CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ON THE MORNING they were breaking camp and preparing to begin their return trip to the canyon, the party discovered that Top Wilson was gone. In the middle of the night, he had walked his horse a few hundred yards from camp, saddled him, and ridden away.
“Good riddance is my personal thinking,” one of the hands said.
“Trouble is,” Will said, “he’s taken the money with him. Us returning to the canyon empty-handed ain’t going to set well with the old man. Nor will it provide a payday for our misfortunes.” He told everyone to fan out from the campsite and determine which direction Wilson had headed. “Tracking him shouldn’t be too difficult.”
When tracks were found in a small grove nearby, it was agreed that he was headed east. Darby began saddling his horse. “You boys start on back,” he said. “I’ll see if I can catch up with Top and the money. Him and me got some settling up to do.”
One of the men loaned him a Winchester.
THE HEAT OF the day came early as Darby followed the tracks. He pulled his hat low against his brow to ward off the sun and the swirling wind. Top had ridden in the direction of the Red River, alternately galloping, then walking his horse. Following his route became easier when he began traveling along the sandy bank of the river.
Will knew he was on a fool’s mission. It mattered not to him if Top Wilson rode until he fell off the edge of the world, vanishing forever. However, the money he’d taken was another matter. The hands, in no way responsible for the unfortunate events of recent days, had risked their lives to earn the pay.
It was midafternoon when Will rode up on a couple of elderly farmers who had just pulled their wagon from a mud hole. They sat resting, fanning their sweaty faces with their hats, while coffee brewed on a small fire.
One squinted into the sun as Darby approached. “Howdy, mister,” one said. “Wish you had got here sooner so you could have lent us a hand.”
Will climbed from his horse. “Mind if I sit?”
“There’ll be coffee ready shortly. What brings you to these parts? You ain’t some outlaw on the run, are you?”
Darby smiled. “No, honestly I ain’t. But, fact is, I’m tracking one.” He described Top Wilson.
“He passed this way, early morning, not even offering to help,” one of the farmers said. “A right unfriendly sort who didn’t seem to have all his wits about him. He did offer to purchase one of our horses, saying his was getting tired out. But when we turned him down, he just rode away, grumbling to himself.”
Darby figured Wilson had better than a half day’s lead on him. But if his horse was tiring or going lame, the distance should narrow quickly.
As he continued to follow the tracks, his mind wandered, bouncing from one question to another. What was it that made a man like Top Wilson so self-centered, ambitious, and arrogant? What evil force had taken from him any sense of guilt or remorse over stealing from his fellow workers or treating women like Jennie with such disrespect?
And what about old man Baggett? Was there anything that motivated him other than stone-cold greed? Would he have the slightest feeling of genuine sadness for the men who the Indians had killed? Or were they nothing more than broken parts he’d need to replace so his illegal “cattle business” could continue to thrive and grow?
Most important, Will Darby wondered how he had allowed himself to fall in with such unsavory people.
The thought occurred to him that he had the ideal opportunity to break from Baggett and his gang. He could simply keep riding until he found a new life for himself. If he succeeded in catching Wilson, he could take the money for himself and never look back.
He quickly dismissed the idea. Back in the canyon was the money—his money—that he’d been saving. And not far away was Jennie Broder, whom he didn’t wish to leave behind. As to the cash Wilson had stolen, it belonged to those who had earned it, however dishonestly. It didn’t escape him that part of it was his as well.
He wrestled with the troubling thoughts for miles, his mood lifting only when they turned to Jennie Broder’s smile.
UP THE WAY, Wilson’s horse had slowed considerably. At times, Top dismounted to walk and lead the weary animal by the reins.
He, too, had a mind full of worrisome questions. Would he be able to distance himself to a place where he’d not be found? Where would that safe haven be? Back to Mexico maybe? How long would the stolen money hold out? And when it was gone, what would he do? More stealing? An unsatisfactory job wrangling somebody else’s cattle for long days and short wages?
The only answer he had was there was no turning back. He’d lied to and stolen from Ben Baggett, not a forgiving man. By doing so, he had destroyed a future he’d once believed to be promising and profitable.
