Four men who waited for the slightest move, four men ready to shoot and to kill…and at one side, an old man with a rifle, taking no part, but also ready to kill. And a girl who prepared a meal in the midst of it, who went about her task as though the scene were as peaceful as it actually appeared.
An hour went by, and the wind skittered a few leaves along the ground, stirred the green hands of the cottonwoods.
A storm was coming.…
Immediately, Jake Molina began to think of how he could turn the storm to advantage. He had been waiting for the others to move…he would wait no longer.
Hale had to have his prisoners, but all Molina had to have was the gold. Too many people needed that money, and although it would make none of them rich, it would help them through the bad times…especially the Gore family, who would have no husband now, and no father.
And Hale might be dead…there had been no move from the shoulder he could see, or no move that he had observed.
Taking his Colt from its holster, Molina touched his tongue to dry lips and stood up. He might outflank and drive them into the open, for where they were hidden there was no more shelter than either he or Hale had.
He moved swiftly, dodging into a position behind another tree, and the shot that came was much too late…next time they would be prepared for him.
Ruth had merely glanced up from her fire. Barnes had shifted position enough so that he was on one knee ready for the final shot, when his chance came.
There was a big tree in the direction he was headed, not over fifteen feet away, but that was where they would expect him to go. Straight ahead of him was another cottonwood, almost in line with his present hiding place. He ducked around his tree and ran and as a head and a rifle came up he fired—fired as his right foot hit ground. He saw the man jerk and drop his rifle, drop from sight, and then a hand came swiftly up to grab the rifle.
He was closer now, and he was out of the trees except to his right or left.
He was sure the man in the hole had not been wounded badly, probably only a burn, or even more likely, just a bullet passed his ear. But enough to make him cautious about lifting his head.
No move from Hale, and none from the second of the murderers, but Molina was not fooled…the other man was there, waiting.
It was point-blank range now, and no chance to get to one of those trees to right or left, but it was no more than sixty feet to where the one man lay waiting. He swung his eyes, peering past the tree, trying to find the second man.
Suddenly a voice called out, “Barnes! We’ll split even if you get Molina!”
Barnes hesitated, and in that instant, Hale came up out of the basin by the pool, gun in hand. He took one quick step to the right and fired across the rocks behind the pool.
The man opposite Molina started to rise and Molina sprang from behind his tree and ran three quick steps toward him, slid to a halt and fired. The gunman had leaped up, but the bullet caught him in the shoulder and spun him halfway around.
Barnes lifted his rifle to fire and Ruth threw the coffeepot at him. It struck him alongside the head and ruined his aim. The buffalo gun went off into the air and Molina sprang into position half behind Monty Short where he could cover both the wounded Short and Barnes.
And that was the end of it.
Hale was walking toward them. “Van Hagan’s out of it,” he said. “Short, you’re wanted for robbery. I’m a Pinkerton man.”
Barnes got up slowly, holding the side of his head and moaning between agonized curses. The full coffeepot had not only scalded his face and shoulder, but the edge of the pot had cut his scalp and a thin trickle of blood ran down his face.
Ruth calmly picked up her coffeepot, refilled it and put it on the fire. Her face was white and her eyes large with fright, and she avoided looking toward Van Hagan, who was sprawled on the ground near the pool.
Molina walked over and picked up Barnes’ rifle, then held out his hand for his six-shooter. Barnes hesitated, but Molina merely looked at him and, reluctantly, the old man drew his gun and extended it carefully.
“Drop it,” Molina said, “I’ll pick it up.”
Hale was working to stop the blood in Short’s shoulder. He glanced over at Molina. “Where’s Stebbins?”
“Over there,” Molina said, “but he isn’t going anyplace.”
Barnes got up slowly. “All right,” he said, “we’ll be pullin’ out. You’ve no reason to hold me.”
“You can go,” Molina said. “Ruth stays with us.”
Barnes’ eyes flashed with anger. “She’s comin’ with me. She’s my own niece. You got no call—”
“I am not your niece,” Ruth said, “and I am going with them.”
“You give us any trouble,” Hale interrupted, “and we’ll take you in for aiding and abetting. We might not make the charge stick but she’ll go her own way nonetheless.”
Barnes glared at them, then abruptly turned his back and went to get his horses.
Hagan and Stebbins were both dead. With Monty Short handcuffed and Ruth ready to ride in on Stebbins’ horse, Hale looked at Molina. “Looks like I’ve scored…what about the gold?”
Molina took the shovel from the wagon. “Why I’m going to get it now. Seems a man can be mighty slow to get things, sometimes.…Stands to reason, a man hiding something at night would have to drop it in a hole or cover it up. He couldn’t be sure at night whether or not it could be seen, otherwise. Now there aren’t any holes around, and if he did any digging the fresh dirt would be noticed even if the sound of digging wasn’t. So what’s the answer?”
“You tell me,” Hale said.
“Why someplace where he could dig with his hands and where it wouldn’t be noticed. That means drifted sand, to me.”
Taking a shovel from the wagon he walked to the huge stand of prickly pear he had noticed before and walked around it until he found a place with an opening among the pear leaves and thorns that was large enough for a man to get a hand in without being badly scratched. The second shovel of sand disclosed the first of the sacks. In a few minutes he had them all.
Molina put the gold in his saddlebags and then saddled his horse. As he mounted up, Barnes walked toward them.
“What about my guns?” he protested.
“Tell you what,” Molina said, “I’ll leave them with the marshal in Fort Griffin. Anytime you want them you just ride in and explain to him how you lost them. You do that and you can have them back.”
* * *
TEN MILES AND more than two hours later, Hale glanced over at Molina. “You should be a Pinkerton man. We could use you.”
“Once I get this gold to Mrs. Gore,” Molina replied, “I’ll be hunting a job.”
He glanced at Ruth. “Helen Gore,” he said, “is a mighty fine woman. She could use a friend right now, and some help.”
Where the trails forked at a clump of mesquite they drew up. “We’ll be leaving you,” Molina said. “Good luck.”
Hale lifted a hand. “Come and see us,” he said. “And thanks.”
Monty Short, handcuffed, threw him a hard stare. “You get no thanks from me.”
“You should,” Molina said, “you’re alive.”
Flight to the North
* * *
TURK MADDEN NOSED the Grumman down gently and cut his motor, gliding in toward the dark waters of the cove. A dead stick landing on strange water in the middle of the night, and no flares to be chanced—it was asking for trouble.
True he had been assured by the Soviet Intelligence that it could be done, that the cove was wide enough and deep enough, and there were no dangers to navigation.
“If I get away with this,” he muttered savagely, “anything can happen! And,” he added grimly, “it probably will!”
It was bright moonlight, and he swung in toward the still waters of the cove with no noise save the wind-wash past the plane. The dark water lifted toward him, the amphibian hit lightly, then slid forward to a landing.
He would turn her around before the ship lost momentum. Then if anything happened…
The shore was dark; ominously still. If Powell and Arseniev were there they were to signal with a flashlight, but there was no signal. Madden hesitated, fuming inwardly. If he took off and left them, it would mean abandoning them to death. But if something had happened, if the plot had been discovered, then it would mean his own death to delay.