At the moment of Olsen's fury he might have jumped the sheriff and, with Sumpter's help, overpowered him. But he had let the chance slip away. Olsen, much quicker to recover, released his angry grip on the dead outlaw and grabbed his .45. "Set easy!" he snarled at Gault. "You too, Doc. Just back off and be quiet a minute. I got to do some thinkin'."
Young Timmy Sumpter began to cry. The sheriff glared at him and the boy fell into a stunned silence. Slowly, Olsen got to his feet and called, "Esther, come here."
Almost immediately Esther Garnett appeared in the doorway of the shack. "Wolf died," the sheriff said with brutal matter of factness, "without sayin' where he hid the gold."
Esther stared at the still form on the floor. She made a small, almost inaudible cry. Then she came rigidly, proudly erect. Esther Garnett was not the kind of woman to grieve in public. "You said the doc was goin' to fix him."
"I'm sorry, miss," the doctor started. But a look from Olsen silenced him instantly.
"He's dead," the sheriff said bluntly. "That's the important thing right now. And we still don't know where to find the gold."
"I don't care about that."
"You will. Later. It would mean a good life for us."
"I don't care."
"Without that gold we're just a pair of outlaws, like your brother was. And most likely we'll end up like him."
She looked at him coldly. "You're scared."
"I ain't in no big hurry to get myself hung, if that's what you mean. Look here…" He took a step toward her, and she took a step away from him. "Look here, with that gold in our hands we can be kings of the mountain, in Mexico."
"I don't like Mexico. I never aimed to go there, with you. All I wanted was your help in gettin' Wolf to a proper doctor."
Gault was surprised at the sheriff's bland acceptance of her hatred. "Tell you the truth, I never much figgered you'd go through with it. A pert thing like you, a wore-out old buzzard like me—we'd make a right queer team, to say the best of it." His eyes narrowed and his voice became harsh. "But I do want that gold. And I aim to have it."
"I don't know where it is."
"Much as you and Wolf talked together, all the time he was laid up at the farm, and he never told you?"
"I never asked, and he never said."
Olsen's heavy jaw was set like a steel trap. He looked at Esther for almost a full minute and then said quietly, "You're lyin'. It don't stand to reason that you could go all that time without learnin' somethin' about the gold."
"I don't care about reason. I don't care about you."
"I know." The sheriff nodded ponderously. "You never cared about anybody, except that no-account brother. Wompler and Finley and some of the others never seen that until it was too late. But you never fooled me. You want all that gold for yourself. That's how you are. But you're not goin' to get it."
"How many times," she said with limitless patience, "have I got to tell you that I don't know where it is."
"As many times as suits you, but I won't believe it." He fell into another brooding silence. Gault had the eerie feeling that they were two actors on a stage, and he was in the audience watching them act out their stilted plot of terror. Although Olsen still had his .45 aimed at Gault, he seemed to have forgotten that Gault was there. Only when Gault tried to move or change his position did the sheriff notice him.
Esther gazed bleakly down at the still form of her brother. There was grief somewhere in the depths of those blue eyes, but it was silent and still, wrapped in many layers of Garnett pride. "I want to bury him myself. Just by myself."
"Maybe later," the sheriff said, his voice taking a cold edge. "After we get it settled about the gold."
"There's nothin' to settle. I keep tellin' you." Grady Olsen leaned his heavy head on one shoulder and looked at her. Then he swung the .45 in a short arc so that the muzzle was casually aimed at the point of her chin. "Are you thinkin' I won't kill you? Is that what you're thinkin'?" Esther Garnett gazed coolly down the barrel of the revolver and said nothing. The sheriff went on. "I'm finished with lawin', you realize that, don't you? I burned my ships, like they say, and I can't ever go back to Standard County again. All because of you and your brother and that gold that you dangled in my face. Like danglin' a yellow carrot in front of a jackass. But I ain't no jackass, missie. I aim to have my carrot."
"You won't get it from me."
The sheriff sighed. "You got spunk, I'll say that much for you, Esther. You figger that I haven't got it in me to kill a woman—and you're right. It's the way I was raised. So you figger that sooner or later I'll lay my feathers down and run off and stop pesterin' you." He shook his head. "You're wrong."
