Chapter Eight

Pete Tyson slowed as he neared the low, sprawling ranch house. More like a whitewashed Mexican palace. Thick adobe style, the richest kind. Everything in its place. Even the dirt around the house looked groomed. He’d ridden here after abandoning the rustled cattle. He wasn’t bringing good news for his boss, ranch owner Elijah Wilkins. His men peeled off behind him for the stable. Tyson pulled up out front and handed the reins to a small man in a wide sombrero.

“Will you be long, señor?”

He ignored the man. This could be a short visit. He’d stopped in at the Roswell saloon after losing the beeves. The bartender said el jefe wanted to see him. A quick stab of fear had run through him at the news. Just like the one that coursed through him now as he dismounted. What was he going to tell Wilkins? He gazed at the imposing house. Sun-baked brown tiled roof that went all the way from here to there. White stucco walls kept the house cool. He knew that much from the couple of times he’d been inside. Ceramic-tiled porches boasted fancy wrought iron railings. A massive oak door stood open, ready to swallow him. An old man dressed in spotless white stood inside the entrance, impassive. Stock-still, like he was part of the house.

Tyson walked in. “How are you, Purk?” At least there was one friendly face. But he took that back when he noticed the servant’s blank expression.

The white-haired man said, “The library, please.” He disappeared.

Tyson stepped down the hallway, imagining the kind of welcome he was going to get.

Wilkins didn’t get up from his massive leather chair. “Sit, Mr. Tyson. I can tell from the uneven thump of your boots that you didn’t bring the news I want.”

For a blind man, Wilkins could tell a lot. Tyson cleared his throat. “No sir, Mr. Wilkins, but I know where Lawson is.” He said it quickly so the land baron couldn’t interrupt before he got his excuse out.

Wilkins shifted the cat curled in his lap and signaled the butler standing behind him. The man poured something from a crystal decanter beside Wilkins’ chair. Tyson wondered if he was going to offer him one. Guess not.

The rancher took a long sip. “Do you think Lawson knows where the gold is?”

“Yup. Ansel must have told him. Likely he ain’t dug it up yet, though, or he wouldn’t be eatin’ trail dust on a long drive. Good news for us, bad for him.”

“The only thing that’s going to be good for you is if you corral Lawson. Having a good idea where he is, and knowing where aren’t the same thing—are they, Mr. Tyson?”

“No sir, they ain’t, but I got a bead on him now. I was closin’ in on him when I got word you wanted to see me. Just need a few more days.”

Wilkins drummed fingers on the fine inlaid marble end table next to him. “Good thing your man didn’t kill Lawson that night. No doubt the boy’s with him. I’m giving you one last chance to round them both up. You should have made sure of the young’un when you killed the rest of the boy’s family.”

Tyson smiled. “Yeah, accidents happen.”

“Frequently, at your hands.”

“But he’s only a kid, what—”

“He’s more than that, he’s the last remaining heir to the Abriendo Grant, which I’ll file on when he’s dead. That spread’s three times the size of mine. And I’ll buy it with the gold coins I stole from them.” Wilkins paced the room with the slightest grin, the calico nestled in the crook of his arm. “So find those coins! And kill the boy, or you’ll be the hunted one…” He picked up his brandy and swirled it under his nose. “That will be all.”

Tyson leaned forward slightly, then caught himself. What the hell was he bowing for? Wilkins couldn’t see him. Wasted respect. He considered giving him the middle finger but didn’t. What the blind man could ‘see’ was legendary. “Yes sir.” He picked his hat up and headed out the yawning door.

He rousted his men at the stable. “Mount up you no-accounts. We’re headin’ back north.” He’d end this and deal with Wilkins later.