by Janet Dailey
There was a richly humorous quality to the low laugh that greeted his question. The gleam of it stayed in her eyes as she collected the reins and lightly chided, “As if you hadn’t already guessed.”
Reins in hand, he gripped the saddlehorn, smiling crookedly. “But I’m hoping I’m wrong.” He stepped aboard the bay and reined it around, pointing its nose in a southwesterly direction. “It’s over this way.”
He led out, spurring his horse up the steep part of the hill. Angie followed on the gray. The lunging climb made conversation too difficult. She waited until they had crested the hill before she attempted to resume the subject.
“You’re not wrong,” she began.
“I was afraid of that.” The arid tone was intended to put her off, but Angie wouldn’t be defeated so easily, not after she’d come this far.
“Look, I know you don’t believe the gold’s still there—”
“But you want me to help you look for it anyway,” he inserted, his side glance dry and taunting. “What were you thinking about paying me for this help? Were you going to suggest going halfsies?” The use of the childish term was deliberate, a reflection of his attitude toward the entire matter.
Determined to convince him otherwise, Angie continued, “I know you think it would be a total waste of time, and you could be right—”
“I am.”
She ignored that. “Believe it or not, normally I’m quite practical and sensible. I’m honestly not the type who takes off at the drop of a hat to go chasing after mythical pots of gold. Like you, I’d probably shake my head in pity for the person who did. But this is different.”
“Naturally.” His rejoinder was loaded with dry mockery.
Instead of getting angry or upset with him, Angie laughed. “I asked for that, didn’t I?” she said, purely rhetorically.
This wasn’t the reaction Luke had expected. A quick glance detected no hint that she was either offended or frustrated. Judging from the gleam in her eyes, her enthusiasm for the project hadn’t been the least bit affected by his remarks.
“Let me explain what I meant by different,” she went on. “Like you, I’m not convinced the gold is still there. If it is, great. If it’s not, that’s okay, too.” She paused a beat. “This probably doesn’t make sense, but . . . it’s the looking for it that’s important to me. Not the finding of it. Whatever the outcome, I just know I need to look.”
“No one’s stopping you,” Luke replied, his gaze fixed on the pasture gate ahead of them. “You certainly have my permission to follow after Saddlebags and search to your heart’s content.”
“Thank you. Your permission is appreciated, but it’s your knowledge of this land that I really need. I haven’t seen very much of it, but in what I have seen, twice I’ve noticed rock formations that, with a little stretch of the imagination, could be described as pillars.”
The remark caught his attention. “Then, rumor was right—the letter mentions a pillar.”
Angie nodded. “Among other things. But the pillar alone wouldn’t be significant unless its location happens to be in proximity to . . . those other things,” she concluded, deliberately vague.
“I see,” Luke murmured, intrigued against his better judgment.
“I am prepared to pay you for your time, whether we find the gold or not,” she told him. “I don’t have a lot of money, but I have saved some.”
They reached the pasture gate. Without dismounting, Luke maneuvered the bay horse in position to unhook it, then swung it wide to let Angie ride through, then reversed the procedure to close it.
When they were once again on their way to the canyon mouth, Luke asked, “Why me? Why not Tobe or Fargo—or any number of other people I could name who are familiar with the area? They would undoubtedly jump at the chance.”
“That’s the problem,” she replied easily.
Luke frowned, not following her line of reasoning. “What’s the problem?”
“I don’t know about the other people you could name, but Tobe and Fargo both, at least, want to believe the gold’s still there, if they don’t actually believe it already.”
“And that’s bad, I take it,” he guessed, amused by the twisted logic of that.
A wide smile showed him the even line of her white teeth. “It isn’t that it’s bad; it’s just not good. Or to be more specific, it isn’t what I need.”
“Why not?”
