CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Dave Sloan was Ben Kane’s gunman, and he was mighty close . . . close to putting a bullet in his own head. He’d coughed up blood that morning, a bucketload lot of bloody phlegm, and his breathing had been agonizing. It was no way for a man to live . . . but sure as hell a good reason for him to die.
Sloan sat on a wooden bench outside the barn, his face turned to the sun, basking in its healing warmth. Inside, the shadows were fading and the big draft horses shifted their feet in their stalls, rattled their halters, and snorted, impatient for hay and oats. Birds fluttered in the piñon trees near the corral and the cook’s cur dog barked at the two tomcats he hated with a passion. He’d chased those cats a hundred times and caught up with them once. After that, he’d never chased a cat again.
Sloan never got far from his gun, and the holstered Colt lay on the bench beside him. A young hand nodded to him, gave his bloodstained lips a second glance, and hurriedly looked away. The cowboy pitched hay and then scooped oats into feed buckets. As he worked he sang, “The Old Gray Mule,” and the horses seemed to like it.
When the puncher left, Sloan was breathing easier and the pain in his chest had eased.
Milt Barnett walked purposely toward him.
Barnett had been with Jake Wise when the Rathmores killed him, so Sloan doubted his spunk. Since the puncher wore a gun he was handy with and Sloan was not a trusting man, he moved his hand an inch or two nearer to his Colt.
If Barnett noticed the play, he didn’t let it show. “Boss wants to see you, Dave.” Barnett stood with his right arm away from his body, putting a discreet distance between his hand and his gun. “It’s about that Rathmore trash.”
Sloan got to his feet and buckled on his gun belt and holster.
The man was wasting away, Barnett thought. Soon the only thing left of him would be his shadow.
* * *
“Bad morning, Dave?” Ben Kane said, looking the man over.
“You could say that,” Sloan said.
“Sorry to hear it. Too early for whiskey?”
“It’s never too early for whiskey.”
Anse Dryden, Kane’s foreman, was already there. He nodded to Sloan but didn’t speak.
It was about eight o’clock in the morning and the sun angled through the windows of the ranch house parlor and made the dust motes dance. Kane poured amber bourbon into crystal glasses and handed one to Sloan, the other to Dryden.
Sloan raised his glass. “Barnett said you wanted to talk about the Rathmores.”
“Yes, I do. I want to talk about the Rathmores.” But Kane seemed in no hurry. Finally he said, “Dave, before we go blowing up them mountains, what have you heard about a gold mine?”
“What everybody else has heard,” Sloan said. “That there’s a lost gold mine in the Cornudas.”
“And maybe the Rathmores found it,” Kane said. “That’s a real possibility.”
“You’ve seen those people, boss,” Sloan said. “They ain’t exactly living high on the hog.”
“Could Mace Rathmore be keeping all the gold for himself?” Dryden said.
“It’s possible, I suppose.” Kane shook his head. “Nah, he’d share it among all those sons of his. If there was a gold mine they’d all be prospering instead of living among the rocks like wild animals.”
Dryden said, “Maybe there is a gold mine, maybe there’s not, but we shouldn’t use dynamite to blow the Rathmores out of their holes. I never liked the idea anyhow.”
“You mean we might cave in the mine?” Kane said.
“Yeah, if it’s there.”
Kane turned to Sloan. “Dave, what do you think?”
“Dynamite and gunpowder are messy and hard to use,” Sloan said. “I say we just ride in there in force and kill ’em all.”
“How many of our own will we lose?” Dryden said.
“If we hit them hard and sudden, not many,” Sloan said. “The Rathmores won’t stand and fight. I reckon we’ll have to hunt them down like jackrabbits.”
“You sure about that?” Kane said.
“If Mace Rathmore had any sand he’d have attacked this ranch before,” Sloan said.
“We killed some of the hired hands he had working for him, but as far as I know, none of his kin,” Dryden said. “Maybe Mace wasn’t mad at us enough to tackle the Rafter-K.”
“I didn’t know the Rathmores had hired hands,” Sloan said.
“They started out with some,” Kane said. “Hardrock miners mostly and some toughs. But after we killed a few the rest lost heart and lit a shuck out of there. Now he has Mexicans working for him, still trying to find the lost mine, I reckon.”
“So Mace Rathmore believes there’s a gold mine in Cornudas?” Sloan said.
“That would seem to be his way of thinking,” Kane said.
Anse Dryden drained his glass and then stood. “So, what about the explosives, boss? Do we use them or not?”
Kane thought about that before he spoke, then said, “Just suppose there is a mine, I don’t want to blow it up. So we go in there with guns blazing and kill all them Rathmores once and for all and get rid of their taint forever.”
“When, boss?” Sloan was a man for whom time mattered.
“Soon, Dave, mighty soon.” Then, pinning it down, Kane said, “Within the next few days. I’ll let you know. In the meantime, take care of yourself.”
Sloan gave one of his rare smiles. “Too late for that.”
Watching him, Anse Dryden thought the man looked terrible, and his galloping consumption made him all the more dangerous. Sloan wouldn’t allow himself to pass away in bed . . . he’d go out in a moment of hell-firing glory and spit in the eye of death.