by Scott Connor
‘Take your hands off him,’ Truman said, swirling round to confront Rocco with his fists opening and closing. ‘Your quarrel is with me.’
Rocco sneered and dragged Lincoln another pace, but with a sudden lunge, Lincoln ripped his arm free.
In a short action, Lincoln hurled a fist at Rocco’s face. Rocco threw up a hand, catching the fist by his cheek.
Even as he yanked the hand down towards his side, Lincoln hurled up his left hand and this time he was fast enough to catch Rocco a stinging chop to the cheek that rocked his head to the side.
Rocco grunted and wrenched Lincoln’s right arm down, aiming to twist it behind his back. Lincoln flexed his shoulders and halted Rocco’s progress.
As Lincoln strained and began to twist Rocco’s arm instead, Crane strode across the trading post to stand beside Rocco.
‘Truman’s right,’ he said. ‘Our quarrel is with him. Release this man.’
‘But he—’
‘Release him! Or you’ll get more than just a slap.’
With a muttered oath, Rocco threw Lincoln away from him.
Lincoln staggered back to slam into the counter, then straightened his jacket and fixed Rocco with his firm gaze.
‘Any other orders?’ Rocco said.
Crane glanced at Lincoln, who returned a defiant sneer, then swung up his left fist, the blow crunching into the point of Rocco’s chin.
The blow was only strong enough to knock his teeth together, but still Rocco firmed his jaw, his fists clenched tight as he advanced a pace to confront Crane.
‘Yeah, you don’t threaten anyone but Truman,’ Crane said, ‘and you don’t even think of arguing with me.’
Rocco rocked forward, but as Crane met his gaze with his own level stare, Rocco stalked past him to stand by the counter, muttering under his breath.
Crane turned to Truman and raised his eyebrows.
‘Obliged for your decency,’ Truman said. ‘But I’ll still be a disappointment to you.’
Crane moved a pace closer to Truman.
‘You won’t. I reckon you have a lot more than that watch.’
Truman flashed a wan smile. ‘As you have acted with decency, you can have this too.’
Truman slipped a hand into his jacket and rooted around deep within the confines of the lining to emerge with a leather wallet. As Rocco grunted his irritation, he extracted a billfold and dropped it on the counter beside the watch.
Crane edged to the counter and poked the billfold open, then snorted.
‘This still isn’t enough.’
‘It’s all I have – around fifty dollars.’
‘If you want us to leave, you’ll give me something more substantial than that.’ Crane grinned and set his feet far apart. ‘You own thousands of acres of land, thousands of head of cattle, and most of Sweetwater.’
‘I do, and if you want me to sell you some land so you can earn an honest living, I’ll break a habit of a lifetime and offer you good terms, but I own nothing you’d think of as valuable.’ Truman pointed over Crane’s shoulder at the door and raised his voice so that it echoed through the trading post. ‘So, just take the money and the watch. Because you acted with some decency, you’ll hear no more about it.’
‘I’m not going nowhere until you give me what I want.’ Crane raised his gun to aim it at Truman’s chest.
Seymour uttered a strangulated squeal and Lincoln edged a pace closer to Crane, but Truman flashed only the shortest of glances at the gun. If it concerned him, he gave no sign as he met Crane’s gaze.
‘Then just tell me what that is.’
‘You know what I want. You always knew someone would come and reclaim their property. You just didn’t know when it’d happen, or who it’d be.’ Crane smiled. ‘Now it’s happened, and it’s me.’
Truman narrowed his eyes. ‘I don’t know what you mean. All I can give you is fifty dollars and that watch.’
‘Then we’ve got ourselves a problem, because I want one hell of a lot more than that.’
‘How much?’
Crane rolled his gaze around the trading post, glancing at Seymour, the driver, Lincoln, then settling on Truman.
‘Fifty thousand dollars,’ he said.
Truman snorted a laugh. ‘You trying to be funny?’
‘Nope. That’s what I’ve come for, and that’s what you’ll give me.’ Crane looked at Rocco with an exaggerated turn of his head, forcing Truman to follow his gaze. ‘Or I’ll let Rocco ask you for the money, and as you’ve seen, he isn’t nowhere near as polite as I am.’
