Blood and Gold

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.

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.

She might have still been outside the cabin when Wingo arrived and he’d surprised her so completely she didn’t even get a chance to cry out.

She’d trusted me and I’d betrayed that trust. And that thought was like a stake through my heart.

Me, I’ve never been what you’d call a drinking man, but now I picked up the bottle of wine, knocked the top off and sat with it on the stoop of the cabin.

It took me an hour to finish the bottle, and when it was empty and I tossed it away, I felt no better. And maybe a lot worse.

Feeling sick and light-headed, I caught up the dun and it took me several attempts, my foot slipping out of the stirrup, before I clambered into the saddle. I rode back to where the paint lay, and retrieved my own saddle and bridle, then swung the dun toward the SP.

As I rode, the afternoon light began to wane, shading slowly into dusk. Above me, a pale lemon sky was streaked with scarlet and out among the shallow, shadowed hills the shameless coyotes were already talking.

Many thoughts crowded into my alcohol-fuddled brain, each one loudly clamoring for attention.

But one called out louder than all the rest.

I would not ask Ma Prather for the thirty thousand dollars. That money, earned hard, was all that stood between the SP Connected and ruin.

I would have to find another way.

If there was another way.