CHAPTER THIRTY
The storm passed, grumbling its way south, and Dan Caine didn’t wish to impose on the Sheik’s hospitality any longer. The man invited them to stay the night, but there were at least six more hours of daylight, and in any case the cabin was too small to sleep so many people.
“You won’t see me again,” Sheik Bandar al-Salam said. “Tonight or tomorrow night, I’ll end it. I’m very sick, much in pain, and all that’s left to me is the privilege of choosing the time of my own death, may Allah forgive me.”
The others were mounted outside the Sheik’s cabin, but Dan Caine stood at the door, holding his horse. “I’m sorry,” he said. He had no other words.
The Arab shrugged. “Ma sha Allah. God has willed it.” He held out a bulging sack. “This is for you, tortillas and coffee for your journey. I no longer have need of them. And this . . .” He dropped a coin into Dan’s hand. “It’s a gold sovereign, one the Rurales missed.”
“I can’t . . .”
“I say again, I have no need for it,” the Sheik said. “Carry it in good health.”
“Thank you,” Dan said. And since he could find nothing else to add, “You make good coffee.”
The Sheik smiled and bowed from the waist. “May Allah protect you,” he said.
* * *
The sun rode high and bright in a blue sky as though nature apologized for the thunderstorm’s boorish behavior. A profound silence lay on the land, and the soaring, tree-covered mountains that stretched into the distance were remote, aloof, uncaring of the tiny humans so far below and their petty affairs.
The Kiowa again rode point, but, because of the broken terrain, most of the time he stayed out of sight of the others.
Clint Cooley kneed his horse alongside Dan and said, “I reckon Clay Kyle is chasing a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow . . . only there ain’t no rainbow.”
“Seems about right,” Dan said. “He didn’t ride all this way to sell Jenny Calthrop into slavery. There are no brothels in the Sierra del Carmen.”
“There’s no nothing in the Sierra del Carmen,” Cooley said. “Give me a big city, or even a cow town full of flies and the stink of the stockyards and I’m as happy as a pig in slop.”
“And that’s why you headed for Thunder Creek, huh?” Dan said, grinning.
“Now that was a kick in the teeth, Deputy Caine,” Cooley said. “I’d nowhere else to run.”
“I’d say that goes for me too,” Dan said. “I’d pretty much used up all my options by the time I rode into Thunder Creek, and I couldn’t see anything beyond it.”
“Grass,” Cooley said. “Like me, you saw unending grass and figured you’d reached the end of the line.”
“You going back there, Clint?” Dan said.
“Maybe. I don’t know. I’ll wait and see how this thing plays out.”
“Not me. After we do right by Tom Calthrop and his family, I’ll ride,” Dan said.
“Where?”
“Hell, I don’t know.”
“They say Kansas City is a sight to see, and Denver.”
“Maybe New Orleans,” Dan said.
“I got kissin’ kinfolk there,” Cooley said. “I’ll write you a letter of introduction.”
“It sounds like a possible plan,” Dan said.
The gambler nodded. “Now all we have to do is arrest Clay Kyle and his gang of gunmen and hang them.”
“That’s the reason we’re here,” Dan said.
“And God only knows why,” Cooley said. “Look ahead. The Kiowa is coming in and he seems kind of unhappy, though you can never tell with an Indian.”
As usual, the Kiowa’s face was without expression. “Three riders,” he said. As was his habit he held up that many fingers. “They come this way.”
“Kyle’s men?” Dan said.
The Indian shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“It could be Kyle and a couple of his boys,” Cooley said.
“Vigilantes, get ready,” Dan said to the others. “But no gunplay until I order it.”
“No fear of that,” Fish Lee said. “I ain’t drawing down on Clay Kyle.”
The Kiowa split to the side as the others shook out into a line, rifles at the ready. The day had not yet run its course, and the sun was still bright, the air steamy.
Clint Cooley tried to stifle his tongue, but in the end, he had to say it. “My, but ain’t we a fearsome bunch.”
Dan made no answer.
Now the chips were down, he was keenly aware how vulnerable they were.