‘If I were to sell everything I own, it’d take years to find a buyer,’ Truman said, his voice raised and high-pitched for the first time. ‘Even then, I’d get nowhere near fifty thousand dollars.’
‘You’re worth at least that.’ With the barrel of his gun, Crane tipped back his hat. ‘I know how you came by that much wealth.’
‘So does everyone in Sweetwater: it was by hard work.’ Truman glanced at Rocco and sneered. ‘That’s something you and your worthless friends wouldn’t know about.’
‘For the last twenty years we’ve worked harder than you ever will, and we did all that work for you.’
Truman narrowed his eyes. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Then I’ll remind you – twenty years ago, Decker Calhoun raided a gold shipment bound for Texas.’ Crane stalked in a short circle, patting his free hand against his leg. ‘He stole fifty thousand dollars’ worth of gold bars. The authorities put Marshal Zandana on his trail, and with the marshal closing and the gold slowing him down, he buried the gold, aiming to come back for it later. He never got the chance. The marshal caught him and he got life in Barton jail, but Decker didn’t talk and nobody found the gold.’
‘I’ve heard that story,’ Truman said, his voice low and guarded.
‘Zandana then tracked down the rest of the Calhoun gang. Those that lived got twenty years.’
Truman nodded as he appraised Crane. ‘I guess you four men are what’s left of the Calhoun gang, and you’ve served your sentence.’
‘You guessed right.’ Crane strode a pace closer to Truman and smiled. ‘You want to finish the story for me?’
‘I can’t. I don’t know what you want with me.’ Truman held his hands wide. ‘You’ll have to spell it out.’
‘Calhoun buried the gold twelve miles out of Sweetwater in a forest beside a ridge. Except when we arrived to dig it up three days ago, we found that the ridge is now on your land and worse, you’d cleared the trees.’
‘I cleared plenty of land.’
‘I know, but either way, the gold isn’t there no more. Except the rancher who now owns the land just happens to be one of the richest men in the state, and I just don’t believe in coincidence.’
‘I got wealthy from my own efforts, not from a stash of stolen gold.’
Crane gave Rocco the barest of nods.
Moving with a speed that would be impressive for a man half his age, Rocco stormed two long paces and lunged. With a large fist, he grabbed Truman’s collar and pulled him up straight, forcing him to stand on tiptoes.
‘Everyone’s just heard what Crane’s accused you of doing,’ he grunted, hurling back a fist. ‘We can’t walk away from this now. So, if you keep on pushing us, I’ll do something you won’t enjoy, but I will. Now talk!’
Truman struggled, but finding that Rocco’s grip was firm, he looked away.
Then, inch by inch, his shoulders slumped and it may have been a trick of the light, but Lincoln was sure that the hair poking out from beneath his hat grayed as he watched. When Truman spoke, his voice was tired and gruff, none of his former confidence remaining.
‘I suppose I’m relieved this is finally over,’ he murmured. ‘But I won’t talk to you until—’
‘You will,’ Rocco shouted, spit flying from his mouth to splatter over Truman’s face.
Truman gulped back his distaste, then met Rocco’s gaze.
‘You didn’t let me finish. I will
talk to you, but only after I’ve returned to Sweetwater and talked to my wife. I don’t care what the likes of you want, but I do care for my wife’s opinion of me and I need to tell her about this before someone else does.’
Rocco glanced at Crane and when Crane nodded, he released Truman with a snap of his wrist and using mock care, smoothed Truman’s rumpled jacket.
‘You’re in no position to order anyone to do anything,’ Crane said, then softened his voice and even slipped his gun back in its holster. ‘Just tell me, and if I like what I hear, you might live long enough to tell her, too.’
For long moments Truman hung his head, sighing, then straightened a last wrinkle from his collar and stood tall.
