by Janet Dailey
“What?” Indifferent to Tobe’s complaints, Griff went about placing the clean drink glasses on their respective shelves.
“I say if he’s all fired hot about Dulcie learnin’ to ride, he can take her along with him, throw her up on old Jackpot, and teach her himself,” Tobe declared, then rethought the statement. “Or, better yet, he can take both of us with him and leave Fargo behind. I’ll be a dang sight more useful to him than that one-armed old cowboy. I can cook as good as he does, and I’ve set up tents before, and as many times as I’ve scoured that area at roundup time, I know it every bit as well as Fargo does. Probably better. But does Luke listen to me? No.” Tobe snorted in disgust and took another swig of beer, then wondered aloud, “Maybe I should try talkin’ Angie into lettin’ me come along.”
Alerted by the name, Griff turned a sharpened glance on Tobe. “What’s the Sommers gal got to do with it?”
“She’s hired Luke to help her look for the gold. Why do you think I’m so upset about bein’ left out of the hunt? It’s the most excitin’ thing that’ll probably ever happen, and I’m supposed to stay at the ranch, milk the cow, and do all the chores and wet-nurse my sister like I was some snot-nosed kid too dumb to do anything else.”
After the first sentence, Griff didn’t hear a word of Tobe’s tirade. “She knows where the gold is, then.” It was exactly what he’d suspected all along.
“I don’t know. Luke just said she had some ideas.” Tobe was too wrapped up in his own misery to notice Griff’s sudden interest in the conversation.
Seeking to disguise it, Griff took the last of the glasses from the rack and placed them one by one on the glass shelves. “Luke didn’t happen to mention where their search was goin’ to start, did he?”
“Buell’s Basin.”
“Never heard of it. Is that on Ten Bar land?” he asked and listened attentively when Tobe described the valley’s location, then nodded in comprehension.
“I think I did some huntin’ there about ten years back. That’s the area where the gold’s supposed to be, is it?”
“I guess,” Tobe replied, with a despondent shrug. “Nobody tells me anything anymore.”
Sifting through Tobe’s various comments, Griff gleaned from them a pertinent fact. “I take it they haven’t started out yet.”
“Not ’til tomorrow morning. They sent me into town to get the supplies they’ll need.” He then grumbled, “A glorified errand boy, that’s all I am. It’s not fair, I tell you. It’s just not fair.”
As Griff recalled, Buell’s Basin was long and broad, riddled with side canyons—which didn’t exactly narrow the search a great deal.
Midafternoon on Wednesday, the trio of Angie, Luke, and Fargo rode into Buell’s Basin, two packhorses in tow. Far from being flat, the valley floor was a jumble of craggy hills studded with trees and boulders. A wide gulch looped its way around them, carved by a shallow stream that, in spring, carried the runoff of mountain snowmelt and the occasional torrential rains.
Single file, the horses splashed across the clear-running stream and lunged up the steep slope of its opposite bank. Leading the way, Luke pointed his mount at the nearest hill and let the bay gelding pick its own route to the top.
Halting at the crest, Luke waited for Angie to join him. She reined in alongside him and silently studied the rugged valley before them, seeking the pillar formation mentioned in the letter’s coded message.
Slowed by the packhorses, Fargo topped the crest and pulled up on the opposite side of Luke. He cast a glance at the pair, noting their scrutiny of the valley’s terrain; dallied the rope to the packhorses around his saddlehorn; and then took a can of Copenhagen from his shirt pocket, wedged it against the pommel, and pried back the lid to it.
“Ya know”—he dipped his fingers into the can and took out a fat pinch of tobacco—“if’n I knew what you was lookin’ for, I could be of some help in findin’ it.” He poked the tobacco in his mouth, tucking it between his cheek and gum.
“The legendary rock pillar.” With a wry smile, Luke reached back and pulled a battered pair of binoculars from the pouch of his saddlebags, then began glassing the valley.
“Like that one.” Angie pointed to a formation roughly a half mile distant.
“There’s another one farther up the valley.” After checking it out himself, Luke passed the field glasses to Angie.
