The four outlaws couldn’t believe they had struck it so rich.
Huddled in the low-roofed cave at the end of one of the many snaking draws in the foothills, they stared at the glittering piles of gold and silver coin and the stack of paper currency, all spread out on a worn slicker beside the fire.
Dan Penny, pushing fifty, illiterate, with only four teeth in his mouth and a patch over his sightless left eye, casually kicked over the stacked gold coins and laughed.
“Nice sound, ain’t it, fellers?”
“How much have you toted up, Calico?” asked Stede Hackett as the rawboned outlaw with the prominent Adam’s apple laboriously wrote figures in a small notebook, licking his stub of pencil.
Hawkins, the silent, wolf-faced gunman of the pack, leaned a little closer, his dark eyes asking the same question.
Boone looked up, his jaw hanging loosely. “Well, I’ll be dogged! Fellers, we’re rich! You know how much we got there?”
“That’s what the hell we’re tryin’ to find out!” growled Dan Penny. “Come on, Calico!”
“Well, the gold adds up to ten thousand even. Yeah, that’s right, ten grand, just in gold! Then we’ve got two thousand, five hundred in silver and five thousand in paper money. Grand total of seventeen thousand, five hundred bucks!”
All the outlaws except Hawkins let out wild whoops that echoed from the walls of the small cave. When they finished slapping each other on the back and laughing, Penny broke out a stone jug of whisky. Each had a drink, then Hawkins said:
“We ain’t counted the passengers’ stuff.”
They all stared at Penny. The outlaw leader flushed a little.
“Guess I must’ve forgot,” he said, going to his saddlebags and spilling out the jewelry and wallets they had taken from the stage passengers.
Calico Billy added up the money and made a quick estimate of the value of the jewelry. “I reckon we’ve got another thousand at least,” he said.
“Put out my share,” Hawkins said.
The others looked at him sharply. Dan Penny frowned.
“What’s the hurry, Hawk?”
“I’m quittin’.”
“Hell, what for?” demanded Calico Billy. “There’ll be other stages comin’ through with full express boxes.”
Hawkins shook his head. “I’m goin’ back to Laredo. Got me a senorita there I hanker to see.”
Stede Hackett arched his eyebrows. “Didn’t know you were a ladies’ man, Hawk.”
The killer looked at him silently. Calico Billy glanced at Dan Penny who shrugged.
“It’s Hawk’s decision. Give him his share. But we’re sorry to see you go, man.”
Hawkins watched Calico Billy count out coins and paper money for a spell before answering. “Gonna be mighty hot around here after killin’ that guard and driver. Wells Fargo don’t like that kind of thing. I got enough dodgers out on me already. It’s time I holed-up near the Rio where I can slip across to Mexico if I have to. You fellers’d be wise to do the same.”
It was the longest speech any of the gang had ever heard Hawkins make and they respected his words, knowing he must have thought the situation out carefully before opening his mouth, for that was Hawkins’ way.
Dan Penny scratched his bearded jaw. “Might make sense, Hawk,” he said. “But now that I got me a contact with that Wells Fargo shippin’ clerk, I don’t wanna let go.”
Hawkins shrugged as he pulled his share towards him and began stuffing it into his saddlebags. “I guess it’s adios.”
He walked out to where the horses were tethered. The others, sitting there, heard him saddle up, mount and ride into the night.
They had been together for nearly a year, sharing tobacco and beans and trading lead with posses, but that was all the farewell there was, a casual, “Adios.”
For men of their calling, it was enough.
Larry Holbrook wished he had listened more closely to the Cheyenne woman back at Malloy’s on the Big Plains. His wound was giving him hell and his right arm was stiffening. There was a swelling in his armpit and he felt feverish.
The herbs she had bound into place had long since lost their potency and were now caked hard with the discharge from the wound. He sucked in his breath as he laboriously peeled the bandages away and revealed the purplish lips of the wound that was a dark poisonous color.
The wound needed attention, he knew that. Malloy’s wife had told him which herb to look for but he had forgotten its description. He had been so eager to hit the trail and get after the outlaws that he hadn’t listened closely enough.
He had resigned himself to the fact that the wound was going to get worse. That meant infection, fever, delirium. But he had found a trail that had been made by four horsemen and a trapper he had met in the river valley two days ago had told of campfire smoke in a draw several miles back in the foothills. Larry had located the draw and the remains of a campfire. After a day’s scouting, he had found tracks leading deeper into the hills. He had camped in thick timber last night.
