Blood and Gold

As I untied the picnic basket from the back of the paint, I glanced around at the surrounding country—in time to see a single flash of light among the juniper and curly mesquite at the crest of a low rise to the south.

The flash was brief, just an instant of sunlight glinting on something reflective, a drop of rain on a leaf maybe . . . or on metal.

Pretending to be unconcerned, I strolled back to the cabin with the basket, whistling through my teeth. I opened the door and stepped inside.

I dropped the basket on the table and smiled at Lila: “While you’re getting the picnic things laid out, I’m going to ride out toward the creek a short ways,” I said.

“Whatever for?” Lila asked. She opened the basket. “Ma, or Mr. Fullerton more likely, has done us proud. Fried chicken, fresh bread, a whole apple pie and . . . oh look, Dusty, a bottle of wine.”

There’s a time for explanations, but now wasn’t that time. “It all looks mighty good,” I said, “and I’m as hungry as a coyote with a toothache.” Then, without any further explanation I opened the door. “Be right back.”

“But . . . but . . .”

“Be right back,” I said again. I stepped to the paint, swung into the saddle and turned south, in the direction where I’d seen the flash of light.

I was becoming more and more convinced the glare, brief as it was, had been no accident of nature. I believed I’d caught the glint of a gun barrel or a concho, and that could mean Apaches . . . or Lafe Wingo.

Whatever happened next, I knew I must draw the danger away from the cabin and Lila.

But as it happened, that was a hasty, ill-conceived notion, and it turned out to be one of the biggest mistakes I ever made in my life.

Chapter 21

I knew Lila would be standing at the cabin door, watching me go. I turned and there she was, her hands on her hips, her head tilted to one side in complete bafflement. I waved, and kept on riding.

Me, I never thought of myself as an especially brave man, but at the same time I figured I was no coward. All I knew was that I didn’t want Wingo, or the Apaches, trapping Lila and me inside the cabin.

The walls were stout—that was sure—but if a body had a mind to, he could keep us pinned up in there until the contents of the picnic basket ran out and we’d be forced to make a break for it—and then, out in the open, we’d be sitting ducks.

Ma and Jim Meldrum wouldn’t come looking for us either, at least not for a few days, thinking Lila and me had stayed on at the cabin to get the place ready.

I figured the path I’d chosen was the right one. Better to meet the danger, whatever it was, head on and get it over with, hopefully to my advantage.

I rode across the meadow, the paint knee-deep in grass and bluebonnets, and the only sound was the buzz of insects and the faint whisper of the wind.

The sun was now straight above me in the sky and the day was hot. When I cleared the meadow I reined in and listened—for what I did not know. I took off my hat and wiped my sweaty brow with the sleeve of my shirt, my eyes scanning everywhere around me.

But the land lay still and nothing moved under the burning sun, the jangle of the paint’s bit chiming loud in the quiet as he tossed his head against flies.

To the south lay the vast limestone bedrock of the Edwards Plateau. But even this far north, a few narrow veins of limestone ran under the prairie, now and then jutting dramatically above the flat grassland, the rock carved into fantastic shapes by the action of wind and rain.

The rise where I’d seen the gleam of light lay just ahead of me and I replaced my hat and slid the Winchester from the boot. Riding even more warily, I found, near the foot of the low hill, a narrow patch of brush and scrub oak that offered a chance of concealment.

I swung out of the saddle and pulled the paint into the brush. The hill, if you could call it that, was very shallow, rising no more than forty feet above the plain, studded with mesquite and juniper, brilliant swathes of bluebonnets growing here and there among the grass.

I whispered gently to the horse and led him into the brush. Then I stepped onto the slope, rifle at the ready. Moving carefully from one patch of brush to another, I made my way to the crest and got a big surprise. The top of the hill was only about ten yards wide before it sloped away on all sides to form a ridged horseshoe shape below on the plain, enclosing about ten acres of flat land.

Glancing around, I saw no immediate sign that anyone had been up there. But as I scouted around and kneeled to examine the ground more closely, I noticed a small rock had been displaced, lying on its side, revealing some damp earth where it had once lain.

Somebody had been up here very recently—and I was sure I’d seen the glint of the sun on his rifle.

I stood and looked back at the cabin about a mile behind me. The dun still stood, hip shot, outside the cabin, but I saw no sign of Lila.