“I see it.” She lowered the binoculars, satisfaction running smooth and strong through her at this early success. Soon, she would be taking that first, actual step to solve the letter’s riddle and locate the gold’s hiding place. A new eagerness gleamed in her eyes when she handed the binoculars back to Luke. “We might as well check out the closest one first.”
“What’s there to check?” Fargo wondered, then guessed. “It’s the shadow business, ain’t it? I figured that was nothin’ but a story.”
“We’ll soon find out whether it is or not,” Luke stated as he stowed the binoculars back in the saddle pouch, then collected the reins, gathering up the horse to move out.
“The shadow—is it supposed to be mornin’ or afternoon?” Fargo unwound the dallied rope, the tied reins hooked over the stub of his left arm.
“Afternoon.” Luke touched a spur to his horse, sending it down the hill in the direction of the first rock formation.
It was two in the afternoon before Griff Evans managed to get away from the cafe-bar. Within the last twenty-four hours, he had come up with, and discarded, a half dozen plans to gain knowledge of the gold’s location. Short of holding the Sommers woman hostage until she revealed all she knew, he had only one hope of beating her to the gold.
Driving like a madman, he raced up the Ten Bar’s rutted lane, wrestling with the steering wheel to keep the vehicle under control. Short of the ranch yard, he slowed down and pulled off the lane into a draw. Leaving his truck parked, he proceeded the rest of the way on foot.
The place looked deserted, nothing and no one stirring. Griff had counted on Tobe being gone, checking cattle or fences, his sister with him. For once it seemed he had guessed correctly.
Smack-dab in the middle of the ranch yard stood the pickup camper. He made a beeline for it. At its rear door, he paused; cast furtive glances around; then reached in his pocket, hesitated, and decided to try the door first.
It wasn’t locked. He could hardly believe his luck.
Hurriedly Griff climbed into the stuffy camper and closed the door behind him. A glance around the neat and orderly interior gave him little reason to hope he would achieve his goal. But it was sheer desperation that had brought him here, and it was sheer desperation that drove him to rummage through the place.
All along, he had assumed that the Sommers woman had taken the outlaw’s letter with her. But it was also possible that she had brought along an extra copy of it as insurance of sorts, in the event something unforeseen happened to the first. And it was that second copy Griff hoped to find.
He went through the contents of every cupboard and drawer, meticulously checking to make sure no paper was tucked inside cereal boxes or taped under a drawer or shelf.
Nothing.
Little mewling sounds of frustration and near panic came from his throat. He glanced wildly around, his eyes stinging with the sweat that rolled from him in the camper’s hot, stale air. A second later, he spotted the small, compact refrigerator, an obvious but still ideal hiding place. More than once he had stashed the Rimrock’s weekend receipts in the kitchen freezer himself.
He opened the door, barely noticing the cooled air that washed over him. Fumbling with frantic haste, he searched through its meager contents. When he lifted a half-full carton of milk from its shelf, it slipped from his hand and fell to the floor. He snatched it up, but not before milk glugged out, leaving a small, white puddle on the vinyl flooring.
Out of habit, Griff tore off some paper towels and mopped up the spill, then opened a lower cupboard to throw the sodden towels in the plastic wastebasket. By pure chance, he
noticed a wadded-up sheet of paper torn from a spiral notebook. Something was written on it, but only one word was visible. And that word was Gold.
For a split second, he froze. Half afraid to believe it was significant, Griff scooped up the balled sheet and tossed the sodden towels in the basket. With painstaking care, he smoothed out the crumpled sheet and read the words written on it.
His heart tripped over itself as a gurgle of triumphant laughter rose in his throat. A pulse beat later, he erupted with it, tears of joy and relief running down his sweaty cheeks. Clutching the paper to his chest, he did a graceless pirouette and bumped into the table, hard enough to jar him to his senses. Swallowing back the hysterical laughter, he gazed at the paper again, then carefully tucked it in his pants pocket and glanced around the trailer to make certain that everything was in its proper place.
