.

George shook his head, as if he still could not believe it himself. “Jason Vance, of all people. He said he felt guilty because he had won all of Rogers’s money, and he wanted to help out the widow.”

Sheriff Winslow mulled over this new information. It jogged his memory and came together with another piece of information filed there. “Funny thing,” he mused. “That night Rogers died, Vance tried to get him to bet his ranch on a hand of poker against all the money Vance had won.”

“Sounds like Vance was mighty interested in Rogers’s ranch,” George commented, more to make polite conversation than for any other reason.

Sheriff Winslow murmured agreement and then turned the conversation to other matters, but he did not forget what George Wilson had told him. He turned the facts over in his mind, examining them from every angle, comparing them with other facts he knew, and something that had been troubling him. The doc had asked the sheriff if Rogers had been in a fight the day he died, since he had found some unexplained bruises on the dead man’s body. So far, the sheriff had been unable to account for those bruises. Also, he had never quite been able to figure out how and why Rogers would have fallen just where he had. By the time he had gotten out to take a look at the spot, the ground had been too trampled up to tell anything from the tracks.

Winslow was a slow thinker, but he was not dumb. He knew that everything about Rogers’s death did not quite gel, but he would not quit until it did. Now he had a new lead. He had half suspected that Rogers had had a fight with someone but could not think of a reason for it. Now, it seemed that someone had been very interested in Rogers’s property. But why? Winslow suspected he knew someone who could answer that question. After lunch he went for a stroll around town.

He found Zeke sleeping in the shade, his chair tipped back against the wall.

“Sure, I recollect somethin’ about Rogers’s place,” said Zeke, rubbing his whiskered chin after getting fully awake. “He used to brag on how there was some kinda gold buried out there. Leastways, I think that was it. Mebbe it was a gold mine, though. I ain’t fer shore on that. It was just some ramblin’ he’d do when he’d got on the outside of too much red likker.”

‘Thanks, Zeke,” said Sheriff Winslow, flipping him a I two-bit piece.

“Always glad to oblige, Sheriff,” chuckled Zeke.

Usually, Winslow avoided the saloon whenever i possible. Something about Rita Jordan got under his skin and it was not the usual thing. He could not deny that he found her attractive. What man would not? But something else—he could not say just what—made him think more of a deadly rattlesnake than a beautiful woman when he looked at her. Today, however, he would overlook his prejudices. He had business at the Yellow Rose.

Jason Vance was playing solitaire in the empty saloon. He greeted the sheriff in his usual reserved manner. They chatted over the weather and business and the town in general.

“Hasn’t been much for me to do lately,” lamented the sheriff. “Biggest thing to happen around here in six months was Rogers gettin’ killed.” His eyes were on Vance’s face, but Vance betrayed nothing.

“And that was an accident,”

Vance commented. Sheriff Winslow pretended to contemplate this for a moment. “That’s what folks think, all right. Me, I got my doubts.”

Vance was obviously interested now. “Really, Sheriff? What makes you think it wasn’t an accident?”

“Oh, a lot of things that I ain’t at liberty to discuss for now.” He paused as if finished and then added, almost as an afterthought, “An’ of course, there was the gold.”

A less astute man than Winslow might have missed Vance’s slight reaction to that comment.

“Gold?” Vance asked casually. “What gold?”

“Oh, everybody’s heard Rogers brag on how he had gold on his place,” he said offhandedly. “Well, reckon I’d better mosey along. Don’t want folks sayin’ the sheriff spends the whole afternoon settin’ in the saloon.” Vance sat motionless for a long time after Winslow left. He had underestimated the sheriff. That could be a fatal error. Vance knew the sheriff was on the scent of Rogers’s killer and sooner or later he would find someone who had seen Vance ride out of town that night. It might take him a while, but Winslow would not quit. Vance knew the type. He cursed himself for being so stupid as to actually attack Rogers. If only he had been able to find the gold, he would have been long gone. Vance’s hands played solitaire through the long afternoon, but his mind was working on one final, desperate plan to get him the gold and make his escape. It was so obvious he wondered that it had not occurred to him before. There was at least one person who could take him right to the spot, and Rita could help.

