Crossing to the coat he touched it with gentle fingers, and found a piece of board shoved down in the inside pocket. On it something had been scratched with a nail:
Just rode in, Lew Stebbins—
Monty Short—a stranger.
It was signed by Pike.
He stepped outside and looked slowly around. By now they would be miles from here, for they had not known he was coming. In growing fear he realized what they must have left behind. Grimly, he dropped the coat to his feet and slipped the thong off of his right-hand gun. He listened, and heard only the trickle of water, the wind, and an aimless tapping that came at intervals. The tapping drew him and he walked around the end of the corral toward the shed.
* * *
PIKE WAS SUSPENDED by his wrists, arms spread wide and tied to poles of the shed wall. His chin hung down on his chest, and his toes just barely touched the earth. His shirt had been ripped from his body and his body had been beaten by a length of trace chain which now hung over the top bar of the corral. It was the wind, moving that chain in the hard gusts, that caused the tapping he had heard.
Pike had been dead for several hours, yet he had lived long enough.…With one toe he had scratched an arrow, pointing west.
* * *
UNTIL HE HAD met Pike, the trails Jake Molina had ridden were ridden alone, for it was his nature to ride alone, to ask nothing of any man but to be let alone. With Pike he had gone up the trail to Kansas, and he knew what Pike would have done for him, and what he must do for Pike. Above all there was Tom Gore’s family to think of, and those neighbors who had trusted him with their cattle.
He buried Pike where the shack cast a shadow, and put a marker over the grave. Once, straightening up suddenly, he caught a flash of light from a hillside, and then he worked on and finished his job, sure he was being watched.
He rode out of the ranch yard at a lope and went up to the crest of the ridge, then went west holding to the skyline. Usually a bad thing to do, he did it now because the country lay wide and he’d rather see than worry about being seen. He headed due west, following the trail of the three riders until it broke off and went into the badlands to the south.
* * *
ON THE THIRD morning he started early and when well down the trail he turned off and doubled back parallel to the route he had followed. He was back behind a clump of mesquite but had the trail fairly covered, and he waited no more than an hour.
Through the leaves he saw a man in a black suit coat and a black hat of more expensive make than a cowhand could afford. The man’s face was wide and strongly boned, and although his saddle was worn from use, the boots had been well polished before the dust fell on them.
When the man had gone by Molina stepped into the trail. “You’d better have a good reason for following me, mister, and I’d better like the reason.”
“I believe we should talk,” the man said. “I think we’re doing the same job.”
Molina waited, never taking his eyes off the stranger.
“You buried a man back yonder, and you’re trailing the three men who killed him. I want those men, too,” the man continued.
“If you’re the law you’re not needed. If you’re an outlaw you’re trailing men who don’t want company.”
“I’m a Pinkerton man.”
“Most places that would get you killed.”
“My name is Hale. Do you know who you’re following?”
“Pike told me.”
Hale looked at him carefully. “Now that’s interesting. Pike was dead before you got there because I was there before you were. He couldn’t tell you anything.”
Molina took the piece of shingle from his pocket, and explained how he found it.
“Pike was a shrewd man. He also knew me, and he knew how I think. He also knew that I know what they want, and somehow he thought things out so that when they lead me to the place, I’ll be the one who finds it.”
“Money?”
“Yes…it belongs to friends of ours.”
Hale lit a cigar. “My job is to get those men and I can use help just as much as you can. Monty Short is a gunman, and Stebbins was a buffalo hunter, and is one of the best rifle shots around. I don’t know the other man, but I’ve an idea. Why don’t we ride together?”
“Up to you…I’m riding west. Come along if you’ve a mind to.”
* * *
THE COUNTRY WAS broken into canyons now, the slopes covered with scattered juniper. Nor was the trail difficult to follow, for at no time had there been an effort to conceal it; the men had no reason to believe themselves followed.
“Nobody ever comes into this country,” Molina said, “too dry for ranching these years, no more buffalo, so the Comanches rarely come. It’s an empty land.”
“Want to tell me about the money?”
“Tom Gore drove cattle belonging to some friends and himself to Dodge. He sold out for thirty thousand in gold and started home, and then he got the idea that some of his hands were going to rob him, so he gave a message to Pike telling him to take it to the ranch, and telling where the gold was, then he slipped out one night and hid the gold. When they murdered him for it a few nights later, they found nothing.”
“And you know where it is?”
“Only Pike knew, so Pike had to tell them when he saw they were going to kill him, anyway. Otherwise nobody would ever know where it was…he’s relying on me to trail them and find it before they do, failing that, to take it from them.”
“A large order.”
It was cold, with a chill wind blowing over the country and moaning in the canyons. The trail of the three riders had vanished. Hale studied the earth, but saw nothing. Molina did not slow his pace, nor did he pause to look around.
“You know where you’re going?” Hale asked mildly.
“Sure…only three ways they can go from out here. Everything in the desert that moves has to move toward a water hole. Over there,” he pointed southeast, “are the Comanche Wells…seventy miles as the crow flies, and out of the way for Tom Gore, who was heading home.
“Gore was coming from the northwest, but he never got this far. So the Wells are out. That leaves Lost Lake and the Wagon Camp. They found Gore’s body at Lost Lake, so my guess would be Wagon Camp or some dry camp near there.”
“I see.” Hale considered the subject. “What if they don’t think the same way?”
“They will. They’ve got to. All life is tied to water holes here, and they know every camp because two of them, at least, rode with Gore when he was killed.”
Molina drew up, studying the ground. He walked his horse forward a little, then drew up again. “That’s funny. They’re going to Lost Lake.”
Hale lit a cigar and waited. He was out of his depth and realized it. He had believed himself a good tracker, yet he could see nothing here, no sign of passage more than a crow might have left. Molina rode on a few steps further, then returned.
“They’re going to Lost Lake, so we’ll cut across country to Wagon Camp.”
“What if we lose them?”
“We won’t.”
* * *
THEY CAME UP to Wagon Camp in the cool of the evening, and watered their horses at the seep and stood in the stillness looking around them. The wind ruffled the water in the pool, and Molina looked around carefully. A quail called in the shadows.
“We’re here,” Hale said, “or were you just guessing?”
“The gold will be here,” Molina said. “I’m sure of it.”
Squatting over a small fire built from gathered sticks and buffalo chips, Hale began to prepare their food. He was a big man and in his shirt sleeves the bulging muscles in his arms stretched his shirt. He wore suspenders and sleeve garters. Jake dipped water for coffee and gathered more fuel.
The Wagon Camp was only slightly less barren than the country around. Here where the water from the seep irrigated a small meadow and some bordering trees, there were two dozen scattered cottonwoods, several of them huge and ancient; there were some vines, willow brush, and further away, low-growing mesquite and prickly pear.
“We’ve got a day for sure,” Molina said, “another day for possible. Then we can get set for trouble, because they’ll be along.”