And he thought of the Broder girl. Her refusal to welcome his advances had, at first, disappointed him. Then, after Will Darby entered the picture, stealing away her attention, he’d felt only anger and a growing desire for revenge.
The more fragile his mind became, the more he believed the world had treated him unfairly. It had all started years ago, back when his father was dragging him along from town to town, poisoning his young mind with all of that nonsensical God talk.
Wilson had stolen away from his fellow rustlers so abruptly that he’d not bothered to bring any provisions. Thus, for days all he’d had to satisfy his hunger were mustang grapes and wild onions. On the afternoon of the third day, he abruptly turned south, leaving the river’s edge in favor of the woods, where he might be able to shoot a few squirrels or a rabbit for a meal.
IT WAS NEARING twilight when Will Darby caught the scent of smoke and something cooking. “Got you,” he whispered as he dismounted and led his horse through the shadowy growth, moving toward a strange sound. Top Wilson was singing happily as he huddled close to the fire while his supper heated.
He didn’t realize Darby was there until he felt the cool barrel of a Winchester pressed against the back of his head.
“What the . . . ?”
“Remain seated, Top,” Will said, “or I’ll blow a hole in your noggin before we even have a chance for a proper conversation.”
Wilson turned his head and glared. “I should have known it would be you who followed along to bring me more troubles. Kind of cowardly, ain’t it, to sneak up on a man’s back side?”
“All I come for is the money bag you stole.” He picked up Wilson’s rifle, which was leaning against a nearby saddle.
Wilson’s demeanor changed abruptly. He was suddenly grinning at his captor. “You bring any coffee? I’ll gladly exchange part of my supper for some coffee.” He was babbling, giddy. “You done right good tracking me. . . . Coffee would taste mighty good about now . . . unless you got something stronger. . . . Whiskey maybe? You come alone? Sit here by the fire and warm yourself. . . . We can have ourselves a talk.”
Darby felt a sudden touch of sadness for the crazed Wilson as he moved to the other side of the fire to face him. Top’s eyes were red and watery, as if he’d stayed too long in Madge’s saloon or hadn’t slept for days. Sweat beaded on his brow. His arms were scratched from riding through underbrush, and he smelled like a man who hadn’t bathed in some time.
“I’m asking where’s the money?” Will said, cocking his rifle.
“Am I allowed to get on my feet?” Top’s voice again turned hostile.
Will nodded and watched as Wilson stretched his legs and walked to his horse. “It’s probably good you came,” he said. “My horse is plumb wore out and wasn’t likely to make it much farther.” He took the money bag from the saddle horn and pitched it toward Darby.
“What will you be doing to me now?”
Will had no ready answer. He stood there as wind whistled through the trees and a nearby coyote howled. An owl hooted in the distance. “I’ll need to do some thinking on it,” he finally said.
Doing away with a man as evil and useless as Top Wilson would likely be considered a favor to the world. It could be done with one shot that no one would hear or see fired. In a few days the buzzards and animals would have feasted, leaving little clue whom their meal had been. But, for all his shortcomings, Will Darby was no cold-blooded killer. He would find no satisfaction in leaving Wilson dead.
“I’ve got what I come for,” he said, picking up the money bag. “As to what your sorry future holds, I got no interest. My guess is you’ll soon be dead, but it’ll not be at my hand.”
Darby mounted his horse and turned to ride away. “Enjoy your supper.” His horse had taken only a couple of steps when a shot rang through the night air.
When Will had turned, Wilson had retrieved his Peacemaker from beneath a nearby blanket and shot Darby squarely between the shoulder blades. Will let out only a faint cry before slumping forward in his saddle. The last image to flash through his mind was of Jennie Broder.
Wilson, his gun still aimed at Darby, rushed to make sure he was dead and to retrieve the money bag. Then he ate his supper, again singing.
He sat for some time, staring at Will’s motionless body, smoldering coals all that remained of the campfire.
Finally, he rose and took the rope from Darby’s saddle and began binding him to his horse. He took one of the bills from the money bag and used the charcoal end of a stick to write on it. He stuffed the folded paper into Darby’s shirt pocket, then stepped back to examine his handiwork.
Satisfied, he slapped the horse’s flank and watched as he and his dead rider disappeared into the darkness, headed east.