That evening, Dusty and Priscilla sat on their front porch, enjoying their third and last night of solitude. Tomorrow, Shorty and the Count would return and the business of the ranch would begin in earnest.

Priscilla turned lazily to Dusty. “What’s your real name?” she asked.

He winced. “I was wondering when you’d get around to that. It’s Phillip.”

She smiled. “Why, that’s a wonderful name. You aren’t ashamed of it, are you?”

“Not exactly ashamed. I’m just not overly fond of it.”

“I see,” said Priscilla thoughtfully. “I was wondering if, for example, we had a son, would you want him named for you?”

He took her hand in the gathering darkness, and she could hear the emotion in his voice as he said, “If you give me a son someday, you can name him anything you like.”

She had an overwhelming desire to kiss him, but she knew if she did, her chance to tell him would be gone. She sighed as if relieved. “That’s good to know, since I calculate our son should be making his appearance this winter.”

For a long moment he did not speak or move. He sat staring at her face in the shadows. “Our son?” he said at last.

“Yes, or our daughter. Of course, we won’t know for certain until it’s born, but it will definitely be here before spring.”

“You... you’re going to have a baby?” he asked stupidly.

“Yes, my darling, that’s what we have been talking about.” She smiled tenderly at his beloved face.

“How? When? How do you know? Are you sure?” he stammered.

Priscilla laughed, delighted. “I’m sure. Stella and I figured it out just a few days before you got back. As to how and when, it must have been that night at the school...”

“You didn’t tell me,” he accused, suddenly aware of a very important fact. “Before the wedding, I mean.”

She sobered instantly. “I did not want you to marry me because you had to. I would have wondered the rest of my life if you had really wanted to.”

“I oughta spank you! Keeping it a secret!” He stared at her in wonder and indignation for a moment and then said, awed, “A baby.”

“You may now kiss the mother of your child,” she said sweetly. “And then you may take her to bed.”

If she had expected a violent burst of passion, she would have been disappointed, because when he took her hands and drew her to her feet, his kiss was so gentle and tender that it brought tears to her eyes. Then he picked her up as if she were made of glass and carried her to the big four-poster bed where he set her down with infinite care. Sitting down beside her, he simply stared at her as if trying to memorize every feature, every curve, every pore of her lovely face. “Oh, Pris, I love you so,” he whispered and then heaved an exasperated sigh. “No, that isn’t right. I more than love you. I... adore you. I worship you. I... there just aren’t words to describe the way I feel about you.”

Priscilla blinked and one crystal tear slid out the corner of her eye. “I know,” she told him, remembering their wedding night when she, too, had been unable to find words adequate to tell him how she felt. She reached up one hand and lovingly traced the contours of his face.

“You must have been scared to death,” he suddenly decided, remembering certain facts about their separation. “When you found out about the baby, I mean. Not knowing where I was or even for shore if I was coming back. What would you have done if I hadn’t come back?” he asked, the pain he felt on her behalf twisting his handsome face.

Priscilla shook her head, unwilling to consider such a thing at such a perfect moment. “You did come back,” she said simply. “That’s all that matters. That, and the fact that you love me and our child, and that we love you. You’ve made me very happy. And besides,” she added impishly, “I was too busy being mad at you for leaving to even think about being scared.”

For once he did not rise to her bait but only shook his I head in wonder. “You’re quite a woman, Mrs. Rhoades. I wonder what I ever did to deserve you.”

“You know perfectly well what you did,” she informed him, growing a little impatient with all this cherishing. Although she was certainly enjoying it, she was hoping for a little less talk and a little more action. “If you take those pants off, I’ll even let you do it again.”

His sky-blue eyes widened in shock for a moment, and then his face cracked into a huge grin. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered just before he began to remove his clothes. Halfway, though, he paused. “I don’t want to hurt the baby,” he said, a worried frown creasing his forehead.

Priscilla could not help her gurgle of laughter. “If we haven’t hurt the baby yet,” she pointed out, “I think he must be pretty safe.”

