Blood and Gold

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?”

The realization came to me then that Wingo, with the hired killer’s total disregard for his victims, didn’t recognize me. He had shot me at a distance, then up close had kicked me in the ribs, but to him I’d been another faceless, nameless nonentity who’d fallen to his gun.

“My name means much to many people in many places,” Wingo said, his gunman’s pride wounded. “I guess you’ve led a sheltered life.”

He nodded to the man slumped in the saddle. “This here is Hank Owens. He’s gut-shot and I don’t expect him to live.” He jutted his chin toward the bearded man. “That’s his brother Ezra. We had a run-in with Apaches last night and Hank was gut-shot and Charlie, another brother, was killed.”

Alone among Indians, Apaches usually chose not to fight at night, believing that a warrior unfortunate enough to get killed must wander for all eternity in darkness. But the Apache is notional, and he’ll fight in the dark if put to it, especially if he senses an advantage.

My life depended on me playing the part of the innocent young puncher, so I looked at Ezra and said: “I’m mighty sorry about your brother, mister.”

The man shrugged, his black eyes unreadable. “Charlie was all right. Had him a limp and he talked too much was all.”

Hank Owens groaned. He lifted his head and looked at Wingo. “Lafe, you got to get me to a doctor. My belly’s on fire.”

Wingo turned to the man and smiled. “We got a wagon for you to ride in, Hank. I reckon we can make you right comfortable.”

“Where are you headed?” I said, knowing what the answer would be as soon as I asked the question.

“Why, where you’re headed, boy. I guess the Brazos country is as good as anyplace else and we may need an extry rifle before we’re done,” Wingo answered. He smiled, his eyes mean. “That is, if you can hit anything with a rifle.”

“I do all right,” I said, refusing to be baited. My eyes slid to my saddlebags slung behind Wingo’s blanket roll and the man, missing nothing, demanded suspiciously: “You got something stuck in your craw, boy? If you do, spit it out.”

I shook my head at him. “No, I was just admiring your paint. Nice pony.”

Wingo’s suspicions were not laid to rest. “You mind your business, boy,” he said. “That is, if you want to keep on breathing.”

Lafe Wingo was a trouble-hunting man and right now he held all the aces, so I bit my tongue and said nothing.

Figuring he’d intimidated me enough, the gunman asked: “Where’s your wagon?”

“Back along the trail a ways,” I answered.

Wingo nodded. “Let’s go.”

With me leading the way, we rode up on the wagon a few minutes later.

Wingo’s eyes immediately moved to Ned Tryon and, with the skilled gunman’s sharp perception, saw him for what he was and dismissed him with a disdainful curl of his lip.

Not so with Lila.

She had removed her cloak and the shameless wind was busily molding her dress to her legs and the womanly curves of her slender body. Her hair was tied back in a pink ribbon and her large, expressive eyes, when she looked at Wingo, revealed an odd mix of alarm and fascination.

For his part, Wingo leaned forward in the saddle and grinned. “Well, well, what have we here?” He brushed his sweeping mustache with the back of his finger and asked, his voice silky: “What’s your name, pretty lady?”

Something akin to jealousy flared in me. I didn’t want Lila speaking to this man, so before she could answer, I said: “This is Lila Tryon and her pa over there is Ned.” Then without really knowing why, I added: “They’re farmers.”

Wingo reared back in the saddle and let out a loud guffaw, and even Ezra’s grim mouth stretched slightly in a grudging smile.

“An’ I’m the king o’ Prussia,” Wingo roared. He nodded toward Ned. “Him, just maybe.” His hot, eager eyes moved to Lila. “But little lady, a fine-looking gal like you was never meant to walk a furrow behind a mule’s butt.”

The blond gunman’s insolent, experienced gaze slowly took in Lila from the top of her head to her shoes. I could tell he was undressing her in his mind as he went, stripping her naked garment by garment, anticipating.

And Lila felt it.

Her cheeks flushed and she snapped: “Nevertheless, my father and I are farmers and we can think of nothing we’d rather do than plow our own land.”

Wingo nodded, his smile slipped and his face hardened. “I prophesy before we reach the Brazos I’ll make you change your mind on that score.”

Lila opened her mouth to speak, but Ned surprised me. “You let my daughter be, mister,” he said, taking a step closer to Wingo, his fists clenched. “She’s young and she doesn’t yet understand the ways of the world.”

“Then I’ll teach her,” the gunman said, his eyes ugly. “Same way I teach a horse, with a whip if necessary.” Up until then Wingo had ignored Ned, but he turned to him. “And you, from now on keep your trap shut. I don’t want to hear nothing from you. Open your mouth again, an’ I’ll close it permanently with a bullet.”

Wingo had laid it on the line and I felt the weight of my Colt as the gun lay heavy at my side, the handle between my elbow and wrist. Hank was out of it, but if put to it, could I draw fast enough to drop both Wingo and Ezra?