"Grady," she said stiffly, "Wolf's dead, and he's the only one that knowed about the gold. Go back to Standard County where you belong."
"Too late for that." He gazed angrily at Gault. Then he turned to the doctor. Finally he looked down at the boy. "Tell me where it is," he said to Esther, "and I'll let the boy go. It's too late for Gault and the doc, they know too much. But I'll let the boy go."
"How many times do I have to tell you…"
"Tell me, or I kill the boy."
Sumpter stood frozen. Esther Garnett glanced quickly at Timmy; if she had any feeling for the boy, it did not show in her face. "I can't tell you what I don't know."
Gault found himself in a half-crouch, ready to spring. Olsen wheeled on him, snarling, "Set back against the wall, before I kill you here and now!" Then he smiled tightly at Esther and shrugged his big shoulders. "You'd let me kill the whole pack of them, wouldn't you? Even the boy. And you wouldn't say a word." He was getting an idea. Esther could see it forming in that busy brain behind those pale eyes, and she didn't like it. "That brother of yours is the only person you ever care a damn about, and I guess he still is."
"… Wolf's dead."
"No mistake about that," Olsen agreed, his tone quietly savage. "It don't make any difference what happens to him now—ain't that right? I mean, it don't make any difference how a man's buried, once he's good and dead."
She looked at him with a growing fear. "The dead wants to be buried decent."
Olsen grinned. "What I had in mind was takin' Wolf up the creek a ways and rollin' him into a bed of quicksand that I seen on my way to Fort Sill. No work, no bother for anybody. Everything quick and simple."
Her face went pale. She swayed for a moment, and Gault thought that she would fall. But she pulled herself together, set her jaw and made herself look at the sheriff. "All right," she said in a hoarse whisper. "I'll tell."
"I thought maybe you would," Olsen grinned. This was his moment of victory. He had risked everything—respectability, power, security—because of a woman and a half-dreamed shipment of gold. He had lost the woman; but that didn't matter, because he had never really had her. He had won the gold. That was the important thing now.
"Where is it?"
"Up the creek a ways. I'll have to show you."
"All right." He leveled his revolver at Gault.
Esther Garnett's voice went up in pitch. "What do you think you're doin'?"
"Everybody's got to die, one time or another. Their time is now."
"No." Her chin jutted stubbornly. "Not now. Not here."
Olsen scowled. "I can't leave them alive, with all the things they know."
"Kill them later, somewheres else. I don't want it done here, where Wolf is."
The ways of women, Olsen's look seemed to say, were past all understanding. But with the gold so close at hand he was not inclined to argue. "All right, I'll take them along with us." Now that he thought about it, it was the perfect solution. Three bodies at the bottom of a quicksand bed would be forever lost.
Gault tensed and prepared to shove away from the wall.
Calmly, Olsen pointed his revolver at Timmy Sumpter. "Make a move that I don't like, Gault, and I kill the boy." Gault looked into Sumpter's frantic eyes and made himself be still. "Now," the sheriff said comfortably, "that's some
better. From here on out I'll keep the boy with me. Long as you and the doc behave yourselves the kid stays alive."
They made their way upstream on foot, Esther Garnett leading, followed by Gault and Dr. Sumpter. Olsen, with the frightened Timmy Sumpter tucked under one arm like a sack of meal, brought up the rear.
After several minutes Esther stopped and pointed. "There it is."
The procession came to a stumbling halt. Olsen, with Timmy still under his arm, pushed forward impatiently. "Where?"
"There at the overhang." Esther pointed toward a many-layered shelf of slate jutting out from the creekbank. Olsen squinted but could see no sign of the gold. "It's on the underside of the shelf," she told him. "I'll show you."
Gault was beginning to get a strange feeling about this sudden, almost casual surrender of Esther Garnett. He looked at the doctor for verification, but Sumpter only had eyes and thoughts for his helpless son. Impatiently, Olsen motioned them forward. "I don't see anything."
"Wolf hid it under a tarp—most likely it's covered with dirt, after all this time."
