thought you should be warned. There's going to be trouble.'
'I was born to it.'
'I know. But you weren't born around Sylvie, Ralph, and Andrew.'
'So you know them. Do they have another name?'
'Their name is Karnes. They are kinfolk, in a way ... there's no blood relation between us. But they knew ... well, they pried. They learned something only I was supposed to know; and now they are trying to get where we are going before we do.'
I didn't ask any questions about that. The trouble was, these folks probably believed the secret of Nathan Hume's treasure was something only they knew. As far as the hiding place was concerned, if they knew that, it was something nobody else knew. But I was pretty sure I wasn't the only one who knew about that gold. Only most of the others didn't know as much as I did.
'What started you folks out here all to once?'
'My grandmother died, and when she died she mentioned a packet of letters in her will, and they were to come to me, as my father and mother were both dead.
Sylvie and Ralph were there, although they had no right to be. There was little enough to leave and, as I said, they were no blood relation. But they heard the reading of the will, and in it grandmother mentioned that in the packet of letters was an account of where Nathan Hume's gold was buried.'
'Somebody must've got away and told about it. I mean, when Nathan Hume was killed.'
'You knew about that?'
'He was a known man. He'd been taking pack trains from Missiouri to Santa Fe for years.'
'Grandfather drew a picture, wrote a few lines, and gave it to an Indian boy. He thought the boy might get away, and if he did he was to mail this to grandmother. The letter was all addressed, everything. Well, the Indian boy did get away, and he sent the message.'
'How about Sylvie?'
'After the reading of the will she was just too nice, and so was Ralph. Sylvie made some tea--What's the matter?'
'Sylvie offered me some coffee, one time.'
'It may have been the same sort of thing. She made some tea, and I took it to my room, only I got busy writing letters and forgot to drink it. In the middle of the night I woke up and Sylvie was standing there reading the letters by candlelight.
'I got them away from her, but she was furious--she threatened me, laughed at me, said there was no gold, and even if there was I could never get it.'
The sun had moved beyond the cottonwoods, throwing a shadow across the street and across our door. A dog trotted up the street and paused outside, and I watched him, for something worried him. He sniffed, trying to catch some scent that kept getting away from him.
It was a nice thing, setting here in this cool, pleasant room talking to Penelope Hume. 'You said your folks were dead. What about Loomis--who is he?'
'He was a friend of my father, and of my grandfather too. He offered to help.
Flinch found us, or we found him, at Fort Griffin. He has been very loyal.'
That answered one question for me. If I could answer the one about the adobe across the street I'd be happier, but I had a good idea about that, too. And I was watching the dog. He was a big dog, and part wolf by the look of him, with all a wolf's suspicion.
We talked of other things, Penelope and me. She told me of her home back in New York state, and I talked a bit about Tennessee, but more about the country we were in.
'Folks out here are a rough lot, ma'am. There's the good and the bad, and there's many a man who has come west to get away from something, some trouble he's had. You'll find men from the oldest families and with the best education working right alongside a cowhand who can't read or write.
'The trouble is, too many folks come just to get rich and then get out. They don't care what they leave behind as long as they can take riches with them.'
All the time I talked I thought of how it seemed to set across the table from such a girl, me who owned nothing but a pistol, a Winchester, a beat-up blanket or two, and a borrowed horse. And likely would never have anything more.
'I'd better go,' she said. 'Mr. Loomis wouldn't like it at all if he knew where I was.'
'You're all right with me,' I said, 'but ma'am, I'd not be trusting of folks.
There are some would murder you for what you know about Nathan Hume.'
'My dear cousins? I know.'
'Not only them,' I said. 'When it comes to money or a pretty woman, there's not many who can be trusted.'
'Not you, Mr. Sackett?'
'I've the name of being an outlaw,' I said.
A spatter of rain was falling when Flinch led out the horses in the morning. It was dark, with only a faint suggestion of light showing beyond the cottonwoods.
Underneath them it was still like night. I tethered the dun near the buckboard and, rifle in hand, went across to Pio's.
The room was lighted by candles. It was warm and pleasant, with the smell of breakfast cooking. Loomis was already at the table, his face stiff with sleep; only the eyes seemed awake. Drawing up a chair, I sat down opposite him, and was scarcely seated when Penelope came in, hurrying to her chair. I rose and seated her, and Loomis gave me a dark, angry look.
Whether he was irritated with me because he believed I was making up to her, I don't know, and cared less. Flinch came in, walking quite as a ghost, and sat down at the end of the table.
The senora came from the kitchen with a platter of food, and then brought a steaming pot of coffee. We ate in silence, all of us heavy with sleep. As for me, I knew I should be thinking of the trail ahead, and the day before us. But I could not keep my thoughts from going back to yesterday, and the dog.
Whoever had been in the adobe house across the way had gone before the dog could find him. I remembered how the dog, hackles stiff, had walked toward the adobe, growling. Nobody else had seemed to be watching him.
He went inside the open doorway, and I got up and strolled across the street and followed him. He knew me, had been smelling around when I picketed my horse the night before, and had seen me that day around Pio's house. He looked up at me, then smelled around the empty room.
The lean-to behind the adobe showed where a man had slept and smoked cigarettes, a lot of them. The big dog sniffed curiously, then wandered out to the low back wall where the man had evidently gone ...
Steve Hooker? I wondered.
It was still dark when we went outside. The air was cool and the spatter of raindrops had begun again. The old buckboard creaked when they climbed into it.
Flinch gathered the reins, and they moved off.
Pio came out as I stepped into the saddle. 'I do not like it, amigo,' he said.
'The senorita will have trouble, I think. We like her very much, my wife and I.'
'Her worst enemies are behind us. The ones of whom I spoke. Tell them nothing.'
'Adios,' he said, and I left him there, and moved out after the buckboard.
We crossed the Canadian, which was mostly a wide bed of sand, and then went west on the farther side, keeping well back from the bank to avoid the numerous creeks. But occasionally we traveled in the dry river bed itself, the narrow stream of the river shifting from one side to the other as we moved along. By daylight we were well on our way.
Riding ahead, I scouted the country for Indians or for anybody else who might be around. As it grew light, I swung right and left now and again to cut for sign.
Most of the tracks I found were those of sheep from Borregos Plaza, or of buffalo.
The light rain increased, and I led the way out of the river bed. It never took long in this country for a flash flood to come, and I didn't know how much it had been raining up the country.
When we were maybe a mile back from the river, I caught movement in the willows ahead and below us, and