“Because, in their eagerness to believe, they can become blinded, see only what they want to see. I want someone who will look at the letter and all the information I’ve gathered with a critical eye. Someone who will tear things apart and poke holes in my theories. In short, I need someone to play the role of devil’s advocate.” Her sideways glance was warm and teasing. “And I have the feeling you would be a natural at it.”
Her glance barely registered with him. He was too busy digesting the news that she was willing to show him the letter—and whatever other information it was that she had.
“What makes you think I can be trusted?” Luke countered. “How can you be sure I won’t use that information to find the gold myself and cut you out of it completely? After all, it’s finders keepers.”
“You could do that.” Her gaze briefly made a scrutinizing study of him, but the curve of her lips showed an utter unconcern. “But I don’t think you will.”
“Why not?”
“Because something tells me you can be trusted.”
Luke all but laughed aloud at that. “You’d be putting a lot of faith in someone you don’t know at all.”
“I know more about you than you might think.”
“I suppose Ima Jane was the source of all this knowledge of yours.” That thought didn’t sit well.
“From the standpoint that she said almost nothing at all about you, you could call her a source.”
His eyes narrowed in question. “How does that make her a source?”
“Because it’s a kind of endorsement by omission. If you had a whole long list of faults, she would have raced to tell me.”
“And you’re basing your opinion on that?” Luke countered in amused derision.
“Not hardly. Ima Jane was only one factor.”
“And what were the others?” he asked, interested to discover how her mind worked.
“My own observations about you.” The gray gelding snorted and swung its nose at a deerfly perched on its left wither.
“And what were they?” Luke wondered.
“You mean, other than your hangover this morning?” The teasing light was back in her eyes.
But her comment touched a sore spot, hardening the muscles in his jawline. “You definitely have a way of avoiding questions you don’t want to answer. I noticed that about you last night.”
“I don’t mind answering them. Some things are just difficult to explain. Take Fargo and Tobe, for instance.”
“What about them?” He had the uneasy feeling he shouldn’t have asked that.
“How many ranchers do you know who have a one-armed old man and a wannabe cowboy on their payroll?”
“Fargo came to work at the Ten Bar years before my father took over the ranch. Even with only one arm, he could ride and rope as well as your average cowhand in his day,” Luke retorted, stiff in the old man’s defense.
“But his day has passed, and he’s still with you,” Angie pointed out.
“So? He cooks and cleans instead of cowboying now. As for Tobe, after his mother died, he needed a job and a place for him and his sister to live. No one was standing in line to offer him either. There were two bedrooms in the trailer going unused. Tobe’s a hard worker and eager to learn. And before you go thinking that’s generous and noble, the cattle market’s down, and both Tobe and Fargo work cheap.”
“I’m sure they do.” Angie smiled and focused on the country before them. “Is it much farther to the canyon?”
“It’s just over that rise.” He touched a spur to the bay, lifting it into a canter.
<
br /> Following him, Angie urged her mount into a lope. When they topped the hillock, Luke reined in. The restive bay sidestepped and chomped on the bit, eager to stretch its legs some more.
“This is where I was always told the posse caught up with them.” He nodded toward a tangle of brush and fallen boulders that flanked the canyon’s entrance. “The way I heard the story, the posse had lost the trail and was doubling back to pick it up. When they came over this rise, there were the outlaws riding straight toward them.”
“One of the outlaws opened fire first,” Angie said, remembering the accounts she had read about the gun battle. “That’s when the shooting started.”
“Supposedly the three robbers tried to reach the cover of those rocks.” He pointed to the boulders that were the farthest from them.
In her mind, Angie could picture the scene: The posse charging down the hill, guns blazing; the outlaws spurring their weary mounts and firing desperate shots at their pursuers; the thunder of pounding hooves; the reverberations of gunfire; the acrid smell of powder smoke.
A horse stumbling and falling, pitching its rider; an outlaw pulling up to give cover to his downed compatriot, who was frantically scrambling to reach him; under the posse’s withering fusillade, the outlaw giving cover being shot from the saddle; the downed compatriot grabbing the horse’s reins and trying to mount, but before swinging into the saddle being riddled with bullets.
