The Last Days of Wolf Garnett

back at the New Boston graveyard.'

'Somebody's back there. Identified as Wolf Garnett by Wolf's sister and two old pals. But I'd still like to see the man who smoked these cigarettes and bunked on Esther Garnett's sleepin' porch.' He hesitated a moment, then asked, 'Can you help me, Torgason?'

Torgason laughed silently. 'I didn't think you came back all this way just to help a busted-up range detective. You and Wompler have got a sickness, Gault. But I'll make a bargain with you. Fix up my leg best you can, leave me a full canteen and promise to send me some help first chance you get—and I'll tell you what I know. It ain't much.'

Gault nodded. 'It's a bargain. Is the body in New Boston Wolf Garnett?'

'Far as I know. But I can't prove it.' He closed his eyes and let his thoughts move through curtains of pain. '… Still, there's somethin' queer goin' on. It ain't like Esther Garnett to just pick up and quit that farm. She'd have to have good reason to do a thing like that.'

'The gold?'

Torgason bared his teeth in what might have been a grim smile. 'The longer I lay here, the less I think there's any gold. It was a fever in our brains—mine and Wompler's anyhow.' He sighed to himself and tried to move his shattered leg.

Gault showed his disappointment. 'Is that all you've got to tell me?'

'One more thing. When that farm wagon went into the river and Shorty Pike got his head busted, it was no accident. Oh, Shorty was pitched off the wagon seat, all right, and was throwed into the water. But he never hit no rock. That wasn't what caved in his head.'

Gault squinted. 'What did?'

'A piece of one of the bows that was holdin' up the wagon sheet. I found it wedged under the wagon box when I found the body. One end of the bow was bloody and it just fit the dent in Shorty's head.'

'In the fall he could have been thrown against the bow; it could still have been an accident.'

Torgason was shaking his head. 'That broken piece of bow had been pulled out of the bracket, held by the busted end and swung with considerable strength.'

Gault quietly considered the story and, for the moment, accepted it. 'Why didn't you mention this at the time?'

'I work for the Association, and anything I find out is Association business. Anyhow, at the time I was still thinkin' about the gold. I figgered Esther Garnett seen her chance to get a bigger part for herself, so she yanked out that oak bow and smashed Shorty's head while he was in the water. It looked like she was doin' all of us a favor by gettin' Shorty out of the way… But since that time I've been layin' here thinkin'.'

'Thinkin' what?'

'I've decided she didn't do it.'

Gault stared at him.

'That she didn't do it,' Torgason repeated. 'The sheet was up; we don't know who was in the wagon besides her and Shorty.' He watched the look of understanding come over Gault's face. 'You've got me doin' it now,' the detective said dryly. 'Everywhere I look I'm beginnin' to see Wolf Garnett. Of course,' he added quickly, 'that's not the only way it could of happened.'

Woodenfaced, Gault waited.

'It might just be that Wompler's suspicions about the sheriff are right. He could have caught up with the wagon as it went into the river and finished Shorty off hisself.'

'Why would Olsen kill his posseman?'

'Maybe he was makin' it one less way to divide up the gold. You'd have to ask the sheriff about that.'

It was late that afternoon when Gault overtook Wompler on the upper reaches of Cashe Creek. The former deputy's eyes were glittering with excitement, 'I picked up their tracks almost an hour ago. They're up there somewheres…' He pointed toward the heavy timber that bordered the creek. 'I've been figgerin' it out while you was away. The place where the gold escort was robbed ain't more than half a day from here. They must of hid the gold here along the creek somewheres, figgerin' to come back for it when some of the excitement wore off. That's what they're doin' now—goin' after that gold!'

Never a question about Torgason. Wompler's one thought was of the gold.

They were dismounted, leading their horses through the heavy underbrush, when the attack came. It hit with a fury that for a moment left them stunned. Within the close confines of the creekbottom the roaring of rifles was almost deafening. Bullets ripped through the weeds and brush like a slashing rain. One lead slug snatched the hat from Wompler's head and hurled it over the bank into the water. Another bullet nicked Gault's buckskin; the animal reared in panic, jerked its rein free and disappeared into the brush. But not before Gault had hauled his Winchester out of the saddle boot.

Wompler was shouting something, but the sense of what he was saying did not penetrate Gault's consciousness. He threw himself to the ground, scrambled to a thicket of sumac and fired at puffs of gunsmoke on the upper bank. He ducked again into the thicket and crawled upstream on his hands and knees. There was no sign of Wompler, but he saw the black gelding racing ahead of them and disappearing in the timber.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the firing stopped. Gault lay in what he hoped was a covered position, listening to the almost silent rustle of new leaves and, from some unseen place nearby, the furious cursing of Harry Wompler.

After a moment Gault called quietly, 'Wompler, are you all right?'

'Fine and dandy,' Wompler said in a cold rage. 'There's a bullet hole in my leg, I lost my hat, and my horse ran off with my rifle.'

'How bad are you hurt?'

'I'm still alive, but maybe not for long.' Then, grudgingly, 'Not bad, I guess.'

It was hard to believe that either of them was still alive. Apparently, the rifleman on the upper bank had decided that they were dead, or at least out of action. From beyond a gaudy thicket of redbud, Gault heard someone say, 'They're done for. Nobody could of lived through a crossfire like that.'

Gault recognized the voice immediately; it belonged to young Deputy Finley. Then, from some unseen position to the right of the redbud, Sheriff Grady Olsen said flatly, 'The horses lived through it.' After a meaningful pause, he added, 'We'll work our way down toward the water. Shoot anything that moves.'

The sheriff of Standard County had declared himself. He was a murderer. He had sent an ambush, the single aim being to kill Wompler and Gault. It was not easy for Gault to believe—but it was a fact, harsh and ugly, and it was not likely to go away.

Slowly, like a bull buffalo rising up in a mud wallow, Grady Olsen rose up in a stand of pale green weeds. His rifle was to his shoulder, the muzzle moving snakelike, back and forth, searching the creekbottom for the enemy. Until now Gault had not thought of himself as the sheriff's enemy. Antagonist, perhaps. Or opponent, in this dangerous game that they were playing. But it was no game now.

Not any more. Gault, gazing fixedly up through a curtain of underbrush, could see that rifle muzzle, like one- eyed Death, searching the creekbottom for him.

Moving with great care, Gault began actuating the lever of the Winchester and then realized that the hammer was already cocked and a cartridge in the barrel. Cautiously, planning the move inch by inch in advance, he brought the weapon to his shoulder.

From his hiding place, Wompler spoke anxiously, 'Do you see him, Gault?'

'Yes.' Not much more than a whisper.

'He's out of short-gun range. Have you got your rifle?'

'Yes. Be quiet now.'

Apparently Olsen had not seen Gault's gunsmoke. Or, if he had seen it, he didn't know whether it was Gault or Wompler. For that matter, there was no reason for the sheriff to know that Torgason was out of action, unless he had been watching their backtrail. A dead horse didn't necessarily mean a dead rider.

'Gault.' It was Wompler again.

'Be quiet.'

'Over to the right of the redbud. I think it's Finley.'

Gault turned his gaze to the right of the redbud but could see no sign of the deputy. There were a few