His frown deepened. “You should have told me before. I might have done something...”

“It’s all right,” she reassured him with some impatience. “Stella told me, and she should know!”

He grinned sheepishly. “I guess she should,” he allowed and hastily finished undressing. In a few more minutes they were both naked, but Dusty still could not bring himself to make mad, passionate love to her. Instead he began a slow, langorous worship of her body. Starting at her lips, he worked his way down to her toes, covering every inch of her with tiny, adoring kisses until she burned, without and within, with a fever so intense she thought she might die of it. When he finally came to her in answer to her broken pleas, it was as a supplicant seeking entry into a holy shrine. She accepted his homage as a benevolent goddess granting him her consummate favors, and they moved together in adoration, each of the other, savoring the glory that was theirs alone. Instead of the fiery flash that usually crowned their lovemaking, she felt this time a golden glow that not only released the heat of their passion but seemed to fuse them, heart and soul, into one splendid entity.

Afterward they lay for a long time, basking in the warmth their love had created, hands idly stroking, lips leaving sweet, moist trails on already damp skin. Before Priscilla was even aware that he had shifted, Dusty planted a large, wet kiss on the still-flat plane of her abdomen and then raised his head and spoke into her navel. “Well, Phillip Alexander Rhoades the third, I hope we didn’t disturb you,” he said rather loudly, in case his son might not be able to hear, buried so deeply in his mother’s body.

Priscilla’s jaw dropped in surprise at the sight of her enormous husband speaking into her stomach to a baby whose existence she had barely had time to consider. Now that feeble life had a name, courtesy of its father, and a family, and it was no longer just an “it,” a disturbing presence which might or might not cause insurmountable problems. Rather, it was their child, a real person, the fruit of their love, and suddenly Priscilla was laughing and crying at the same time, and Dusty was holding her, not knowing whether to comfort her or rejoice with her, but holding her nevertheless, and so they passed the last night of their brief honeymoon in joyous abandon, unaware of the evil that was closing in on them.

The next morning, Shorty and the Count arrived, and Dusty promptly sent them out to dig holes for fence posts. They grumbled loudly at this assignment, but since Dusty had already warned them before they hired on that this would be part of the job, they did not refuse. Both had worked with the Hereford cattle long enough to believe that what Dusty predicted for them was true.

Dusty himself had a mysterious errand to run. Taking the wagon, he refused to tell Priscilla where he was going, and he was unsure when he would return. As much as she hated to see him drive away, she did have things to do in her new home. She was alone when she heard her visitors arrive.

Dusty was whistling as he drove along. He could hardly wait to get home. Home! He could remember a time not very long ago when he was certain that he had nothing. Now he had everything a man could want, and a baby on top of it all. Priscilla would be so pleased when she saw what he was bringing her. He had completely forgotten about it until she had told him about the baby. It was a trunk his mother had left him. Inside were some keepsakes that had been hers but also some baby items that his mother had instructed him were for his own children. He could hardly wait to see Priscilla’s face.

He was later than he had planned. It had only taken a short time to locate the trunk and load it, but the Steeles had invited him to eat with them. As much as he wanted to hurry back to Priscilla, the temptation to eat at the Steele’s table as an honored guest instead of as a hired hand was too much. Now it was the middle of the afternoon. Rounding the bend, he was startled to see a strange wagon in the yard. Stranger still was the fact that Priscilla did not come to meet him. He unhitched the wagon and cared for the horses and still no sign of life from the house. He walked warily to the front door.

What he saw when he entered his home was so astounding that at first he did not think to feel alarmed. That gambler with a Winchester pointed at Priscilla. It could not really be happening. Then he heard a familiar laugh and, turning, saw those hate-filled green eyes, and suddenly his blood ran cold. It was real, all right, and he would have to use every ounce of intelligence he had to get them out of it.

“What the hell’s goin’ on here?” he demanded.

Jason Vance smiled, somewhat apologetically, Priscilla thought. “If you will be so kind as to remove your gunbelt and have a seat over there by your lovely wife, I will be glad to answer your question.”