Today he aimed to locate the outlaws’ trail again, and this time he didn’t intend to stop until he had their camp in sight. They had tried to kill him and he felt no compunction about shooting them down from ambush. He had to vindicate himself to Wells Fargo, to Hume and Clay Nash and he would do it any way he could.
Bandaging the wound again was an awkward job, but he got it done and broke camp.
He had gone only a few miles when he saw the lone rider.
Larry reined in and worked his mount behind a stand of cedar. He peered out cautiously. The man was dressed in dark brown except for his hat and boots which were black. He had a narrow face and rode a buckskin horse, which fitted the description of one of the outlaws given him by the passengers.
Larry Holbrook felt tension and excitement within him. Where one of the bunch was, the others wouldn’t be far off. But this man was riding south and the others had fled north since holding up the stage. He guessed they had divvied up the loot and were now going their separate ways.
He looked at the man closely and decided he was Hawkins. How could he stop Hawkins without alerting the rest of Penny’s bunch if they happened to be nearby? He couldn’t just shoot the man out of the saddle. The sound of the gunshot would carry through the hills and send the others running for cover.
He moved out from the cover of the trees, but Hawkins spotted him and an instant later the man had a blazing Colt in his fist and bark flew from a cedar’s trunk. Larry’s horse reared and whinnied in fright before running into the brush, throwing him.
Larry dived behind the tree, dropping to one knee. More bark exploded from the cedar and then he heard the galloping hoofs of Hawkins’ mount as the gunfighter came racing in. Hawkins kept a screen of brush between him and Larry and he stood tall in the stirrups as he fired over the tops of bushes, the muzzle blast of his Colt jarring loose a rain of leaves. Larry sprawled on his back and tried to twist around and get off a shot with his rifle. He managed it but it was a one-handed shot that went over Hawkins’ head. The gunfighter ducked instinctively and, in that brief second, his horse crashed through the screening brush.
They fired together. Lead thudded into the cedar only an inch from Larry’s ear, bark pieces stinging his face. He threw himself to the side, rolled over a few times and came up on one knee, rifle braced against his hip, finger tightening on the trigger.
But he didn’t have to fire. His bullet had taken Hawkins through the middle of the face and the outlaw’s left boot was caught in the stirrup. The frightened buckskin took off, wild-eyed, crashing through the brush, the dead man’s body bouncing beside it.
Shaking, Larry stood up. He heard the buckskin’s progress slowing and thought the man’s body had pulled loose. He looked around for his own mount and saw it through the trees, standing with pricked ears, maybe a hundred feet off. He picked up Hawkins’ Colt, rammed it under his belt and lowered the rifle’s hammer as he made his way towards his mount.
He should have taken more notice of the horse’s pricked ears. They turned this way and that, as though listening to vaguely heard sounds.
Still excited from his victory in the gunfight, Larry had totally forgotten about the rest of the outlaws.
He soothed his horse and mounted, holding the rifle across his knees as he rode slowly forward, putting the animal along the path smashed through the brush by Hawkins’ buckskin. He found the killer’s body in a twisted heap against the base of a tree.
Larry rode on, wanting to catch up with the buckskin to see if Hawkins’ share of the loot was in the saddlebags. The trail led him into a narrow draw. He could well be on the trail leading to the outlaws’ hideout, he thought. Which meant they had heard the shooting.
Suddenly two rifles opened up, one from either side of the draw. Larry’s mount shuddered and went down, coughing, his muzzle plowing into the dust. Larry fell out of the saddle, hit the ground on his wounded chest and had the breath knocked out of him.
Seconds later bullets ripped into the earth around his body. He had lost his grip on the rifle and couldn’t see it. His sight was hazy as he dragged out his six-gun. He still had Hawkins’ Colt under his belt.
The two outlaws shooting at him from the sides of the draw were joined by a third gun almost directly ahead. This man was higher up the slope, and Larry thought he could see a cave mouth behind him. He caught a glimpse of a buckskin horse with a saddle on its back, and knew that Hawkins’ mount had run for home. Coming in riderless, the horse had warned the others, even if they hadn’t heard the gunfire.
Now they had him pinned down and he wasn’t sure if they were within six-gun range. He wasn’t a bad shot with a rifle, but only fair with a six-gun. He had had little chance to use a handgun when he lived with his drunken father; the old man had taken him hunting a few times but they had always used an old Kentucky muzzle loader. The handgun felt heavy and strange in his hand. Lying prone, he lined his gun on the rim of the draw where he knew one rifleman to be.