A visual check of the ranch yard confirmed that no one was about. Confident that Tobe hadn’t returned yet, Griff slipped out of the camper and trotted across the empty yard and down the lane to the draw where he’d left his truck.
In all, his search of the camper had used up almost two hours. Mentally he calculated the time it would take to gather the things he would need, and he knew there’d still be some daylight left. The Sommers woman already had a head start on him and he wasn’t about to let it get any larger.
The paper crackled in his pocket when he slid behind the wheel. Griff chuckled again at his good fortune, then shook his head in amazement that the Sommers woman hadn’t burned it. Too trusting, that’s what she was.
The sun hung low in the western sky when Tobe walked out of the barn, toting the pail of warm, fresh milk. Abandoning the kittens, Dulcie ran to catch up with him, then had to trot to stay even with him.
“I’m hungry,” she began.
“You should’ve eaten that other bologna sandwich I fixed for you,” he grumbled in ill temper.
Dulcie stole a quick glance at him, noting his irritable scowl, and refrained from reminding him that she didn’t like bologna. “What are we gonna have for supper?” she asked instead.
“How should I know?”
Wisely, Dulcie didn’t respond to that. Tobe had been in a sour mood all day, ever since Fargo had rode out with Luke and Angie that morning.
Her stomach rumbled a reminder of its emptiness. Deciding that if she was hungry Tobe had to be as well, she ventured hesitantly, “Maybe if you had something to eat, you’d feel better.”
Tobe shot her a look of exasperation. “Food isn’t going to make me feel better.”
Certain that she would, she was puzzled that he wouldn’t. “Why?”
“Because I’d have to cook it, that’s why,” he snapped in answer, then followed through with the thought. “Just like I’ve had to do everything else by myself—the work, the chores, everything—while they’re off lookin’ for the gold.” He got madder about being left behind every time he thought about it, and he’d thought of little else all day long. Rebelling, Tobe declared, “I’ll tell you one thing for sure—I’m not doin’ any cookin’.”
Halting in her tracks, Dulcie stared at him, horror-struck and ravenous. “You’re not?!”
“No, I am not,” he asserted, with a determined jut of his chin. “We’re goin’ into town to eat. And Luke’s gonna pay for it, too. Room and board, that’s what he’s supposed to furnish. There was nothing in the agreement about me having to cook the food and wash the dishes.”
Relieved to hear they weren’t going to starve, Dulcie ran after her brother. “But how can Luke pay for it? He isn’t here.”
“We’ll just tell Ima Jane to charge our dinner to him.”
Dulcie’s stomach growled noisily all the way into town. When they arrived at the Rimrock Bar & Grill, only one other vehicle was parked in the lot. It was almost as empty inside.
“Hey, Ima Jane, bring me a beer and a Coke for Dulcie, will ya?” Tobe called to the woman behind the bar and slid into a vacant booth. Dulcie climbed in on the other side. “You’d better be deciding what you’re gonna have,” he told her.
“I already know. A hamburger with fries.”
He relayed the order to Ima Jane when she arrived at the booth with his frosted mug of beer and Dulcie’s Coke, then asked for himself, “What’s the special tonight?”
“We don’t have one.”
“What do you mean? Griff always fixes one.” Tobe frowned.
In agitation, Ima Jane rubbed a hand over her apron. “Griff isn’t here tonight.”
He scowled at her in disbelief. “Not here? Griff is always here.”
“Not tonight,” she murmured, distraught over her husband’s absence and no longer able to conceal it.
“Where’d he go?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Didn’t he tell you where he was going?” Tobe asked, growing more and more confused.
“No.” Ima Jane pressed her lips tightly together, fighting back the tears.
Incredulous, Tobe stared. “Well, when’s he coming back?”
“I don’t know.” Ima Jane broke down and wailed, burying her face in the folds of her raised apron and weeping in earnest.
Momentarily at a loss for something to say or do, Tobe sat there with his mouth open. Worried that she was going to collapse right there at his feet, Tobe got up and helped her to a chair, awkwardly trying to comfort her.
“Don’t cry, Ima Jane.” He patted her shoulder. “He’ll be back.”
