Nora was standing by the stove when Jake Andrews entered. “We’re goin’ to look around and find that ‘dobe,” he said. “We don’t want anybody over that way, d’you hear?”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“Just be damn sure you don’t do too much. I don’t know who that man is, but I don’t like him. And he’s fresh out of Yuma.”
Nora Paxton looked at him sharply. “That’s where Joe Harbin is!”
“You’re right. How do we know this gent ain’t a friend of Joe’s? You be careful.”
As Jake went out she filled a cup, and took the cup and the coffee pot into the other room.
Dan Rodelo was on his feet. She looked at him, seeing him in the light for the first time; she had not dared to notice him while Jake Andrews and Clint Wilson were near.
He was tall, a wide-shouldered, easy-moving young man with a dark, lean face and high cheekbones. He was well dressed for a man just out of prison, so they must be clothes he had when he went in.
“I’d better be findin’ a place to bed down myself,” Rodelo said.
“So soon? The party is just beginning,” Nora said.
“What party?”
“The one we’re going to have.” She put the cup down in front of him, and placed the pot on the table. “I’ll get some more cups.” Turning, she saw the guitar on the shelf. “Do you play that, Sam?”
“A mite … when I’m by myself. Dan here, he used to play almighty well. How about it, Dan?”
“Not now,” said Rodelo.
Outside in the street Clint had walked to the wagon and picked up a lantern, raised the globe, and struck a match to the wick. The first match went out, the second caught, and he lowered the globe in place.
Jake came up to him. “Down that way, I’m thinkin’,” he said.
They walked away together lifting the lantern to look at the houses on the other side of the street. Finally they saw the adobe they were looking for, the door standing a few inches ajar. Over the door was a horseshoe that had been nailed in place with the front of the shoe at the bottom, but the nails at the top had come out and the shoe had fallen so that the open part at the back of the shoe pointed toward the ground.
Jake hesitated, not liking the looks of it. “Clint, look at that. The luck’s run out. When a shoe hangs that way the luck runs out the bottom.”
“What do we care? It ain’t our ‘dobe, so it ain’t our luck. No tellin’ what happened to the man who nailed that shoe up there.”
“Maybe it’s a sign. Maybe our luck has run out.”
“Don’t be a damn fool.”
Clint pushed by him and went into the room. It was a simple, whitewashed room with a fireplace, its only furniture a rough table, two chairs, and two bunks against the far wall. Clint found a chain hook hanging from the center beam and hung the lantern on it.
“Now we’re alone with fifty thousand dollars.”
“But where is it?”
“That’s up to us. You can’t get more out of folks than they know … an adobe on this street with a horseshoe over the door.”
“Women! First it was Harbin’s girl, and now this Paxton girl you insisted on bringin’ along.”
“Leave Nora out of it. She’s decent.”
“All right, she’s out of it. But now, where’s the gold?”
Jake Andrews looked around the room, and studied the floor. Treasure is buried, as a rule, he knew. He examined the floor more carefully. It was pieced together of odds and ends of planks, only a few of which ran the full length of the floor, and none of them seemed in any way special. Obviously, the floor had been put in after the adobe had been built, and the pieces of board had been taken from older buildings.
“He had to leave some mark,” Jake said. “Now, what would it be?”
“You’re forgettin’, friend. He knew where he buried it.”
“Just the same, he wouldn’t chance it. He’d know that time and dust and wear change the looks of things. He didn’t figure that gold would be left here long, but he knew he wouldn’t be taking it up the next day. You can bet he left some kind of a marker.”
The whitewash on the walls was very old but it looked undisturbed. It seemed unlikely that anything could have been hidden there without leaving some indication. The fireplace, too, had not been disturbed, so far as they could see. Jake went back to examining the floor. Squatting on his haunches, he studied it section by section.
“Clint!” he exclaimed suddenly. “Look!”
He pointed at one section of a board, but it was a moment or so before Clint could see what it was Jake was pointing at. Then he saw it—a crude arrow of rusted nail heads.
The nails were driven in to fasten the board in place but there was a line of more nails than necessary, and then two extra nails had been placed so as to make a crude arrow. Was it just accident? Or was this the clue they were looking for?
“Let’s rip it out of there,” Jake looked about, then went back to the door with the lantern. “Seems to me I saw a pick outside the door,” he said.
Clint waited, staring at the plank. It was there, then. Fifty thousand dollars … a man could do a lot with that amount.
Jake came back and put the lantern down. “Just the pick, no handle,” he said.
Thrusting the flat end into the crack between the boards, he pulled back. The rusty nails gave easily in the worn board. A second tug on the pick and the board came loose, splintering around the nails.
Eagerly, Clint grasped the board and ripped it away. Under the floor was a wooden box bound with iron straps.
“That’s it!” Jake said. “Fifty thousand dollars!”
“Yeah,” Clint said flatly. “I got it made.”
Jake looked up inquiringly. His expression changed slowly. Clint held a gun in his hand. “Clint! You—”
The gun muzzle stabbed flame, the shot thundered in the empty old adobe, then sounded again. Jake Andrews sagged forward, his mouth opening as if to speak.
Clint holstered his gun and, kneeling, dragged the box up through the hole he had ripped in the floor. With the pick he broke open the box, smashing the still solid wood, then he swore.
The box was packed with old letters, deeds, assay reports, and a variety of legal papers. Reaching in with both hands, he brought out a double handful and spilled them on the floor. There was no sign of any money. Desperately, he went to the bottom of the box, scratching about with both hands … nothing.
Up the street he heard a door slam, and there was a sound of running feet.
Springing up, he looked wildly around, then ran to the door and peered out. Dan Rodelo was coming down the street toward him, with Nora close behind. Instantly, he lifted his gun and fired, aware even as he pulled the trigger that he had shot too quickly and had missed.
Dan ducked across the street and into the deeper shadows, calling to Nora as he did so. “Get out of the light! He’ll kill you!”
Clint leaned from the door, caught a glimpse of Nora’s moving figure and threw his gun into position. Catching the glint of light on the gun barrel, Dan fired. Clint’s gun dropped and he disappeared into the building. Swiftly, Rodelo crossed the street, gun ready.
Clint ran to Jake’s body, toed him over, and grabbed at the dead man’s gun with his good hand.
“Drop it!” Rodelo was in the doorway. “I don’t want to kill you.”
Nora, staring at Jake’s body, suddenly lifted her eyes to Clint. “You killed him. You!”
Snatching Jake’s gun, she lifted it, but before she could fire, Dan wrenched the gun from her hand.
“I might need him, Nora.”
“You,” he motioned at Clint with the gun. “Get into that bunk.”
“What’s the idea?”
“We’ll be waiting for a while. Better make yourself comfortable.”
“What about my hand?”
Rodelo glanced at the hand, which was bloody but did not appear to have been more than creased. “Wrap it up. You won’t lose much blood.” He gestured toward the dead man. “You’re better off than he is.”
“Why don’t you shoot him?” Nora said. “He tried to kill you.”
“I’m not the law, nor am I justice. But if he shoots at me again I will kill him.”
“What became of Sam Burrows?” Nora asked. “He didn’t even come out on the street.”
“Why should he? Sam’s lived a long time by minding his own business.”
Gathering up the guns, Rodelo tucked the spares behind his belt. He had an idea that before the night was over he might need all the fire power he could get.