Dusty gave brief thought to drawing the gun he had for some inexplicable reason donned that morning, but the chance that Vance would fire at Priscilla was too great.

Reluctantly, he unbuckled his gunbelt. Rita snatched it from him and buckled it around her own hips.

When Dusty was seated, Vance began his explanations. “You see, Mr. Rhoades, there is a large amount of old buried on your property. I believe you know where it is. I would like you to help me find it.”

Dusty looked in astonishment at each of the people in he room. Priscilla was clearly as surprised as he. Rita seemed to almost gloat and Vance simply smiled his enigmatic smile. “Is that what this is all about?” he asked unbelieving. “Don’t you think if there was gold here and knew where it was, I would have got it long ago?”

“Oh, you know where it is, all right. You just don’t know that you know. You see,” Vance began, but Dusty broke in.

“Are you talkin’ about some Spanish gold, a payroll or something like that? Buried back about fifty years ago?” Vance nodded. Dusty shook his head in disgust. “That gold ain’t here,” he declared.

“You seem mighty sure of yourself, cowboy,” Rita jsnapped.

Dusty ignored her. “I know it ain’t here, an’ I’ll tell you how I know. Then I’ll give you about ten seconds to apologize to my wife and get the hell out of here.”

Vance seemed more intrigued than anything else. “I’m listening,” he said.

“Back when I lived here before—it was during the war and my Pa was off fightin’—some Mexicans showed up one day. They was well dressed, real prosperous lookin’. They told my Ma they was lookin’ for something they thought was buried on our property. Said it belonged to the government of Mexico. Asked for permission to look around. They even paid us some money—gold pesos—for the privilege. So they looked. I was just a kid so they didn’t pay me much mind. I hung around a lot and heard that what they was huntin’ was buried gold. Had a map and everything. Only thing, the landmarks on the map were wrong somehow. The map was a copy or something and not the original. Anyhow, they never could find anything. They even asked me some questions, showed me the map and everything, but I couldn’t make heads or tails out of it. Finally, they got to fightin’ among themselves and give up. You see, Vance, if they couldn’t find it, how’d you expect to?”

Vance considered a moment. With his left hand, he reached into his inside coat pocket and pulled out a yellowed paper. “Because I have this. Would you be kind enough to look at it?”

Dusty took the offered map and unfolded it with a look of profound disgust. He glanced over it quickly, and for an instant a flicker of recognition passed over his face. He covered it well, but they had all seen it. Shrugging with elaborate casualness, he tried to hand the map back to Vance. “Don’t mean a thing to me.”

“On the contrary, Rhoades, it means a great deal to you,” Vance said.

“He knows!” Rita insisted. “He knows just where it is!

“If I did, I’d never take you to it,” Dusty said icily.

“Your courage is commendable,” Vance said. “Indeed, I am sure you would die before leading me or Mrs. Jordan to the gold, but you have forgotten one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Mrs. Rhoades,” Vance replied with elaborate casualness. “I can’t believe you would allow her to die for such a trivial thing.”

Dusty glared at the gambler with narrowed eyes. “You’re low, Vance, but I don’t think you’re low enough to kill a woman.”

“I am glad to say that you are correct. However, the same cannot be said for my companion.” Vance gestured to Rita. “It seems that for some reason, unknown to me, Mrs. Jordan harbors a grudge against you. I am sure she would like nothing better than to—what shall I say—see you single again?”

One look at Rita confirmed Vance’s statement. Priscilla felt her blood turn to ice as she looked into those catlike eyes. She turned back to Dusty and could see how difficult it was for him to control his temper. His neck and ears were bright red.

“All right, Vance. You win. I don’t know about the rest of the map, but I can take you to the tree, the one with the turtle carved on it,” Dusty admitted grudgingly.

Vance’s whole body jerked forward. “That’s exactly where the treasure’s buried. You know where it is?”

“I know that tree. If you say that’s the place, I’ll take you there.”

“Believe me, Rhoades, that’s all I want. Once I have the gold, you and Mrs. Rhoades will have nothing to fear. Rita and I will be on our way.” He looked to Rita for confirmation. She nodded reluctantly.