The sheriff moved cautiously out on the tiered roof of black slate. Suddenly he dropped Timmy Sumpter and thrust him toward Esther. "You watch the kid, and no monkey business. I'm still the only one here with a gun, in case anybody's forgot."
Esther took the sobbing boy, coolly, with no change of expression, as she might have accepted a lifeless bundle of rags. Then for just an instant, she looked at Gault. There was a certain glitter in her eyes. Light from the fires of hate that burned inside her, Gault thought. It was a cold, still look that said, This is your chance Gault. The only one you'll get.
"I still don't see it," Grady Olsen was saying with the beginning of anger and suspicion. He was bending slightly over the edge of the shelf when Esther Garnett threw herself at him.
Olsen was big and heavy, solid as a stump, and no bit of a woman like Esther Garnett was going to upset him. But it did surprise him. He blinked once, scowling and angry, as he brushed her aside. And then, before he could pull himself erect or fully regain his balance, Gault hit him.
A shower of pain went through Gault's injured side as he drove his shoulder into the small of the sheriff's back. It was like throwing himself at an oak tree. Gault could almost believe that he had taken root to that roof of slate. Nevertheless, in some impossible way, he did move. Gault dropped to his knees, gasping. The sheriff was standing on one foot, clawing the air with his free hand and cursing as he fell backward into the still water.
"Hurry!" Esther Garnett said hoarsely. "Maybe we can get to the horses before he hauls hisself out of the water!"
For a moment Gault looked at the world through the splintered light of pain. Sumpter, blind to everything else, rushed to his son and was holding the boy in his arms, rocking and crooning to him, tears of relief streaming down his dirty cheeks.
Gault pulled himself to his feet and got the doctor and the boy started downstream. "On the other side of the shack, where the horses are!"
But Olsen was faster than any of them would have believed. Somehow he had worked his way to the top of the opposite bank and was cutting off their retreat with riflefire.
Bullets ripped through the green mullein. Esther threw herself to the ground beside a cottonwood log. Gault and the Sumpters dropped a few paces behind. Olsen's voice, wild with rage, came from the other bank. "There ain't no gold under that shelf, missie! There never was! It's a sorry day for the Garnetts that you ever thought to trick me!"
Gault wormed his way through the weeds and lay down beside Esther. "Are all the horses on the other side of the shack?"
She nodded. "We'd stand a chance if we could get to the guns."
Gault searched back in his mind. How far was it to the shack? Four, five hundred yards? It might as well be five hundred miles. Olsen would simply move ahead of them, cross the creek below the shack and wait for them to come into the clearing. Gault inched his way back to the Sumpters and asked, "Is there any chance of help comin' from Fort Sill?"
The doctor, still looking dazed and clinging to his son, shook his head. "I don't think so. Some people saw me leaving with Olsen, but they don't know where we were going."
"No one at the fort knew that your son had been taken?"
Sumpter shook his head. "Timmy had the run of the post; it wasn't unusual for him to wander about the grounds for hours at a time."
"His mother didn't mind?"
"His mother has been dead almost three years."
Gault lay with his face against the cool ground. By this time the doctor and his son would probably be missed; it was even possible that a detail had been sent to look for them. But that wasn't going to be any help. With Olsen and his rifle just on the other side of the creek. "How," he asked, "did Olsen get the boy in the first place?"
Sumpter looked blank. "Olsen just came on the post and told Timmy that his father wanted to see him. Somebody must have seen them leaving together, but…"
"I know." Gault sighed to himself. None of it made any difference now.
On the other side of the creek Olsen was strangely quiet. Was he playing patient sharpshooter, waiting for someone to give his position away? Or had he moved downstream to where the horses were?
Esther Garnett glanced back at him. She was wondering too. Then, cautiously, she began crawling toward the shack. Almost immediately the sheriff opened fire. Esther scrambled to a shallow gully and lay there panting.
"What are we going to do?" the doctor asked worriedly.
Timmy, frightened by the burst of riflefire, began sobbing. "Keep him quiet!" Gault heard himself snarling. Then, in a quieter, gentler tone: "For the sake of all of us, try to keep him quiet." He began inching through the weeds, heading again toward Esther Garnett.
