Blood and Gold

Many people believe the sky is a thing separate from the earth, but it’s not—it’s part of it. And soon we’d be traveling, not under its arching canopy, but through it, golden light stretching out all around us.

Last night I’d feared to build a fire, but now, wishful for coffee, I gathered a few sticks of dry wood from the hillside, then filled the pot from the wash, where I’d seen the buffalo.

The fire I kept small, just enough to boil the coffee, and when it was done I poured a cup for Lila and brought it to her. The girl woke and smiled at me and I felt my heart thud in my chest. Lila took the coffee gratefully, handling the hot tin cup with care.

I poured coffee for myself, squatted beside her and built a smoke. I thumbed a match into flame and lit the cigarette.

“We should wake Pa,” Lila said.

I nodded. “Soon. He had a pretty restless night, crying out in his sleep an’ all. I reckon we’ll let him rest for a few more minutes.”

Lila glanced over at her sleeping father. “He’ll be just fine when we reach our farm,” she said, a wistfulness touching her voice. She looked at me, almost challenging me to say different. “I know he will.”

Me, I let it go. I’d said all I needed to say on the subject of Ned Tryon and I’d no call to speak further. Deflecting any possible questions, I said: “I reckon we’ll cross the Brazos tomorrow about twelve miles north of Round Timbers. Before then we’ll reach the headwaters of the Little Wichita and then Deepwater Creek.” I drew deep on my cigarette. “It’s good country down there, plenty of grass and wood.”

Lila picked up her cup gingerly, holding it with her thumb and forefinger by the rim. “The farm has been my dream and Pa’s dream for months,” she said. “I can hardly believe it soon will come true.”

I tossed away my cold cigarette butt. “Best we get moving,” I said.

Thirty minutes later we took to the trail again, but this time I rode the black, scouting just ahead of the wagon.

The sun was straight above my head and the day was warm when the three riders came.

And there was no mistaking the huge, yellow-haired man who rode grimly at their head, a scoped rifle across the horn of his saddle.

It was Lafe Wingo.

Chapter 13

Wingo rode my paint, and he sat upright in the saddle, heavy-shouldered, his bold blue eyes taking in everything, missing nothing. He wore a soft, thigh-length buckskin shirt decorated with Cheyenne beadwork and gray pants tucked into expensive boots. The tooled gun belt around his waist carried a long barreled Colt with ivory handles and he affected the elegant mustache and Imperial worn by many Texas gunmen of the period. Wingo wore a silver necklace made of disks decorated with blue stones in the Navaho manner and his thick wrists were adorned with wide, hammered silver bracelets. A gold ring with a green gem glittered on the little finger of his left hand.

He looked well-nourished and sleek, a man used to the best bonded whiskey, fine cigars and beautiful women.

Cold-blooded murder paid well, though I could understand why a man with his expensive tastes would need the thirty thousand dollars he’d been so willing to kill to acquire.

Gold and blood. The two so often went together, all summed up in this one killer.

Lafe Wingo reined up when he was a few yards from me, looked me up and down, and I saw his lips curl as he mentally dismissed me as no danger.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked, the challenge in his voice unmistakable. “You’re way off your range, ain’t you, puncher?”

I wanted badly to kill this man, but he had moved the muzzle of his rifle so it was pointing right at my belly. I could shuck a gun fast, but all Wingo had to do was twitch his trigger finger and I was a dead man. The odds were against me and right now all I could do was bide my time.

Behind Wingo a tall man in a black shirt and cowhide vest sat bent over in the saddle. I couldn’t see his face but the bottom half of his shirt was dark with crusted blood and I heard him groan in pain.

Beside the wounded outlaw rode a tall, red-bearded man with thick, untamed eyebrows and penetrating black eyes. He carried a Colt in a cross-draw holster, and unlike Wingo, this man wasn’t underestimating me. His careful eyes watched me like a hawk on the prod and right there and then I decided this man could be even more dangerous than Wingo.

The blond gunman was waiting for my answer, so I swallowed my anger and jerked a thumb over my shoulder, playing the green puncher to the hilt. “Name’s Dusty Hannah and I’m escorting a wagon down to the Brazos country.”

Wingo was suddenly interested. “Wagon? What kind of wagon?”

I shrugged. “Four-wheeled farm wagon hauled by a team of oxen.”

Wingo nodded. “They call me Lafe Wingo.” He paused, shrewd eyes boring into mine. “Mean anything to you, boy?”

I shook my head at him. “No. Should it?”