“Let’s go then,” Dusty said. “The women go with us.”

“There’s no reason for them to sit around in the hot sun while we dig,” Vance said reasonably. “It may take hours. They’ll be much more comfortable here. When we’re finished, we’ll come back here, I’ll take Rita, and we’ll go.”

Dusty looked at Priscilla. He could see how much the strain was telling on her, and he knew she was not strong because of the baby. She probably should not sit out in the sun. Priscilla met his eyes. “Go ahead,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

“Pack us a bait of grub, Pris. No tellin’ how long we’ll be,” he told her gruffly. Rita followed Priscilla to the kitchen while Vance followed Dusty to the barn for the tools they would need.

When the men had been gone only a few minutes, Priscilla began to regret her decision to stay behind. The prospect of sitting there staring at Rita Jordan for hours was appalling.

“Do you mind if I do my chores?” Priscilla asked. “It will help pass the time.”

Rita smiled evilly. “Nothin’ I’d like better than to see what a lady does around the house. Go ahead.”

Rita followed her as she busied herself around the house, inventing little things to keep her hands busy and her eyes from the hands of the clock which moved with agonizing slowness. From time to time, Rita made a comment.

“I was married once. ‘Course it wasn’t long enough for me to really get the hang of it. In fact, it wasn’t no longer than you’ve been married.” Another time she commented, “Don’t seem like it’d be much fun to be married. Same chores every day. Same man every night.” Priscilla bit her tongue. She refused to give this woman the satisfaction of arguing with her.

At last the shadows lengthened in the yard and the sun went down.

“Ain’t you gonna fix no supper?” Rita demanded.

The thought of food almost made Priscilla gag. “I’m not very hungry,” she answered through clenched teeth.

“Well, I am. Fix somethin’,” Rita said.

Unwilling to admit her lack of cooking skills, Priscilla proceeded to the kitchen where she heated some leftovers for Rita, who wolfed them down. The smell of the food aggravated Priscilla’s morning sickness, and it was only sheer force of will and pride that kept her from vomiting.

“Ain’t you gonna eat nothin’?” Rita asked.

“No,” said Priscilla. “That is, I might have a cup of tea.” She thought perhaps that would settle her stomach.

“I’ll fix it,” offered Rita. “I could use some tea myself.” Priscilla was too amazed to protest.

When Rita set the tea before her, she accepted it gratefully. As Priscilla sat cautiously sipping the steaming brew, Rita began to talk. For a moment, Priscilla was overcome by the incongruity of it—here she was, this woman’s prisoner and yet they were chatting over a cup of tea. That feeling passed into horror, however, as she listened to the story Rita told.

“When I was a kid, my old man used to beat me. He liked to beat up women. Always kept a woman around, just for that. He beat one woman too many, though. Mattie, she wouldn’t stand it, so she killed him. Don’t look so shocked. He had it comin’. She poisoned him. It was a trick she learned from the Indians, a slow-workin’ poison. A couple days, you keel over. Your heart just quits. Nobody ever knew. It’s a good trick to know. You never can tell when you’ll meet a man who needs killin’. I’ve met a few. There was one, the one who made me a whore. They found him in an alley. Another fella”— Rita’s face turned dark with hatred—”the self-righteous hypocrite. It was his fault that... But you said you knew all about that.” Rita paused as if mulling over past injustices. “I was married. Did I tell you? Three days. They made nasty jokes when they found Sam Jordan dead in my bed. Said I’d killed him. I did all right, but not the way they thought. Then I come here an’ Franklin, that old fool, don’t have sense enough to sell out when he’s got the chance. I don’t give second chances.” Rita smiled, knowingly. “You finished with that tea, yet?” Priscilla nodded dumbly, numb from the horrors she was hearing. Rita nodded her approval.

Priscilla struggled to find her voice. “Are you going to kill Dusty, too?”

Rita laughed. “If I was, I woulda done it long ago. No, that’s too easy. I want him to suffer for what he did to me. I ain’t gonna kill him. I’m gonna do something that’ll make him hurt the rest of his life. I’m gonna kill you!”