"The sheriff's in love with you," he said, as though he were continuing a conversation that had been going on for some time. "You can still talk to him and get yourself out of this, even if the doc and I can't."
She shot him an icy smile. "The sheriff never was in love with anybody but hisself. He wanted me, maybe, but that ain't the same thing, is it?"
"I guess not. But it's something. It could still save you."
"No." The word had the ring of finality to it.
Gault shrugged. It was her life; if she was bent on throwing it away, he couldn't stop her.
For some time Gault studied the opposite bank of the creek. Like the near side, it was a thicket of budding cottonwoods and weeds. "Is there a place upstream where I could cross over to the other bank?"
She thought for a moment. "There's a rock crossing just above the shelf. Most likely that's how Grady got across after he fell."
"I'm goin' back and see if I can surprise him. Do you think you and the doc can hold the sheriff's interest for a few minutes without gettin' yourselves killed?"
She looked at him levelly. "Grady Olsen ain't an easy man to take by surprise." For a moment she closed her eyes and looked the way she would look in about ten years—slack faced, dull, and in no way desirable. "But if you're bound to try it, I'll do what I can to hold his attention." She lobbed a small pebble into the weeds ahead and instantly a rifle bullet ripped through the spot.
Gault was sweating. It didn't seem possible that he could make it all the way back to the shelf without giving himself away. Esther Garnett was looking at him in a way that gave no indication of what she was thinking. There didn't seem to be anything else to say. Gault nodded and continued his inch by inch journey toward the shelf.
Dr. Sumpter watched him silently. He had the frightened Timmy tucked under one arm, the other hand ready to clap over the boy's mouth if he started to cry.
The way back to that jutting overhang seemed endless. Every weed, every pebble in the path, every dappled bit of shade and dazzling shaft of sunlight had to be considered before every move. Along the way the rifle on the opposite bank fired only once. That might or might not be a good sign. Gault hoped it meant that Olsen was running low on rifle ammunition.
At last he reached the overhang and lay for a moment breathing shallowly. Then he slipped around the slate roof and began easing himself down the clay bank to the water. Progress was much faster now. With a bend in the creek between himself and Olsen, the need for caution was not so great. He slipped into the cold water and found the rock bottom at thigh depth and started toward the far bank.
Intuition must have prompted Esther to cause some minor disturbance up ahead. Olsen's rifle blazed again as Gault reached midstream. Then, somehow, he was on the bank, caught in a tangle of cedar roots. He parted the roots and made his way to the top of the bank and lay there until he was breathing normally.
The rifle cracked again, sounding muffled and relatively harmless, now that Gault was behind it instead of in front of it. He began moving toward the sound, picking up a stick as he went. It was not much of a weapon—a rotting gnarled end of tree root—but it was better than nothing.
Now he could see the side of the creek that he had just left. The wall of wide, green mullein leaves stood motionless. At least, Gault thought, Sumpter was keeping Timmy quiet. He slanted closer to the water and cautiously parted a tangle of wild grapevines—and it was then that he saw Olsen.
The sheriff was lying on the edge of the bank, patiently watching the other side over the barrel of his rifle. Directly below the sheriff Gault could see the shallow water shimmering like glass over a bed of mud. He eased his way through the maze of vines and lay in the weeds, about twenty yards behind the sheriff.
He lay there for several minutes, wondering how long it would take him to cover that twenty yards, and how much noise he would make doing it. Too long, he decided. And too much noise. The sheriff had only to flip over on his side and redirect the rifle and fire. A younger, quicker man could do it all in one second. It might take Olsen two. It was still too fast.
Gault held his silence and waited for something to happen on the opposite bank. Something that would seize and hold the sheriff's attention for slightly longer than two seconds. The silence became oppressive. Gault became aware of the hissing of his own breathing, and he tried to stop it. Then, quite suddenly, a cluster of mullein on the far bank bent with an unfelt breeze. Or a flipped pebble.
The Last Days of Wolf Garnett Page 15
