Now pa was a man knew wild country. We had to look at it two ways. He had gold or he didn't, and first off I was going to figure it the hard way: he had him some gold, and he had the problem of getting it out of there.
First off, he'd head for some place he knew, and that was here. He would have extra horses, no need to worry about that, but he would have heavy packs, and folks can be almighty curious. And a man has to sleep.
He'd be tired, and he'd want to get out of this country and back home.
Had he been followed? The chances were he had. Baston and Swan had left Pettigrew for dead ... but had they left Treasure Mountain right after that, or weeks later? We had little information on that score and what little we had came from Pettigrew himself.
Somebody had followed and killed Pierre Bontemps, and most likely that same somebody had followed pa, waiting for a chance. That somebody knew, or thought he knew, where all the gold was, and he didn't want anybody around to dig it up before he had a chance.
Suddenly, I got up. 'Orrin, I got a sight of travelin' to do, and I want to do it without having to watch my back trail too much. I just think I'll walk yonder to the store and buy something. If any of those riders are wishful of talking to me they can have at it.'
'Want company?' Orrin asked.
'No, sir. I surely don't. If the two of us went they might think we were hunting. I'll just mosey over and give them a chance.'
I strolled out and walked across the street. I opened the door and stepped into the store. You could find its like in almost any western town. Bales of jeans, barrels of flour, a coffee grinder and the smell of fresh-ground coffee, prunes, dried apples, apricots, a barrel of crackers, and rows of canned goods.
Behind the counter there was a rack of rifles and shotguns; there were boots, hats, saddles, bridles, spurs, bandanas, vests, gloves, and just about all a man could want. It was my kind of store. In Saint Louis or New Orleans I could walk into a store full of things I just didn't want, but this was no city, and there wasn't a thing here a man wouldn't have use for.
Except maybe those two cowhands standing up by the counter. So I walked along up there, paying them no mind, and they turned to look.
There were things I truly needed, so I shuffled through the jeans, finding a pair long enough for a man six foot three and lean in the hips and waist. I stacked those jeans and a few things I needed whilst those gents dickered over some buying of their own. They were trying to decide about a .44 Smith and Wesson.
'But will it shoot straight?' one of them asked. 'I used a Colt some, but this here gun--'
Reaching over I took it from his hand, picked up a box of shells, and thumbed some into the chambers, sayin' meanwhile, very pleasantlike, 'May I settle the question for you gents? If you'll come to the door--'
One of them had started to get mad, but, by the time he was makin' up his mind, I already had two shells in the gun and he sort of decided against arguing.
Nonetheless, they didn't like it. I just turned and ambled off to the door, and they traipsed after me, the storekeeper following along.
When I rode into town I'd noticed somebody had left a board standing against a rock, kind of leaning there. Maybe somebody had figured on putting up a sign and then got called away, but the board, which was about three by two, still sat there. I'd also noticed there was a knot in the board, of slightly darker color.
I hefted that Smith and Wesson in my mitt, knowing they'd always made a straight-shooting gun and knowing that I could rely on it to do what I asked.
That board was a good seventy yards off and the knot was not visible.
'Now you take that board yonder? See the knothole in it?'
'I don't see no knothole,' the short one said, kind of irritated-like.
Well, I let 'er drive, right from where I held it. 'Now you just go look,' I said. 'If that's not a hole, what is it?'
'Fact is--' I let her bang a couple more times, so fast it sounded like one shot, 'you go look and you'll find three holes, yonder. If you don't find one hole atop with two on each side below it, you come back and I'll buy the drinks.'
Then I turned around and went back into the store. The storekeeper went behind the counter and picked up some field glasses. 'Saves walking,' he said, grinning. He was a young man with a nice smile. He walked outside again.
I was shoving some shells into those empty cylinders. I do hate an empty gun.
Seems almost everybody who gets shot accidentally gets it with an empty gun.
When I pull the trigger on a gun it's no accident, and I never pulled one whilst foolin' around.
That storekeeper came back. 'My name's Johnny Kyme,' he said, 'and you surely put those bullets where you said. Was there really a knot there?'
'Uh-huh. There surely was, but you'll not find it now, unless the edges.'
'You must have good eyesight.'
The two gents were coming back inside, growling a little and looking sour but more respectful.
'No,' I said seriously, keeping a very straight face, 'I shot it from memory.
That's the way I do. I make a mental note of where the first shirt button above a man's belt is. Then I always know where to put the bullet.'
'That's shootin',' the short man grumbled. 'I figure we should buy the drinks.'
'Thanks, gentlemen,' I said, 'but the day is young. One of these days, if we all live long enough, I'll belly up to the bar and collect that drink--and buy one.'
I paid Kyme for the gun and the other things and turned to go. When I reached the door, I turned and said, 'When you boys see Charley McCaire, tell him Tell Sackett sends his regards.'
I went across the street for more coffee. Later on, Johnny Kyme told me what was said. That short one said, 'Tell Sackett? Hell, that's the man--'
'I never saw him before,' Kyme told them, 'but he's got two cousins here that can shoot just about as good, maybe better. They just wound up a little go-around with Curly Dunn's outfit.'
'Dunn? I remember them. What happened?' they asked.
Kyme said, 'Oh, the few that were left dragged their tails out of here, they seemed to have the notion there were easier places to bulldoze.'
When they left, Kyme said they looked mighty sober like they had aplenty to think about. I was never much for showin' off, but if a bullet through a board can prevent a shootout, why not do it? I hold nothing against any man unless he comes at me, and I usually put that down to ignorance.
Now these here Three Eight hands would never have that excuse. If they came they'd know what was waiting for them. Orrin was lounging in the door when I walked back, 'Did you read them from the book?' he asked.
'Nope,' I said, 'I just showed 'em the pictures.'
Chapter XX
That night, a couple of hundred yards from town, we bedded down about a dozen feet back from the La Plata, unrolling our blankets on the green grass near some cottonwoods. We were cut off from sight of the town by a wall of cottonwood, aspen, and pine trees. We picketed our horses on the grass and settled down to sleep. Nell had gone to stay with the family who had been caring for her pa. He was feeling better now and figuring on a place of his own.
The four of us were asleep, eased to our comfort by the rustling leaves and the water running a few yards off. I don't know what it was made me wake up, but suddenlike in the middle of the night I was wide awake.
Our fire was down to red coals glowing, and beside it sat a man.
It took me a minute to adjust my mind to it, but sure enough, there he sat, cross-legged by the fire and still as death. My fingers took hold of the butt of my gun, but he seemed peaceful enough so I just lay and watched him for a moment.
It was an Indian, and he was old. His hair hung in two braids, and even at a distance I could see it was part gray. Indians have their ways and we have ours, but a guest at my fire is always welcome to coffee, so I threw back the covers, shoved my feet into the moccasins I keep handy for nightwork or for the woods, and went over to the fire.
