Blood and Gold

From where I was on the crest of the rise I had an excellent vantage point to study the land around me. But I noticed no telltale dust or other evidence that anyone or anything was moving out there.

To the south, toward the Edwards Plateau, sky and land merged together in a blue-gray haze, and when I turned to the north, the prairie stretched away from me, green, flat and seemingly empty of life.

Whoever had been up here, Apache or Lafe Wingo, he was gone now.

I squatted on my heels and built a smoke, letting the tensions of the last few minutes slowly ease out of me.

When I finished the cigarette I rose and ground the stub out under my heel.

It was time to return to the cabin. Lila would be getting worried.

I turned my steps back down the hill and hit the ground fast as the blast of a rifle shot thundered across the afternoon quiet.

Instinctively my eyes went to the cabin, in time to see a puff of smoke drift away in the breeze from one of the windows.

Then I heard the paint crashing around in the brush, screaming.

I took the slope of the hill at a fast run, dove for the patch of brush and rolled, coming up fast on one knee, facing the cabin.

Frightened by the sudden gunfire, the dun had trotted away a few steps from the cabin, but was now grazing near the stream. I saw nothing moving behind any of the windows.

The paint was down, kicking, and I stepped beside him. His left front leg had been shattered by the rifle bullet just below the knee and his eyes were rolling white and scared, blood spattering me from his ruined leg. I did what I had to do. I put the muzzle of the Winchester close to his head and pulled the trigger. The paint kicked once and lay still.

He’d been a good cow pony, that paint, and he’d deserved a better fate.

It could only have been Lafe Wingo who fired from the cabin. I reckoned he’d hit the paint’s leg at a distance of almost a mile, an expert marksman’s shot.

A rising rage burning in me, I ran toward the cabin, stopping now and then to take advantage of whatever meager cover was available. I knew the closer I got, the more vulnerable I became to Wingo’s rifle, but the paint’s death and my concern for Lila made me throw caution to the wind.

I moved closer to the cabin, my rifle up and ready. But no bullets came in my direction.

I crawled the last hundred yards to the cabin on my belly, pushing the Winchester out in front of me. The sun was beating down, hot on my back, and once I wriggled through a cloud of bluebonnets, sending up swarms of tiny flies.

When I reached the wall of the cabin, I stepped carefully toward the door. I reached out with the barrel of the Winchester and the door swung open easily.

Moving carefully, I set the rifle down against the stone wall, and slipped the thong off the hammer of my Colt.

It was now or never.

I shucked the revolver and sprang in front of the door, hearing the clamoring hammer of my own heartbeats in my ears.

“Wingo! Get out here!” I yelled.

All I heard in return was a mocking silence.

The cabin was empty.

Cautiously, I stepped inside and looked around, the Colt in my fist, with its hammer back and ready. There was no sign of a struggle and the food from the picnic basket lay spread out, untouched, on a gingham cloth on the table.

On the floor under the window lay a single empty rifle casing. I picked up the brass shell. It was .50-90 Sharps caliber. Wingo had shown the professional gunman’s usual prudence, taking time to reload his rifle after he’d killed the paint.

But why kill the horse and not me? I’d been an open target up there on the hill and Wingo had demonstrated that he had the rifle skill to drop me.

That question was answered when I found something I’d overlooked when I first stepped into the cabin.

Propped up on top of the mantel of the fireplace was a handwritten note, scrawled with pencil on a page torn from a tally book. A single, quick reading of the words told me all I had to know.

BRING THE 30 THOUSAND HERE TO

THE CABIN BEFORE NOON

TOMORROW OR THE GIRL DIES.

P.S. COME ALONE OR I’LL KILL

HER FOR DAMN SURE.

I stood there for long moments, staring at that scrap of paper, my own guilt and my dreadful fear for Lila icing my insides.

The girl had trusted me!

Lila had seen me hastily ride away just before Lafe Wingo arrived. Did she think I’d run out on her to save my own skin and left her to the wolves?

What else could she think?

I figured Wingo had been up on the hill, and he let me see sunlight flash on his rifle or on the silver ornaments he wore. Then he had ridden down the other side and swung wide to approach the cabin from behind. By the time I’d reached the hill and had a good view of the surrounding country he had already made his move.

Wingo was a sure-thing killer who made a living shooting from ambush. He knew how to take advantage of every scrap of cover and had melted into the surrounding low hills and brush like a hungry cougar.

The gunman had outfoxed me every step of the way, and Lila was the one who’d paid for it.