There were no hollow trees, no box concealed in a fork of the branches, and it had not been sunk in the pool at the seep. The water was shallow and perfectly clear. Nor were there any signs of digging … blown dust would have concealed it long since.
A thought caught at his attention, and he scowled, trying to grasp what it was he had almost thought of but which had slipped his attention. And then he saw movement at the back of the wagon.
Ruth Crandall was getting out, ever so carefully, of the covered wagon.
He watched her get down from the wagon and fade back into the darkness. When he located her again it was by the faintest of sounds, and near him. He spoke in a whisper. “Late to go hunting.”
She came up to him in the darkness. “Take me away from here, Mr. Molina. Just take me away.”
“What’s wrong? There is a problem with your uncle?”
“He’s not my uncle! Not really. He married my aunt after my uncle died. Neither of them were related to me by blood. Then a few weeks ago she died and he started over here.”
“Why did he come?”
“It was Art. You remember Art Tomkins? He worked with you at Gore’s? He returned with the bunch after the drive, and he was one of those who planned to kill Mr. Gore. Well, he did help kill him, and then Monty, Stebbins, and Van Hagan killed the others. Then they tried to kill Art. After they left, he was hurt and he stole a horse from a ranch and came to us. He remembered hearing some movement at night while at Wagon Camp, so he was sure the gold was hidden here. He died a few days after he got to us, and here we are.”
Molina remembered Art. A lazy, down-on-his-luck cowhand who was always talking about the James boys.
“You’ve got to get me away from him,” Ruth insisted. “If you don’t … he’s been telling me how much money I could make in Dodge or Fort Worth. How we could live real easy on the money I’d make.” She caught his arm. “I don’t want that kind of money, Mr. Molina.”
“All right,” he said, “but stay shy of us until this is settled.”
She disappeared as quietly as she had come. She moved, he reflected, like an Indian … and fortunately, for that old man would be a light sleeper.
Sharply, he was aware of something else. He had watched the camp while Ruth talked to him, but there had been a time or two when his eyes were averted, and something had changed at the camp over there. One of the beds looked mighty slack.
Gray light was showing in the east, and he shifted position suddenly, nervously, realizing he had been still too long. And as he changed position he heard a voice behind him say, “Right there, Molina. Hold it right there.”
With what had happened to Pike fresh in his mind, he threw himself to the side and rolled over in the darkness and came up, firing at the dart of flame before he heard the sound of the shot. He heard the hard impact of a bullet on flesh and dove forward as a bullet struck where he had been.
Farther off there was a sudden drum of gunshots. He held his fire, and glanced swiftly toward his camp.
Hale was gone.
The wagon was dark, but there was nobody under the wagon where reflected light had shown the long dark bundle of Barnes, sleeping.
Nearby Molina could hear the slow, heavy breathing of an injured man, but the fellow might be waiting for a shot and he dared not move. There were leaves and brush under the trees, and while he had not made any sound moving, the next step might not be so fortunate. Yet he had moccasins on … he put a foot out carefully as he straightened up, testing the ground. It was soft earth. Carefully, he let his weight down.
Then he saw the man who had tried to take him. He was down on the ground but he was still gripping a gun.
Squatting, he felt around on the ground and found a dead branch, fallen from one of the trees above. He straightened up but did not throw it. Instead, reaching off to one side with the branch, he made faint rustling sounds in the brush. Instantly the shot came and he fired in reply.
The camp was very still. Carefully, he worked his way to the man he had shot and picked up his pistol, then stripped the gun belt from the body and looped it over his shoulder after loading the extra pistol and tucking it in his belt.
Hale had vanished; so had Barnes. Nowhere was there a sign of anyone. It was so still he could hear the horses cropping grass.
It would soon be light, and what happened after that would settle things here. He had not found the gold, and he had no intention of leaving without it. One of the outlaws was down, but the other shooting he had dimly heard while he was fighting his own battle might mean anything or nothing.
Hale had vanished at the first shot, but was he alive? Or injured and lying hidden?
