Blood and Gold

“Sure did.”

“I’ve never seen one man eat so much.”

I smiled at her. “What did you eat, Lila?”

“Why, I”—she hesitated—“well, not nearly as much as you did, I can tell you that.” Lila looked at me, frowning a little. “Dusty, I meant what I said when I told Ma I want to go to my own place. It’s the end of one journey for me, and the beginning of another that I’m anxious to start. I can’t stay here dependent on Ma’s charity.”

“Lila, it’s not charity. Ma will love having you here. She never had any children her ownself and she’ll treat you like a daughter.”

Lila nodded. “She already has. But I still want my own home.”

I rose to my feet, needful of a smoke, knowing tobacco in any form was another thing Ma would not tolerate in the house. “I’ll go talk to Deke Stockton. If he didn’t come across any Apache sign, maybe we can ride out to your place tomorrow.”

Lila rose and came into my arms. “Thank you, Dusty. It will mean so much to me.”

I kissed her lightly on the cheek, then stepped outside and walked to the bunkhouse, Lila’s warm woman smell still lingering in my consciousness.

When I stepped inside, Deke was sitting on a bunk, smoking. I looked around and saw that Jim had already moved in pretty Sally Coleman’s very much battered and torn Dodge City bonnet, my blanket roll, yellow slicker and booted Winchester.

This was just as well because I didn’t want to sleep in the house anymore. Ma’s brand of fussing and her soft feather beds could weaken a man.

Deke looked up as I came inside, letting in a gust of rain and wind, and he waved a limp hand in careless greeting in my direction.

Deke Stockton was a man of about my height and size and maybe ten years older. He was a good hand but pinched and sour, all tight-mouthed and closed in on himself. Yet horses, dogs and little children were attracted to him and he to them, a thing I could never understand.

“Howdy, Deke,” I said. “Heard you ride in.”

The man nodded. “Getting wet out there.”

“I’d say so.” I waited a spell, then asked: “See any Apache sign?”

Deke shook his head. “Like I told Miz Prather, I rode as far as Cottonwood Creek, then doubled back to the Deepwater and saw nary a thing. After that, I made a wide loop around the ranch. Apart from an old bull elk I surprised up in the hills north of here, I saw nothing.”

“Think Victorio has pulled his freight?” I asked.

Deke shrugged. “Who can tell? You know how it is with Apaches. I could have rode right past a passel of them and never even knowed it.” He looked up at me. “Hear tell you had a brush or two with Apaches your ownself.”

“Sure did,” I said. “And all I want now is to stay well away from them.”

Deke rose stiffly to his feet and ground out his cigarette under his heel. “Seems to me that around these parts, that’s getting mighty hard to do.”

The puncher stepped to the door and opened it wide, looking out morosely at the slanting rain. “I got to see to my horse,” he said. “Mind if I borry your slicker?”

“Go right ahead,” I said. “I reckon I’ll turn in.”

I watched Deke shrug into my coat, then step outside.

A few moments later a single rifle shot shattered the evening quiet, its ringing racket clamoring around the corrals and buildings of the SP like the hammer of an angry god on an anvil.

Chapter 20

I grabbed my rifle and rushed outside. Jim Meldrum was running from the barn, a Colt in each hand.

“What happened?” he yelled.

But I made no answer, because Deke Stockton was lying facedown on the ground a few yards away, his hat tumbling past the corral, blown by the wind.

I ran to Deke and turned the man over. His eyes were wide-open, but he was beyond seeing anything. A bullet had crashed into his forehead, about where his hatband began. He must have been dead when he hit the ground.

Meldrum stood beside me, looking down at the dead man. “Apaches?”

I shook my head at him. “Jim, Deke was wearing my slicker.”

I rose to my feet in time to see the dawning realization on Meldrum’s face. “Lafe Wingo,” he whispered.

“And he’s still out there,” I said.

Ma and Lila were standing on the porch of the house, looking over at us, their faces pale, bodies stiff with shock.

I turned and stepped quickly toward the barn. “Where are you going?” Meldrum called out after me.

“After Wingo.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No,” I threw over my shoulder. “You stay close to Lila and Ma.”

I figured the paint was still worn-out, so I threw my saddle on a lineback dun and left the barn at a lope. Tired as I was, weak as I felt, I had to go after Wingo. He’d killed once and he could already be setting up to kill again.

In the first hour, I rode around the ranch, each time widening my loop across that dark, open country. There were a few cottonwoods growing along the streambeds and a scattering of post oak, mesquite, pinon and some juniper on the slopes of the low hills, but little else by way of trees,