Ike Wilson the only one making it to the rocks, and upon seeing the fate of his friends, stepping from behind the boulders with his hands raised in surrender.
The quick and violent gun battle with the train robbers lasting scarcely minutes.
“Do you want to ride down there?” Luke’s question brought her back to the present.
After a second’s pause, Angie shook her head. “There’s no need.” Even as she spoke, she was busy studying the terrain, trying to implant the image of its layout in her mind. Then, another idea occurred to her. “If I showed you a detailed map of this area, could you pinpoint this location on it?”
“Probably.” His glance ran over her face, but he didn’t ask the expected question. He chose another instead. “Is there anything else you’d like to see?”
Her smile was quick and full of humor. “A lot, actually, but that can wait for another time.” Neck-reining the gray, she turned it from the canyon. “We can head back to the ranch now.”
“Whatever you say.” Luke swung the bay in a half circle and pointed it toward home. Both horses broke into an easy trot. For several yards neither rider spoke. Then Angie could take the wondering no longer. “What about my offer?”
“I’m not interested.”
She was frustrated by the absolute indifference in his voice and expression, but she refused to give up. “Why?”
“Summers are short in Wyoming. There’s a lot of work that needs to get done while the weather’s good. I don’t have time to waste it gallivanting around looking for buried treasure.”
“If the situation were reversed, I might feel the same way you do,” Angie conceded. “But I’d like you to give my offer a little more thought before you make a final decision. After all, what have you got to lose? I’ve already said I’ll pay you for your time. And if, by some wild chance, we happen to find the gold, there’ll be a sizeable bonus for you.” She checked to see his reaction, but his features revealed little of what he was thinking. “Personally I’ve never known a farmer yet who couldn’t use some extra cash. I can’t imagine it’s any different for a rancher.”
The corners of his mouth lifted in a lazy curve. “Like I said before, a lot of people around here would snap at that kind of deal. But I’m not interested in dream chasing.”
It was said with the conviction of a man who had given up on such things. Angie stole a quick glance at him, wondering what had caused him to stop hoping. Then she corrected herself—something told her he hadn’t stopped hoping; he had turned his back on it.
Why? she wondered. The urge was there to ask and probe. Wisely she recognized that he wouldn’t welcome her meddling in his personal life. In fact, it was probably the quickest way to guarantee she’d never get any help from him.
Yet his comment demanded a response. “Look at my offer this way,” Angie suggested. “It will give you the perfect chance to say ‘I told you so.’ ”
He laughed, a low and throaty sound accompanied by humor lines fanning from the corners of his eyes. “It would do that, wouldn’t it?”
“There’s only one way to find out,” she told him and let the subtle challenge be the last word as she kicked the gray horse into a lope.
No longer winded from his scramble over the rocks, Saddlebags knew it was time to move. He had a hefty hike ahead of him to reach his camp. But he stayed where he was, surrendering to the weariness of his tired, aching body.
He’d sit here a little while longer, he decided, letting his head loll back to rest against the boulder supporting his back. He was in full sun, his dark clothing absorbing the heat of its rays. The warmth felt good. His circulation wasn’t what it used to be, and the temperature didn’t have to fall much anymore for him to get chilled.
He closed his eyes and basked in the sun. His body was still, but his mind wasn’t. As always, he puzzled over the impulses that kept pushing him back to the site where the skeleton was uncovered. Even during those first few days after it was found, when the place was crawling with people digging and sifting through the dirt, he had crept back to watch, wasting valuable time that could have been better spent in his search.
Again he found himself wondering whether they’d been able to identify the remains. Was that what kept gnawing at him? Had he gotten a glimpse into his own future?
It was certain that one of these days, this ancient body of his was going to give out. The way he felt, that time wasn’t far off either. Truth to tell, he hadn’t figured he would make it through this past winter. But he had.
