'Let's go,' Wompler said impatiently. 'It was Olsen and Finley. I can feel it in my bones.'
This time they did not bother with tracks, they struck due north, in the direction indicated by the old Comanche. There was an electric urgency in the air. For Torgason and Wompler it was the prospect of sudden riches. For Gault it was something more insidious; there were times when he thought it was madness. A man
They topped one of those many grassy hillocks that punctuated the flat prairie between the Wichitas and the Red. Torgason, riding a little ahead of the others, raised one hand. With a nod he indicated a distant stream, a small creek clearly defined by the lacy green of budding timber. 'A little to the right of the tallest cottonwood. Tell me what you see.'
Squinting, Gault and Wompler leaned forward in their saddles. Gault shook his head. 'I don't see anything.' Wompler grunted, indicating that he didn't either.
Torgason scratched the bristling beard on his chin. 'Maybe it was nothin'. A flash of light. Sunlight hittin' a piece of mica, maybe.'
'Or gunsteel?' Gault asked.
'… We'll see.'
They spread out as they started down the slope to the creek, spacing themselves out, making the target less tempting. They moved to within two hundred yards of the cottonwood—easy rifle range. Still there was nothing to be seen.
Gault turned in his saddle to look at the detective. Torgason was again scratching his chin in an unconscious show of concern. He made pushing motions with his hands, telling Gault and Wompler that they would approach the cottonwood from different directions. It was then that Torgason's horse fell.
Gault heard the animal grunt—then he heard the report of the rifle. The sturdy claybank stumbled, tossed its head in a moment of wildness, and pitched to the near side. Torgason was grabbing for his own rifle and trying to free his right foot from the stirrup when the horse crashed on top of him.
Acting on his cowman's instinct, Gault ignored for the moment the danger from the creekbank. He grabbed his Winchester, dumped out of the saddle and raced to Torgason's aid. Wompler obeying his own instincts, ignored Torgason and spurred to the bottom of the slope, which put him below the rifleman's line of sight.
'Don't be a fool!' Torgason grated. 'My leg's busted. I can't move. Get away from this hilltop before that rifleman finishes both of us.'
The distant rifle barked twice, as if in anger. Gault dived for the ground as the two bullets seared the air over his head. Using the dead horse as a breastworks, Gault said, 'I'll try to get the weight off of you. When you're clear, haul yourself back out of the way.'
The rifle barked again; this time the bullet slammed into the dead horse with a sickening thud. Gault got his shoulder beneath the cantle of the saddle and lifted with all his strength. Grunting with pain, Torgason pulled himself up to a sitting position, freed his foot from the stirrup and crawled back from the dead animal.
The detective lay on the springy sod, panting shallowly, great beads of sweat on his forehead. 'What happened to Wompler?' he asked at last.
'Spurred to the bottom of the slope where the rifleman can't see him.'
Torgason smiled grimly. 'He ain't as big a fool as I thought.' He panted some more and wiped his forehead. 'I don't reckon you got a look at whoever's doin' the shootin?'
'They're hid back in the timber along the creekbank.' A bullet plowed into the ground alongside the dead horse. 'It must be the sheriff.' Gault eased his head over the edge of the saddle and saw Wompler waving to him from the bottom of the slope. 'Wompler's signalin'. I better see what he wants.'
'And get yourself shot for your trouble?'
'I think he wants us to split up and see if we can get the creekbank in a crossfire.'
'Listen to Wompler and he'll get you killed.' The detective sighed and lay back and stared up at the dazzling sky. 'On the other hand, if Olsen aims to finish us, he'll finish us. It don't matter much what we do.'
Gault considered for a moment. 'From what I seen of Olsen, he didn't strike me as a murderer.'
'Gold makes men do funny things,' Torgason said softly, still looking at the sky. 'Gold and woman.'
Gault snaked his arm around the claybank's shoulder and eased the saddle rifle out of the boot. He checked it quickly and put it in Torgason's hands. 'Stay down out of sight. I'll come back soon's I can.'
Before Torgason could speak, Gault lunged to his feet and began zigzagging down the grassy slope.
Wompler was waiting at the bottom, grinning his slack grin. 'You're faster'n you look.' Then he nodded toward the distant creek. 'How does it look from the top of the hill?'
'Quiet. Maybe they pulled out.'
'Or waitin' for us to come in closer so they can finish us off.' Wompler made a wry face. 'I sure would hate to blunder out there and get myself killed—with all that gold somewheres, just waitin' for us to come along and pick it up.' Then, thoughtfully, 'You game to circle around this knoll and see if we can find them?'
'And if we do find them?'
'We kill them,' Wompler said matter of factly. He mounted his rented gelding, rode down the shallow valley to where Gault's buckskin was grazing. With an expert flip of his loop, he caught the buckskin and brought it back.
'What do you mean,' Gault asked, taking the reins, 'we kill them?'
Wompler looked surprised that anyone would be stupid enough to ask such a question. 'Two fewer ways we'll have to divide up the gold, when we find it.'
'And what about Esther Garnett? Do we kill her, too?' Wompler's expression turned wooden. 'Esther Garnett's my business, Gault. You remember that and we'll get along fine.'
Gault rode cautiously south along the shallow depression between the two knolls; Wompler headed north. When a distance of several hundred yards separated them, they bore in toward the tall cottonwood where the riflefire had come from. All in all, it had taken the best part of an hour to get into position. The rifleman was gone.
They explored the area around the cottonwood. 'Three horses, I make it,' Wompler said, studying the tracks. 'Shorty's chestnut, most likely, that Esther's ridin'. And Olsen's and Finley's animals.' He straightened up, scowling. 'And some barefoot tracks that probably belong to the Garnett mule. Wonder what they're draggin' that mule around for?'
Gault had discovered something that he found more interesting than the tracks of mules and horses. Beneath the cottonwood he carefully collected a half dozen burnt-out stubs of brownpaper cigarettes, and several broken sulphur matches. The last time he had seen this kind of litter it had been on the floor of Esther Garnett's sleeping porch.
'They're in a hurry,' Wompler said unhappily. 'Olsen's a careful worker—ordinarily he'd of set a trap for us and then laid back and wait for us to walk into it. But this is no ordinary time. He's in a hurry to get to that gold.'
'We still don't know there is any gold. All we've got to go on is that watch that I found on Colly Fay.'
'That's enough for me.'
Gault closed his fist around the cigarette stubs. At the moment they were more important to him than all the gold in the world. 'Before we do anything, we'll have to go back and see about Torgason.'
'Not me,' Wompler said firmly. 'I can smell that gold; I'm not goin' to let it get away from me now.'
Torgason lay exactly as he had the last time Gault had seen him. 'No sign of the rifleman,' Gault told him. 'There's some tracks down by the cottonwood—three horses, maybe a mule. And these.' He dug the cigarette stubs out of his pocket and showed them to Torgason.
The stock detective studied them with a weak grin. 'I know what you're thinkin', but it's loco. Wolf Garnett's