He spotted the man’s hat and fired just as lead ripped into the ground in front of his face. He saw the hat spin away and felt a measure of satisfaction.
The outlaws didn’t seem to be in any hurry to finish him off. They must have figured he was alone and were saving ammunition, pot-shotting whenever he moved. The sun, high now, was scorching his back. He looked at his downed horse and the canteen hanging from the saddle. He would never reach that canteen alive. They had him trapped and were content to bide their time.
He had to admit to himself that he had been a fool to come after the outlaws alone. Maybe after years of experience in the manhunting game, he could do it successfully—as Clay Nash could—but he realized he had bitten off more than he could chew.
They fired their rifles from time to time, making him keep his head down. Then, just after noon, they started to close in. Larry was determined to go down fighting. Maybe he could take one or two of them with him.
They rode in, the three of them, two coming down the slopes and one directly ahead. The latter gave a yell. It was a signal. The three rode at him, shooting. Larry aimed at the man on the left, triggered and saw the outlaw fall from the saddle. The man staggered to his feet, then crumpled to the ground.
A sawn-off shotgun thundered and he heard the whistle of buckshot overhead. Guns hammered and then a rider leapt his mount over him. Larry spun onto his back and just managed to hold his fire as, shocked, he recognized big Clay Nash on the horse. The Texan crashed his mount into the outlaw coming down the right side of the draw. The man fell from the saddle and Nash shot him as he tried to get to his feet. The outlaw pitched onto his face and then Nash wheeled his mount around to face the third man.
But Dan Penny had had enough after seeing his partners gunned down. He veered left and rode back up the draw, thundering around a clump of rocks. Nash sent two rifle bullets after him. Both ricocheted from the rocks and then came the sounds of Penny’s mount clattering back up the draw as the man made his escape.
“He’s gettin’ away!” Larry shouted, running for an outlaw’s horse.
Nash worked his mount between Larry and the skittish animal. “Let him go.”
“Hell, that was Dan Penny!” Larry protested.
Nash nodded. “He won’t give us any more trouble. He’ll clear out and keep his tail tucked between his legs for a long time.”
“But there’s a big bounty on him!”
Nash frowned. “You interested only in that, kid?”
Larry shrugged. “Wells Fargo’s got a big price on his head. If a man downs him, he’s got a right to claim the money.”
Nash swept his rifle barrel around. “You got three you can collect on if you want. That one’s Calico Billy Boone. Yonder lies Stede Hackett and I see you nailed Hawkins back in the timber. Heard the shootin’ but couldn’t find a way into this damn draw. Guess I got here in time, though.”
Larry nodded, his lips drawn into a tight line. He was grateful that he had been saved from the outlaws, but it galled him some that Clay Nash had had to rescue him.
“You did a damn fool thing goin’ after them alone,” Nash told him.
Larry glared. “Someone had to do it!”
“And someone had to come and save your neck.”
“You want to split the bounty?” Larry asked with a sneer. “Is that it?”
Nash backhanded Larry across the mouth, sending him staggering. Larry blinked, shocked, blood on his lips.
“Why’d you do that?”
“You’re startin’ to run hogwild, kid,” Nash told him quietly. “You showed some promise six months back when you split with Sundance, but since we put a shotgun in your hand you ain’t showed up any too good. I heard about that bouncer in Atcheson.”
Larry flushed and looked uncomfortable. “Sol Guinn fed me some whisky. I don’t even remember the fight—”
“That bouncer won’t have any trouble rememberin’. He’s got only one good eye now. You’re showin’ an ornery streak, Larry.”
Larry shuffled his feet. “I—I guess I didn’t realize I could be so mean, Clay. I felt mean enough when Pa locked me up or beat me or starved me, but I couldn’t do nothin’ to get back at him. All that would’ve got me was a worse beatin’.”
Nash nodded. He had thought as much; it looked like the kid was taking every chance to stand up like a man, but the repressed meanness in him was showing through. All the things he had wanted to do to his bullying, drunken father were starting to bust loose.
Nash wondered what kind of man Larry Holbrook was going to turn out to be. He said, “Come on. Let’s take a look in that cave and see if the stolen money’s in there.”
Larry nodded. The look on his face told Nash that the kid still resented having had to be rescued. He wondered what a man could do to straighten out that kind of twisted thinking ...