“I don’t know if I’m glad or sorry about that.” Talking to himself had become a habit over the years, a way to satisfy that inner need to have a human voice touch his ears. “Yup, me and death are gettin’ closer and closer. One of these times, I’ll just keel over—with no one ever bein’ the wiser.”
Was that what he feared? Dying alone? Without a proper marker on his grave like that body on the hillside?
“No marker?” He snorted a laugh. “There wouldn’t even be a burial. This tough ole flesh of mine would be food for the carrion eaters, my bones dragged from here t’ kingdom come.”
A grimness gripped him; then he shook it off with a sigh, his eyes opening to mere slits. “They gotta eat somethin’. Might as well be me. It’s for sure I’ll be past carin’. An’ I don’t imagine there’s anybody still livin’ who would shed a tear over my passin’ anyways. I expect they wrote me off for dead years ago.”
He stared at the sky and watched the parade of faces in his mind, their images as sharp and fresh as if he’d seen them only yesterday. Age had withered his body and grayed his hair, but not the people Saddlebags remembered. The intervening years had left no mark on them. It was one of his mind’s cruelties, to fool him into believing he was still young, too.
“Sure’d be nice to die clutchin’ that gold in my hands,” he murmured wistfully.
The unlikelihood of that settled over him with all the crushing heaviness of the granite boulder at his back. In those long ago years of his youth, he had been convinced that his search would ultimately end in success. Now he was only convinced of the futility of it.
But he refused to quit looking. Giving up now meant admitting that his entire life had been wasted on the search. No, the time for quitting had run out decades ago.
A tear slipped down his cheek when Saddlebags considered all the things that might have been. He left it to dry on his skin, not wanting to expend the energy it would take to wipe it away.
“It’s a shame I ain’t as crazy as everybody thinks I am,” he murmured, then cackled at t
he thought.
But there was no getting around the truth: his mind was just as sharp as ever. So was his hearing; his ears picked up the steady drum of hoofbeats, the sound gradually increasing in volume as the horses neared him.
“Must be that McCallister boy and that other person.”
Inactivity had stiffened him. Saddlebags had to make two attempts before he finally made it to his feet and peeked around the boulder to verify his guess. Years of staying out of sight to keep others from knowing his search areas had become too deeply ingrained. Even now, when there was no need to be secretive, he remained behind the boulder.
His keen eyes recognized McCallister the instant the two riders cantered into view. He switched his focus to the second one.
“Wonder who the redhead is?” he murmured, untroubled that he didn’t recognize her. Unless she lived at one of the neighboring ranches, he wouldn’t know her from Solomon’s pet donkey. “She seems kinda pleased about something,” he observed and shifted his gaze to McCallister. “Takin’ her out for a Sunday ride to show her around the place, are you?”
The pair slowed their horses to descend the slope. This time they didn’t stop at the former grave site, although they both glanced in its direction as they rode by.
“Kind of a morbid thing to show a girl when you’re courtin’ her anyway,” Saddlebags stated, then grinned. “Course, it could always spook her an’ give a fella a chance t’ put his arms around her.” He chortled at the thought, his false teeth clicking together.
Another possibility struck him with all the suddenness of a lightning strike.
“She could have known the guy that was buried there.” The instant the words were out of his mouth, Saddlebags remembered the soberness of her expression, the tinge of sadness when she had scooped a handful of the soil and held it. And he remembered, too, the way McCallister had stood back and watched, not joining her until she said something to him.
“They identified the guy.” A tightness seized his chest. Immediately he argued with himself, “You don’t know that, you crazy fool.” He thought about that, then answered, “No, I don’t know it for a fact, but there’s one person who would.” Pushing away from the boulder, he turned. “Stay out of it, you old coot. It’s got nothin’ to do with you.” He nodded and picked his way among the rocks with care. “Maybe. Maybe.”