‘It took me ten years to tame my land,’ he said, his low tone suggesting he was talking to himself as much as to Crane. ‘I redirected a river and cleared rocks using my own bare hands.’ Truman raised his hands and turned them over. The hands were clean, but etched into the flesh were the calluses from years of manual work. ‘Six years ago, my crops failed, cattle prices fell, and I was near to giving up. I threw my hopes into building a bridge and easing the passage to Sweetwater. I uprooted hundreds of trees for the wood. Then beneath one I found . . . I found something.’
‘A casket?’ Crane said.
Truman glanced at Lincoln, then Seymour, then lowered his head.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I found a buried casket containing the gold you’re looking for.’
‘What did you do with it?’ Crane snapped.
Truman shuffled his feet from side to side.
‘I told nobody and kept it.’
‘Yee-haw,’ Rocco shouted, punching the air.
‘How much is left?’ Crane croaked.
‘All of it,’ Truman said, his voice hurt. ‘I resisted temptation and did nothing with it.’
With another joyous shout, Elwood and Wallace jumped on the spot and even hugged each other, then linked arms and jigged in a wild circle, taking turns to leap and click their heels together.
Round and round they whirled, their whooping threatening to grow loud enough to be heard back in Sweetwater.
Crane stood back, grinning at their merriment. When Rocco clapped a hand against a raised thigh with an infectious beat and Elwood started warbling a camp-fire song without recognizable words, or for that matter a recognizable tune, he raised his arms for quiet. Even then he joined his men and exchanged a round of back-slapping.
Crane chuckled, wending out from under Elwood and Wallace’s congratulatory huddle. He licked his lips, trying to suppress his grin, but when that failed, he patted Truman’s shoulder.
‘As I’m now in a right contented mood,’ he said, ‘I reckon I’ll forgive you for finding our gold.’
‘But only after you’ve given it back to us,’ Rocco said, his voice the lightest Lincoln had heard. He strode across the trading post towards Truman. ‘So where is it now?’
Truman nodded. ‘The gold is in my summer house, beyond the ridge.’
‘A rectangular building with wide doors at the front?’ Crane said.
‘Yes.’
‘Hot damn,’ Elwood shouted, kicking the counter. ‘I said that house was on the spot where Decker buried our gold.’
‘You don’t mean . . .’ Crane murmured, slapping his forehead. ‘You stored our gold in the exact same place you found it?’
‘I did,’ Truman said, his gaze still downcast. ‘It is my folly, my shame, my . . . I cannot explain it. I built that summer house for my wife in the most beautiful place in the valley. The views of the setting sun are so golden. I guess I wouldn’t have wanted it in any other place.’
Crane and Wallace exchanged pained glances and exasperated sighs. Rocco even joined Elwood and patted his back, mumbling an apology for his earlier rough treatment of him.
‘Now, if we’re all finished being right apologetic,’ Crane said, his former huge grin returning. ‘You just have to come with us and we’ll take that temptation away.’
‘I’ve told you where the gold is. You don’t need me any more.’
‘I just want to ensure you weren’t lying.’ Crane pointed to the door. ‘Then, while we enjoy looking at our gold, you can enjoy looking at one of your golden sundowns.’
Chapter Three
Lincoln leaned on the counter listening to Crane grunt a typical series of threats to Truman about what would happen if the gold wasn’t in the summer house.
Throughout Crane’s questioning of Truman, Lincoln had avoided provoking him into unnecessary violence and had done nothing to show that he was a lawman. He preferred to learn Crane’s intentions, then pursue Crane when the outlaws had left and the innocent people in the trading post were no longer in danger.
So, when Crane finished threatening Truman, Lincoln stood back, waiting for him to leave, but Crane gathered Lincoln and Marvin, the stagecoach driver, around him. He searched them for hidden weapons, confiscating Marvin’s gun, to Marvin’s irritation, then pointed to the door.
To avoid word getting out, Crane ordered Seymour to accompany them, and the trading-post owner was wise enough not to argue.
Lincoln winced as the moment when the innocent bystanders were no longer in danger receded.
So, as the group headed out of the trading post, Lincoln resigned himself to a policy of avoiding provoking these men until he judged that it was the right moment to act.
As he’d heard of Decker Calhoun’s raid twenty years ago, and had a sneaky admiration for a man who had carried out such a daring ambush while avoiding killing anyone, he reckoned he could probably avoid bloodshed.