Molina moved to the shelter of a large tree, then lowered himself to the ground. His rifle was in camp and he would need it. Crawling, keeping to the shelter of the brush, which was sparse but in the darkness sufficient cover, he got back to a place close to their own fire. Only gray coals remained, a slow thread of smoke rising in the still air of the hour before dawn.
The sky in the east was gray with a shading of lemon near the horizon.
Nothing moved.
And then there was movement, the slightest stirring in the darkness near the rear wheel of the wagon, and a faint glint of light on a rifle barrel. Barnes was lying there with a rifle, probably the buffalo gun Molina had seen him with earlier. And on whose side was Barnes?
Neutral, Molina decided, neutral and protecting himself while the others fought it out, and then he would do his part. So there was that to consider during whatever took place now, and whoever won must be prepared to handle Barnes.
Dawn came slowly on the high plains, the sun rising behind far gray clouds. Barnes was discernible now, sitting at the rear wheel of the big wagon, his rifle ready for use, an armed spectator.
Ruth got down from the wagon and went to the fire. Adding fuel she built up the fire and put on a coffeepot. Then she went quietly about the business of preparing breakfast. Molina glanced at her from time to time, astonished at her coolness in the midst of a situation where shooting might break out again at any moment.
From where he lay he could cover the area at Wagon Camp. His only danger was if someone got behind a big clump of prickly pear off on his left and outside the grove of trees and brush. Some of that pear was tall as a man, and it was a big clump, banked with drifted sand. It made him uneasy, and he wanted to move, but there was no chance.
Desperately, he wanted his rifle, and he could see the stock from where he lay. Beyond it he could see a man’s shoulder and hand. It was Hale.
The Pinkerton man lay in the slight hollow at the seep, a hollow just deep enough to give him the slightest cover, but whether he was alive or dead, Molina could not see.
Windblown sand had heaped up around some of the trees, but elsewhere the wind had scooped hollows, exposing the roots. No one of these places seemed adequate cover, and it was unbelievable that within this small area there should be four men hidden from each other.
Four men who waited for the slightest move, four men ready to shoot and to kill … and at one side, an old man with a rifle, taking no part, but also ready to kill. And a girl who prepared a meal in the midst of it, who went about her task as though the scene were as peaceful as it actually appeared.
An hour went by, and the wind skittered a few leaves along the ground, stirred the green hands of the cottonwoods.
A storm was coming.…
Immediately, Jake Molina began to think of how he could turn the storm to advantage. He had been waiting for the others to move … he would wait no longer.
Hale had to have his prisoners, but all Molina had to have was the gold. Too many people needed that money, and although it would make none of them rich, it would help them through the bad times … especially the Gore family, who would have no husband now, and no father.
And Hale might be dead … there had been no move from the shoulder he could see, or no move that he had observed.
Taking his
Colt from its holster, Molina touched his tongue to dry lips and stood up. He might outflank and drive them into the open, for where they were hidden there was no more shelter than either he or Hale had.
He moved swiftly, dodging into a position behind another tree, and the shot that came was much too late … next time they would be prepared for him.
Ruth had merely glanced up from her fire. Barnes had shifted position enough so that he was on one knee ready for the final shot, when his chance came.
There was a big tree in the direction he was headed, not over fifteen feet away, but that was where they would expect him to go. Straight ahead of him was another cottonwood, almost in line with his present hiding place. He ducked around his tree and ran and as a head and a rifle came up he fired—fired as his right foot hit ground. He saw the man jerk and drop his rifle, drop from sight, and then a hand came swiftly up to grab the rifle.
He was closer now, and he was out of the trees except to his right or left.
He was sure the man in the hole had not been wounded badly, probably only a burn, or even more likely, just a bullet past his ear. But enough to make him cautious about lifting his head.
No move from Hale, and none from the second of the murderers, but Molina was not fooled … the other man was there, waiting.
It was point-blank range now, and no chance to get to one of those trees to right or left, but it was no more than sixty feet to where the one man lay waiting. He swung his eyes, peering past the tree, trying to find the second man.