No, I decided, that would be a suicide play. From what I’d heard, both gunman were faster than me, and if we were equals, it would probably mean we’d all three be lying dead on the ground and nothing would be resolved.

I knew that for now I had to bide my time and swallow whatever insults came my way or were directed at Lila and her pa.

As it happened, the tense moment passed when Hank toppled out of the saddle and hit the ground with a thud.

Wingo turned to Ezra. “Get him in the wagon.” He nodded at me. “You, boy, go help him.”

I swung out of the saddle and helped Ezra carry his groaning brother to the tailgate of the wagon. Wingo dismounted and stepped beside us.

His glance took in Lila’s organ and the dresser and he snapped: “Get that stuff out of there,” he said.

“This damn wagon will be slow enough without us hauling all that junk.”

Lila ran beside us. “Leave it alone,” she cried. “It was my ma’s furniture, just about all she ever owned.”

“Well, your ma ain’t here,” Wingo snapped. He jerked his head at me. “Boy, toss it all out.”

Lila opened her mouth to protest again, but I took her by the arm and turned her to me. “Lila,” I said urgently, “let it go. We’ll come back for it, trust me.”

Wingo grinned. “Sure you will, boy, sure you will. Now do like I told you.”

I climbed into the wagon and, as gently as I could, removed the dresser and organ and stood them on the grass beside the trail. Then I helped Ezra get Hank into the wagon.

Lila bit her lip, her face very pale.

I stepped beside her. “It will be all right, Lila,” I whispered. “Now isn’t the time.”

The girl looked at me like I’d just crawled out from under a rock. “You could have stopped this,” she said. “You didn’t even try.”

Wingo, who was standing close by, overheard and laughed. “Oh, he could have tried, little lady. Only thing is, right now he’d be dead.” He looked at me, his blue eyes hard. “What’s your opinion on that, boy?”

Playing the part of the green puncher again, I shrugged. “I don’t see much point in dying over a tinpanny organ.”

Wingo nodded. “Boy, you named that tune, sure enough.”

He looked down at the grimacing Hank. “How you feeling?”

“I’m hurting bad, Lafe,” Hank gasped, his lips very white against the leathery brown of his face and beard. “Just . . . just get me to a doctor.”

Wingo smiled, a cruel, uncaring smirk. “You’re gut-shot, Hank. There ain’t a damn thing a doc can do for you.” He motioned to Lila. “See to him.”

It was in the girl’s mind to refuse, I could tell, but in the end she stepped beside Hank and brushed the man’s hair away from his forehead. “You won’t let me die, will you, little lady?” the gunman asked, desperation in his eyes.

“I’ll do what I can for you,” Lila answered.

She walked to my horse and got the canteen from the saddle, poured water into her handkerchief and tenderly dabbed it over Hank’s parched lips. “Don’t swallow,” she said. “But it will help you feel less thirsty.”

Hank saw me standing behind Lila. “What the hell are you looking at?” he demanded.

“Nothing,” I said.

“Then get the hell away from me,” Hank yelled, his fevered eyes wild.

Wingo laughed. “Don’t gun the boy just yet, Hank,” he said. “We may need him.”

He turned to Ezra. “Mount up.” And to me: “You too. We got some ground to cover before nightfall.”

I swung into the saddle and Ned Tryon whipped the oxen into motion. Lila tied Hank’s mount to the rear of the wagon and many times afterward I heard the outlaw moan as the wheels jolted over ruts on the trail and the terrible pain in his belly consumed him.

Wingo rode in the lead, his eyes constantly searching the trail ahead and the surrounding low hills.

I noticed that Ezra always rode behind me, wary and alert. It occurred to me that the man didn’t trust me, and the reason became apparent when he suddenly kneed his horse beside mine.

“Haven’t I seen you someplace, boy?” he asked. “Seems to me your face is mighty familiar.”

I felt a sudden jolt of unease. Did Ezra Owens see my face as I lay on the ground after Wingo shot me? Did he remember me?

Trying to make light of it, I said: “I’ve been up the trail a few times, to Dodge mostly. Could be you’ve seen me there.”

Ezra’s eyes were thoughtful. “Maybe so.” He shook his head. “Nope, I just can’t recollect, but it will come back to me by and by.”

Right then I realized how fast I was running out of room on the dance floor. If Ezra remembered me, then he’d figure why I was here and after that my life wouldn’t be worth a plugged nickel.

If I was to make my move and get back the money, I’d have to do it soon—even if the odds weren’t in my favor.

And now I had an even more urgent concern: Lila.

Lafe Wingo was accustomed to taking what he wanted, and he wanted the girl. Soon, very soon, I’d have to stand between them, and that meant a gunfight with two skilled pistoleros, a fight I was not sure I could win.

It was a worrisome thing, and as we rode through the blazing heat of the day, my churning mind uncovered only more and more problems but no solutions.

Above me, I saw buzzards wheel in the sky, grim messengers of death.

But whose death?

I didn’t know it then, but I would have that answer sooner than I expected.