Crane led them. Wallace and Elwood were at the back, carrying their spades. Rocco stalked at the side, aiming his gun in roving sweeps across their hostages.
During the fifteen minutes they had been in the trading post, the fog had thickened even more. From the doorway, the stagecoach was just an outline, although it was only twenty yards away. The blanket was cold and close, permeating deep into Lincoln’s lungs with every damp breath.
One by one, the hostages piled into the stagecoach, but Crane held Lincoln back and directed him to join him and Marvin at the front.
‘Why can’t I sit with the others in the stagecoach?’ Lincoln asked.
‘Truman will do nothing foolish when Rocco’s beside him,’ Crane said. ‘Seymour just wants to return to his trading post, and our driver just wants to return to his driving.’
‘Yep,’ Marvin said, jumping into his seat.
‘But I haven’t figured you out.’ Crane looked Lincoln up and down, then pointed to the seat. ‘You’re a man who lied when I asked him his name, then says nothing when I confront the real Truman. I just don’t trust you.’
Lincoln shrugged and without complaint sat on Marvin’s right side. Crane sat on Marvin’s left and pointed ahead.
Marvin yanked the reins and at a steady pace, the stagecoach trundled from the trading post.
Within ten rolls of the wheels, the fog filled in around them, hiding the trading post and leaving the stagecoach as the only object visible to Lincoln, creating the impression that they were the only people in the world.
The fog even cut off all sounds other than the clop of the horses’ hoofs and the creaking of the rolling stagecoach.
For the first hundred yards, Marvin kept a tight rein on the horses, their speed not much more than a man’s walking pace.
‘Go faster,’ Crane said.
‘I’m not going faster in weather like this,’ Marvin said.
Crane snorted his irritation, which after a moment’s thought, forced Marvin to stand and place a hand beside his mouth.
‘What you doing?’ Crane grunted.
Marvin glanced down at Crane. ‘Hollering on ahead. Just in case somebody is riding towards us.’
‘Sit.’
Marvin sighed, then fell back into his seat.
‘Then don’t blame me if we run into someone, break a wheel, then not reach that gold of yours.’
Crane snorted and slammed a firm hand on Marvin’s shoulder.
‘I will, and you will go faster.’
While muttering under his breath, Marvin shook the reins and the horses speeded to at least a slow trot.
‘What you so eager about?’ Lincoln asked. ‘You’ve waited twenty years to claim this gold. Another hour won’t change anything.’
Crane glanced at Lincoln, then Marvin in turn.
‘You two are mentioning our gold too often for my liking. Be quiet.’
Lincoln raised his hands, then leaned back against the stagecoach and peered ahead. Before him, the fog swirled and twined.
Glimpses of shapes that might be trees, rocks, sometimes fences emerged, but by the time he’d decided what they were, the whiteness had stolen them from his view.
To avoid the fog inducing a headache he closed his eyes, but even with the blessed darkness, the fog pressed on him, closing off his world, forcing him to open his eyes and confront the blanket of whiteness.
A shape loomed ahead, solid and blocking the trail.
‘Whoa!’ he shouted, but Marvin was already pulling back on the reins.
As the stagecoach slowed, the shape emerged from the fog to reveal itself as a rider, standing sideways across the trail. He was still as the stagecoach lurched to a halt, stopping with a five-yard gap between him and the lead horses.
Held upright and perched on his right hip was a rifle.
Lincoln narrowed his eyes, but the fog was too dense for him to discern the man’s features.
Crane nudged Marvin into speaking.
‘Howdy,’ Marvin shouted. ‘Fog is mighty tough for us travelers.’
The rider edged his horse a pace to the side, but he still blocked their route ahead.
At Lincoln’s side, Crane slipped his gun from its holster and laid it across his lap, then nudged Marvin.
‘Get that idiot to move,’ he whispered.
‘Be obliged if you’d let us pass,’ Marvin shouted.
The rider stayed where he was. From under a lowered hat, he peered back, although Lincoln couldn’t see his eyes.
‘Give him ten seconds, then run him off the trail,’ Crane said.