Suddenly a voice called out, “Barnes! We’ll split even if you get Molina!”
Barnes hesitated, and in that instant, Hale came up out of the basin by the pool, gun in hand. He took one quick step to the right and fired across the rocks behind the pool.
The man opposite Molina started to rise and Molina sprang from behind his tree and ran three quick steps toward him, slid to a halt and fired. The gunman had leaped up, but the bullet caught him in the shoulder and spun him halfway around.
Barnes lifted his rifle to fire and Ruth threw the coffeepot at him. It struck him alongside the head and ruined his aim. The buffalo gun went off into the air and Molina sprang into position half behind Monty Short, where he could cover both the wounded Short and Barnes.
And that was the end of it.
Hale was walking toward them. “Van Hagan’s out of it,” he said. “Short, you’re wanted for robbery. I’m a Pinkerton man.”
Barnes got up slowly, holding the side of his head and moaning between agonized curses. The full coffeepot had not only scalded his face and shoulder, but the edge of the pot had cut his scalp and a thin trickle of blood ran down his face.
Ruth calmly picked up her coffeepot, refilled it and put it on the fire. Her face was white and her eyes large with fright, and she avoided looking toward Van Hagan, who was sprawled on the ground near the pool.
Molina walked over and picked up Barnes’s rifle, then held out his hand for his six-shooter. Barnes hesitated, but Molina merely looked at him and, reluctantly, the old man drew his gun and extended it carefully.
“Drop it,” Molina said, “I’ll pick it up.”
Hale was working to stop the blood in Short’s shoulder. He glanced over at Molina. “Where’s Stebbins?”
“Over there,” Molina said, “but he isn’t going anyplace.”
Barnes got up slowly. “All right,” he said, “we’ll be pullin’ out. You’ve no reason to hold me.”
“You can go,” Molina said. “Ruth stays with us.”
Barnes’s eyes flashed with anger. “She’s comin’ with me. She’s my own niece. You got no call—”
“I am not your niece,” Ruth said, “and I am going with them.”
“You give us any trouble,” Hale interrupted, “and we’ll take you in for aiding and abetting. We might not make the charge stick but she’ll go her own way nonetheless.”
Barnes glared at them, then abruptly turned his back and went to get his mules.
Hagan and Stebbins were both dead. With Monty Short handcuffed and Ruth ready to ride in on Stebbins’s horse, Hale looked at Molina. “Looks like I’ve scored … what about the gold?”
Molina took the shovel from the wagon. “Why, I’m going to get it now. Seems a man can be mighty slow to get things, sometimes.… Stands to reason, a man hiding something at night would have to drop it in a hole or cover it up. He couldn’t be sure at night whether or not it could be seen, otherwise. Now, there aren’t any holes around, and if he did any digging the fresh dirt would be noticed even if the sound of digging wasn’t. So what’s the answer?”
“You tell me,” Hale said.
“Why, someplace where he could dig with his hands and where it wouldn’t be noticed. That means drifted sand to me.”
Taking a shovel from the wagon he walked to the huge stand of prickly pear he had noticed before and walked around it until he found a place with an opening among the pear leaves and thorns that was large enough for a man to get a hand in without being badly scratched. The second shovel of sand disclosed the first of the sacks. In a few minutes he had them all.
Molina put the gold in his saddlebags and then saddled his horse. As he mounted up, Barnes walked toward them.
“What about my guns?” he protested.
“Tell you what,” Molina said, “I’ll leave them with the marshal in Fort Griffin. Anytime you want them you just ride in and explain to him how you lost them. You do that and you can have them back.”
Ten miles and more than two hours later, Hale glanced over at Molina. “You should be a Pinkerton man. We could use you.”
“Once I get this gold to Mrs. Gore,” Molina replied, “I’ll be hunting a job.”
He glanced at Ruth. “Helen Gore,” he said, “is a mighty fine woman. She could use a friend right now, and some help.”
Where the trails forked at a clump of mesquite they drew up. “We’ll be leaving you,” Molina said. “Good luck.”
