Blood and Gold

A hunter, I thought, trying to convince myself that was the case. But who would hunt in a pounding rain when all the animals were taking shelter?

I had no answer for that and decided to let it go. It was time I got back to the cave, picked up my bits and pieces and hit the trail south, away from these silent, threatening hills.

All things considered, I’d be real glad when I got back to Texas and handed Ma Prather her money. After that, I could live a normal life again and start seriously courting pretty Sally Coleman with an eye to making her my wife.

I was in the act of swinging my horse around when something caught my eye, just a flicker of movement at the base of the bluff. I stood in the stirrups and studied the area—and saw a horse walk slowly from the bluff then stop and begin to graze.

It was a big, rangy buckskin and it could only be Luke Butler’s horse. But where was the bandit’s body?

Curiosity has always been one of my failings, and now like a complete fool I gave in to it.

I rode toward the horse, keeping my rifle close to hand. For the first time I saw where the wet grass had been trampled flat by the passage of Kennedy’s mount and the dead man’s buckskin. As far as I could make out, the tracks led to the edge of the bluff, then swung wide around its slanting base.

The rain was even heavier now, fair hammering down, and I reckoned the creeks that cut between the hills would soon flood their banks. The branches of the red cedars were heavy with water, drooping for lornly almost to the ground, and fast-running rivulets poured down the rusty sides of the surrounding buttes and mesas, bringing with them white streaks of gypsum.

The buckskin raised his head when he saw me coming, studied me for a few moments, then, unconcerned, went back to his grazing.

Where was Butler’s body? And where was Clem Kennedy?

That second question was soon answered.

Kennedy lay half-hidden in the grass about fifty yards from the bluff. He was lying on his back, his eyes wide-open, a soundless scream frozen on his gaping mouth, teeth long and yellow against the stark gray of his face.

I swung out of the saddle and kneeled beside the man’s body. Kennedy had been shot three times, once by me, and twice more by a person—or persons—unknown. One shot had merely grazed his neck, but the second, deadlier bullet had crashed smack into the middle of his forehead.

I stood and looked around. There was no sign of Kennedy’s horse or anything else for that matter, just the grazing buckskin, the hills and the gray clouds and the streaming rain.

Clem Kennedy was an ill-natured man who had made his share of enemies. But why kill him all the way out here, in the middle of nowhere in a pounding rainstorm?

Unless . . .

Had his killer heard the gunshots from back at the cave and believed Kennedy had already robbed me of the money I was carrying? That was a real possibility. And since the bushwhacker hadn’t found the saddlebags on Kennedy’s horse, he must know I still had them.

I held my Winchester in both hands at the high port as I prepared to walk back to my paint, the hairs at the back of my neck rising.

Was the killer still here? And was I already in his sights?

I had no time to answer that question . . . because I’d not taken three steps when the sky fell on me.

Chapter 3

I didn’t hear the report of the rifle, but I felt the smashing impact of the heavy bullet that crashed against my head and felled me to the ground.

I lay there stunned, unable to move. The shot had paralyzed me. I couldn’t feel my arms and legs but I tasted the smoky tang of blood mixed with rain as blood ran down my face and into my mouth.

My eyes were just half-open slits, but they were open wide enough for me to see four men leave the base of the bluff and walk toward me. As they got closer, I saw a tall man, long yellow hair spilling over his shoulders from under his hat, leave the others and sprint toward me.

“Yee-ha!” the man yelled, grinning from ear to ear, punching into the air. “Lookee here, boys! I nailed him right through the head.”

Despite the scarlet haze of blood pouring into my eyes, I made out the .50-90 Sharps rifle the man was carrying, some kind of brass telescopic sight running the entire length of the barrel.

“Lafe, does he have the money?” another man asked.

“Hell, he wouldn’t be carrying it on him,” the yellow-haired man said. “Search them saddlebags on the paint.”

There was a few moments’ silence; then I heard a man’s exultant yell: “It’s here, Lafe! Every damn cent of it.”

“Lemme see that,” Lafe said.

Through stinging eyes that I could barely hold open, I saw the four men gather around the saddlebags.

“Hell,” Lafe whispered, “I ain’t seen that much money in all my born days.” He threw the saddlebags over his shoulder. “Right, let’s get out of here. And I want that paint. Hell, he must go sixteen hands if he’s an inch.”