“No, he won’t,” she declared, with a wild and weeping shake of her head.
“You don’t know that for sure.” He tried to sound confident, a difficult task when he was feeling far from confident about anything, including the right way to console her.
“Yes . . . I . . . do,” she said between hiccoughing sobs.
“How?” The word was out before Tobe could question the wisdom of asking.
“Because he sa . . . said so,” Ima Jane replied and wept afresh.
“Why? What did you two argue about, anyway?”
“We di . . . we didn’t argue.”
“You must have fought about something,” Tobe insisted. It was the only thing that made sense.
“But we didn’t. That’s what’s so awful.” Sniffling back tears, she lifted her head, the sobs subsiding as she scrubbed at the salty wetness on her face with the heel of her hand. “He said . . . he hated this place . . . that he’d always hated it. As soon as he . . . gets the gold, he’s leaving here and never coming back.”
“Gold? What gold?” Even as he asked, Tobe knew what the answer had to be.
“The outlaw gold.” Her lower lip began trembling again.
Dumbfounded, Tobe forgot all about comforting Ima Jane and sat down in the nearest chair. “He’s going after the gold, too,” he murmured in amazement, then frowned. “But he doesn’t know where it is.” He looked at her again. “Does he?”
Ima Jane stared back at him for a long, blank second before concluding rather lamely, “He must.”
But how? That’s what Tobe wondered. Then the unfairness of it hit him all over again. Here he was stuck being chore boy while everybody else was out looking for the gold. He envied Griff for walking off and saying the devil with the restaurant. He had half a mind to do the exact same thing.
“Who’s gonna cook my hamburger then?” Dulcie asked in a small, worried voice.
For Ima Jane, the question was a prodding reminder of her new responsibility. “I will, sweetheart.” Her quick smile was a bit strained, but back in its usual place, as she rose from the chair. “And what would you like me to fix for you, Tobe?”
“Same as her, I guess.” With visions of shiny gold bars dancing in his head, food was the furthest thing from his mind at the moment.
The rock formation stood like a giant stone finger, rising some fifteen feet from the top of the hillock. The afternoon shadow it cast angled in an easterly direction toward the far side of the valley.
On a level stretch near the foot of the knoll, Angie k
icked free of the stirrups and slid to the ground. She felt the betraying quiver of leg muscles that weren’t used to so many hours in the saddle yet. Giving them a chance to recover their strength, she idly stroked the sweaty neck of the bald-faced roan and ran an admiring glance over the rough and rugged country.
The vastness of it dwarfed her, yet it invigorated her, too. It was wild and untameable, which Angie suspected was its greatest lure. She lifted her gaze to the incredible blue of the sky arcing from horizon to horizon. A scattering of clouds floated across it, plump and white as the distant snow-capped peaks.
“What’s the verdict?” Slouching in the saddle, Fargo leaned a forearm on the saddlehorn. “Is this the pillar?”
Luke glanced toward the lengthening shadow, then flipped a stirrup across the saddle seat and began loosening the cinch a notch. “It’s a little early to tell, but it doesn’t look promising. I’d say the shadow will end up pointing to that far slope, but it’ll be a while before we can tell for sure.”
“So, what’s the plan?” Fargo dismounted to stretch cramping muscles. “Are we givin’ the horses a breather and ridin’ on to the next, or what?”
Luke threw an assessing look over the area. “This is a good place to camp: level ground, the creek nearby, and plenty of deadfall for firewood. It’s your call.” He directed the statement to Angie. “We can stay or move on.”
She didn’t hesitate. “We’ll stay.”
Within an hour, Fargo had a kettle of water boiling over an open fire. Stripped of saddles and gear, the horses grazed on some nearby grass, their legs hobbled to prevent them from straying far. As Angie returned to the campsite with an armload of wood, Luke pounded a ground stake, securing the last pup tent in place.
She dumped the load onto a pile of previously gathered branches. “Do you think we’ll need more?” she asked Fargo and paused to dust off bits of bark and dirt from her hands and arms.