It took a moment for the truth to sink in, and Priscilla looked down in horror at her empty cup and then back at Rita.

“That’s right, honey,” Rita said, almost solicitously. “In about two days, you’ll just drop dead. By then you’ll be glad, ‘cause it won’t be no fun at all watchin’ your darlin’ Dusty moon over you.”

Priscilla opened her mouth to protest but before she could, a familiar feeling clutched at her stomach, and she bolted for the door. Leaning over the porch rail, she wretched as she had there once before until her empty stomach could only heave. At last she turned, weak and trembling, to face Rita, who stood outlined in the door, a look of total shock on her face. For a long time, neither moved.

Priscilla’s brain at last began to function, and her first thought was that the poison was gone, no longer in her body. She might not die, would not die, and Rita had confessed murder to her. At that instant she saw the light of realization in Rita’s eyes also.

Suddenly unsure, Rita began looking about, as if she might find some means of escape. Then her hand touched Dusty’s gun, still strapped to her hip. Fumbling, she drew it just as Priscilla lunged. They fell together, half in, half out of the doorway. Priscilla’s hand clutched at the gun as Rita fought desperately to turn it toward her. The mass of struggling arms and legs thrashed wildly, hampered by the doorway, until suddenly a shot rang out, and both bodies lay still.

Jason Vance paused for a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow and ease his aching back. Physical labor was not his game and the blisters on his hands were giving him a painful reminder of that. He glanced up to where he had tied Rhoades to a tree for a well-earned rest and wondered how long he should let the cowboy sit there before forcing him back to work. Meanwhile, he felt it necessary to dig himself. It was already dark and he was using the light of several lanterns he had had the foresight to bring. Rhoades seemed to be dozing, and Vance’s eyes strayed up the tree to which he was tied. It was there, all right, no doubt about it—visible even in the darkness. The crude carving of a land turtle—the symbol for treasure buried in the direction in which the head pointed. The head pointed directly toward the hole in which Vance stood. Of course, the terrapin also stood for death, defeat, and destruction, facts which Vance had chosen to ignore. The gambler cursed and Rhoades started awake.

“Find it yet?” Dusty asked innocently.

“No, damn you,” Vance growled, climbing out of the hole. He picked up the map again and held it to the light. Looking up, he squinted into the darkness and looked back at the map. “I don’t get it. It just doesn’t fit.”

“I told you. That’s probably the same map them Mexicans had. That’s why they never found this tree. You can’t argue that ain’t the markin’ shown on the map.”

Vance nodded grudgingly. “We should have hit it by now, though. The map says it’s buried the depth of a shovel handle. We’re down more than six feet already.”

Rhoades grinned. “Maybe somebody got here first.”

Vance almost struck him, but remembering the digging to be done, he restrained himself and instead untied Rhoades and ordered him back to work.

Dusty had been digging for a few minutes when he stopped, having seen something of interest. While Vance was busy rolling a cigarette, Dusty quickly stooped down and picked it up. Glancing at it in the poor light, he quickly dropped it into his vest pocket but not before Vance had seen him.

“What was that?” the gambler demanded, jumping to his feet.

“What was what?” asked Dusty innocently.

“Don’t get smart. The thing you put in your pocket.”

Reluctantly, Dusty pulled out the object and passed it up to Vance. He could see the gambler’s eyes gleam even in the shadows as he examined the coin. Scraping the dirt off of it, he saw it was a square Dobe dollar, the old gold coin used by the Spanish. Surely it had been part of the treasure.

“This proves we’re in the right place,” he proclaimed excitedly, as if Dusty should share his enthusiasm.

The cowboy leaned lazily on the shovel. “Or it was the right place.” When Vance looked at him quizzically, he continued. “Way I figure, this was the place, all right. That coin proves it. But it ain’t here now. You said yourself we should’ve hit it by now.”

Vance was about to protest when two shots rang out in the darkness. They were far away but unmistakable. “What was that?” Vance asked.

“Sounded like gunshots to me,” drawled Dusty.

Vance eyed him suspiciously. “Two shots fired close together. That’s a distress signal.”

