Owen. I’ll be just fine with that split.”
Lundy grunted. “Good. Because that’s the way it’s gonna be.”
The valley had narrowed down as they headed east. Rugged, snow-capped peaks still loomed to the north and south, but ahead of them, Palmer could see a gap where the trail sloped down to the flats. They would still have to ride through some foothills, but they were about to leave the mountains at last.
A large rock squatted on the left side of the trail. Something about it struck Palmer as familiar, and after a moment he realized what it was.
The rock generally had a rounded shape, but it thrust out sharply toward the trail like an animal’s snout and on top of it were two knobs that looked like ears. Most of the rock was dark in color, but a lighter band encircled it.
“It looks like a wolverine,” Palmer said with a grin.
“What?” Lundy sounded confused.
“That big rock up yonder.” Palmer pointed. “It looks like a wolverine’s head.”
Lundy began, “Yeah, I guess it—”
He stopped short when smoke puffed from behind one of those earlike knobs and a bullet made a flat
A fraction of a second later, one of the men riding behind them let out a pained grunt. Palmer whipped his head around in time to see the man topple out of the saddle with a black, red-rimmed hole in the center of his forehead where the bullet had struck him.
“Move!” Lundy yelled as he kicked his horse into a run. “Somebody’s shootin’ at us!”
That seemed pretty obvious to Palmer. He heard the wind-rip of another bullet past his ear as he leaned forward to make himself a smaller target.
“Hyaaaahh!” he shouted at his horse as he urged the animal into a gallop. Lundy had gone to the left, so Palmer went to the right. When you were under attack, it wasn’t smart to bunch up. Make your enemies split their fire.
The other two outlaws were scattering as well. Palmer heard the flat
Palmer had a pretty good idea who they were, too. Those damn half-breeds were trying a double cross, he thought as he rode swiftly toward some trees.
His horse suddenly lurched underneath him. Palmer cursed bitterly as he felt the animal going down. He kicked his feet out of the stirrups and let go of the reins. He was thrown clear as the horse fell, but after sailing through the air for a few feet, he slammed into the ground so hard that he was stunned and all the breath was knocked out of his body.
He lay there gasping, unable to get any air in his lungs. He knew he needed to get up and make a run for the trees. Out here in the open, he was an easy target.
His muscles wouldn’t obey him, though. He tried to force himself up but slumped back down, helpless.
A few feet away, his horse lay bleeding to death from the terrible wound a bullet had ripped in its throat. Its hooves thrashed madly in agonized panic.
The horse’s body would give him a little cover, Palmer thought, if he could just get behind it. Gritting his teeth, he finally succeeded in forcing his body into motion. He began to crawl toward his stricken mount.
Palmer had to circle around the wildly flailing hooves. The horse’s movements were less urgent now as death approached rapidly, but those slashing hooves were still dangerous.
The horrible bubbling sounds the horse was making came to an end. The hooves stilled. Palmer pulled himself behind the carcass just as bullets began to thump into it.
He huddled as low to the ground as he could and hoped that would be enough to protect him. What felt like a burning brand raked along his leg. He realized that one of the bullets had just grazed him. He pressed himself closer to the dead horse.
From where he lay, he couldn’t see Lundy anymore, but he saw that one of the other men was down, knocked from his saddle by bushwhacker’s lead.
Where was the pack horse with the two chests full of gold bars?
That question suddenly filled Palmer’s mind. He desperately wanted to lift his head so he could take a better look around, but he knew that doing so would invite the bushwhackers to put a bullet through his brain. He clenched his teeth together and made himself keep his head down.
The first man who’d been hit had been leading the pack horse, Palmer recalled. Shot in the head like that, he would have let go of the reins.
A horse wasn’t like a mule. It would spook a lot easier when the shooting started. The pack horse could have bolted.
Which meant that it—and its valuable cargo—could be anywhere by now.
The ambushers continued firing from the rock for what seemed like an eternity to Palmer as he hunkered behind the dead horse. In reality, it was probably only a few minutes.
Then the shots died away, leaving an eerie, echoing silence in their wake.
Palmer knew better than to move. He stayed right where he was, convinced that if he popped up from behind his bloody cover, he’d be dead a second later.
He heard horses moving down the valley, from the vicinity of the gap that the funny-looking rock guarded. The hoofbeats faded into the distance, but still Palmer didn’t move. This could be a trick. The others could have pulled