Hale lifted a hand. “Come and see us,” he said. “And thanks.”
Monty Short, handcuffed, threw him a hard stare. “You get no thanks from me.”
“You should,” Molina said, “you’re alive.”
Six-Gun Stampede
“It’s no use, Tom,” Ginnie Rollins said. “Dad just won’t listen. He says you’re no good. That you’ve no sense of responsibility. He says you haven’t anything and you never will have.”
“Do you think that, Ginnie?” Tom Brandon asked. “Do you?”
“You know I don’t, Tom. You shouldn’t even ask. But you can’t blame Dad. He only wants what is best for me, and every time I mention you, he brings up the fact that you are always racing horses and fighting. He says he’ll have no saloon brawler for a son-in-law.”
“It isn’t only that,” Tom said, discouragement heavy in his voice, “it’s that herd I lost. Every time I try to get a job, they bring that up. I reckon half of ’em think I was plumb careless an’ the other half think I’m a thief.” They both sat silent. Despite the cold wind neither felt like moving. It was not often anymore that they had a chance to talk, and this meeting had been an accident—but an accident each of them had been hoping would happen.
Whether they would see each other again was doubtful. Jim Rollins was a hard-bitten old cattleman with one of the biggest ranches in the country, and he had refused Tom Brandon the right to come on his spread. Not only refused him the premises, but had ordered his hands to enforce it. Though several of them were old friends of Tom’s, the foreman was Lon Huffman, with whom Tom had two disastrous fistfights, both of which Huffman had won.
Lon was a good deal the bigger man, and skilled in rough-and-tumble fighting, but each time he had a bad time in beating Brandon, who was tough, willing, and wiry. His dislike for Tom was no secret, and it extended to his particular cronies, Eason and Bensch.
“I’ll always think somebody deliberately stampeded that herd on me,” Brandon said. “The whole thing was too pat. There it was, the
herd close to the border an’ well bedded down. All of a sudden, they busted loose an’ started to run—right over into Mexico. An’ when I started after ’em, there was the Rurales lined up on the border sayin’ no. It looked like a rigged deal.”
“But who would do such a thing, Tom?” Ginnie protested. “I know you’ve said that, but Dad claims it’s just an excuse. Who would do anything of the sort? There’s no rustling here, and there haven’t been any bandits for years.”
“Just the same,” Tom insisted, “if a man made a deal with old Juan Morales over at Los Molinos, he could get a good price for those cattle. Those Rurales were too much Johnny-on-the-spot.”
Finally, they said a hopeless good-bye and Tom Brandon turned his grulla and started for Animas. He was broke, out of a job, and had nothing in sight. The wind was blowing cold from the north, but it seemed to be falling off a little. If the weather got warmer it would help some. It began to look like he would be camping out all winter, he reflected grimly, or riding the chuck line.
Animas was a quiet town. There had been but one killing all year, and that because of a misguided attempt by a half-breed to draw a gun on Lon Huffman. What had started the altercation was not known aside from what Huffman himself had said and Eason had verified. The half-breed, a man with a reputation as a hard character in Sonora, had come into town hunting Huffman. He had found him, there had been angry words, and Huffman had killed the breed. “Just a trouble hunter,” Huffman said gruffly. “Came into town aimin’ to kill somebody, an’ picked me.”
There were four general stores in Animas and but three saloons. The only gambling done was a few games of draw or stud between friends or casual acquaintances.
Tom Brandon swung down from his grulla and led the horse into the stable. Old Man Hubbell looked up at him. “Sorry to bother you, Tom, but you better have some money soon. The boss is gettin’ riled.”
“Sure, Hub. An’ thanks.” He turned and walked toward the Animas Saloon, reflecting grimly that if he had any friends left, they would be there. It was remarkable how a man’s friends fell away when he was out of a job and broke. Luckily, he had always been considerate to old Hub, which was more than most of the riders were. Hub remembered, and his brother, Neil Hubbell, who owned the Animas, was also friendly.
The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 3 Page 10