“Mebbe somebody’s in trouble.”

“Or maybe somebody’s looking for you.” Vance doused the lanterns, and they waited in the darkness for a long time. Dusty sat down in the hole and rolled a smoke. Vance cursed when he struck the match but it was probably not visible to anyone but him. Finally, Vance sat down, too. At long last, two more shots rang out, closer this time. “It’s somebody looking for you, all right,” Vance decided. “I wonder what happened to Rita? I should have guessed Priscilla would outsmart her.” Dusty cringed. He was not at all sure that that was what had happened. He was fairly certain, however, that the shots were fired for him. He need only get Vance’s gun and fire off even one round to bring the searchers. Waiting, he watched the gambler carefully.

Vance hit his palm with his fist. He was remembering the curious sheriff. The lawman would know for certain that he had killed Rogers when he found out about this treasure hunt. Suddenly it seemed more important to be free than to be rich. Besides, he still had the money he had won in the poker game. That was plenty to make a fresh start, and Rhoades was probably right. Someone else had already gotten the gold. It just was not here.

“Get up out of that hole,” he called to Dusty.

Dusty started to climb out, lost his footing, and fell. “Mind givin’ me a hand? It’s hard to see what you’re doin’ down here.”

Without thinking, in the interest of speed, Vance reached a hand down to the cowboy. Dusty pulled with a jerk and Vance toppled over into the hole. In an instant Dusty was on him, pounding with his fists. Instinctively, Vance grappled, trying to rise, to get in a good punch, but he was pinned too closely, hampered by the steep sides of the ditch. The fight was over in seconds. Vance lay stunned and motionless. Dusty pulled the gambler’s gun from its holster and quickly began to climb. He was halfway to the surface when he heard a loud explosion in his head and a thousand stars flashed before his eyes. He clawed upward, frantically trying to cling to consciousness, but it was hopeless. He slumped backward, senseless, into the broken earth.

Vance stood for a moment, the shovel still poised in his hands, in case Dusty stirred, but he did not. Vance grinned with satisfaction as he retrieved his gun. More than once that trick had worked for him. He had learned early that in a brawl, the last man on his feet usually walked away with the table stakes, so he had learned to play possum until the more enthusiastic of the fighters had knocked each other out. It was a good trick. Vance climbed out of the hole and got some rope from the wagon. He had just finished tying Dusty when the cowboy came to.

Dusty shook his head to clear it. It took a minute to figure out where he was and why. It all came back when he saw Vance standing over him.

“What are you gonna do, Vance?”

“Well,” he replied, again climbing from the hole, “I am not going to kill you. Not that I have any reservations about doing so, you understand, but because a shot would attract too much attention. Also, I would rather not have a posse of outraged citizens with ropes on my trail. I will be leaving now. I’m taking my saddle horse, and I’m going to drive off the wagon team. I figure that by the time you work yourself loose and walk back to the ranch, I will have a fairly good start.”

“I’ll come after you, Vance,” Dusty promised through clenched teeth.

Vance shrugged. “You’re welcome to, but I am hoping that that lovely wife of yours will convince you how foolish it would be. As for myself, I doubt a team of wild horses could keep me from her bed for a single night. I’m sure she will persuade you to be reasonable.” He thought for a moment and then said, as if to himself, “You’ve got the real treasure on this ranch, Rhoades. You’d be a fool to leave her.”

Dusty cursed, but Vance ignored him. Finally, Dusty remembered another matter of business. “What about Rita? Ain’t you goin’ back for her?”

Vance actually laughed. “Of course not. I never had any intention of going back for her. Would you?” Dusty had no answer for that. Vance was casting about for anything he might need to take with him. He picked up the map and looked at it for a second, then laughed again, bitterly. “Shall I leave you the map, Rhoades? As a reminder? Tell you what. If you’ll tell me why it is that Rita hates you so much, I’ll make you a present of it.” Dusty simply glared up at the gambler.

Vance shrugged again. “Of course, a gentleman never tells.” He flung the map from him and it floated down into Dusty’s face as he walked to find his horse in the darkness.