Along the sides he saw the running shapes of his partners, keeping pace and preventing Holliday from turning to either side. Holliday saw them at the same time. Six saw him savagely spurring and beating his horse, but the jaded animal had taken too much punishment; slogging forward through the treacherous desert, it tripped over something and spilled its rider to the ground.

  Holliday scrambled to his feet and ran back to the horse. He jerked a rifle from the scabbard and stood a moment, legs spread wide, looking down at the beast; then, coolly, he put a bullet in its head. The horse flopped back and Holliday dropped behind it. Six thought, Must have broken a leg, but there was no time for idle considerations; Holliday’s rifle was laid across the saddle and Six reined in, stopped, and considered the position.

  He was about four hundred yards away from Holliday. Assuming that Holliday’s rifle was the standard .44-40 Winchester, its bullets would not carry this far with any accuracy; thus if Six stayed put, he was relatively safe. On the other hand, his own .45-90 could easily shoot across that distance. So thinking, he dismounted with cold deliberation and calmed the horse, and laid his big Sharps across the saddle to steady it. But the horse was winded and its breathing disturbed his aim; he walked away from it and squatted down, bracing both elbows between his knees to aim.

  Holliday must have seen him take up position; a quick flurry of shots came from Holliday’s downed horse, muzzle flaming in the night. But none of the bullets came anywhere near Six. He was too far away to talk to Holliday, but he knew that it might serve the same purpose to frighten the man; he took careful aim and squeezed off a shot, aimed at the head of the dead horse. He could not see if he hit the target, and Holliday made no response; then, faint in the distance to the left, Six heard the lifting bellow of Bones Riley’s strong shouting:

  “Give it up, Holliday. You’re outnumbered and outranged. You haven’t got a prayer.”

  Settling another cartridge in the Sharps’ chamber, Six took aim and waited. After a moment he saw Holliday rise.

  On his feet, the big tough made a show of tossing his rifle and two revolvers away. Then he stood still, hands at his sides. Sighing with small satisfaction, Six went back to his horse, climbed up, sheathed the rifle, and rode forward.

  He could see the others converging toward Holliday from either side. Bones Riley, a great mound on his horse, rode up close by, and the two of them advanced together. Near the dismounted outlaw, Six stopped and stepped down to go forward, bringing out his handcuffs.

  He was abruptly chilled by the vengeful gleam in Holliday’s glance. He saw the derringer in the outlaw’s big fist and knew he didn’t have time to draw, knew it with a fateful certainty; then a gun roared over Six’s shoulder and Holliday, with an expression of vast surprise, tumbled over with a dark blotch on his forehead.

  Bones Riley, still asaddle, holstered his warm gun and said bluntly, “Stupid fool.”

  Six felt himself trembling. He swallowed and said, “I’m obliged. Damn well obliged, Bones.”

  “De nada,” Riley murmured, and added with dismal humor, “At least it saves us the trouble of figuring out what to do with him.”

  Six looked at the dead outlaw and clenched both fists tight, to keep them from shaking; it had been close, awfully close. He said hoarsely, “We’ll have to bury him.”

  “That’ll give us time to rest the horses,” Riley said, stepping down. “Man, I’m too fat. The cross I carry.”

  Six looked at him. The others were dismounting; there was a creaking of saddles and the measured heavy breathing of the horses. Six said quietly, “Bones, I don’t believe you’re anywhere near as cold-blooded as you like to let on.”

  Riley displayed the shadow of a smile. “I wouldn’t spread it around,” he said, and went to kneel by Chris Holliday.

  Satisfied, he stood and came back, his round face glum, drawing his gun to replace the spent cartridge. Six stood watching Elias and Redondo begin to dig. There was only one short-handled shovel among them; Elias was pick axing the ground with a massive knife. “Deep enough to keep the coyotes off him,” Six intoned to the two cowboys. Then, sickened by the sight of death and the unwilling anticipation of more violence to come, he turned away from the macabre scene and spent the next ten minutes by himself in the desert, morosely considering the mountains to the west. Had Sarasen gone that way? Would they find Madden at the ford, or would it turn into a long relentless chase across the Southwest? In the end, telegraph and railroad would be Madden’s downfall, but Six felt personal responsibility in the matter; he wanted it done and done quickly.

  In a short time the cowboys were climbing out of the two-foot trench. Six went to them; he and Riley lifted the inert, heavy mass of Holliday’s body into the grave; Redondo spoke a few soft liquid Spanish words over him, and then Elias moved forward to fill in the shallow grave, crossing himself.

  Bones Riley and Larry Keene stood by Six, looking westward toward the Arrowheads. Riley was an immense man, his eyes almost hidden by the folds of his cheeks; Keene was slim, had a horseman’s agility and a sharp mind. Years ago both of them had played important roles in a range-war at Spanish Flat; the fact they had survived it was testimony to their fighting ability.

  Six said, “It’s my feeling that Madden will stop to sleep and stock up at Tilghley’s Ford, on the Smoke. That might give us the margin of time we need.” He did not add one worry that had been increasingly plaguing him: as much as his instincts told him to like Ben Sarasen, he could not rationally avoid suspecting the gunfighter, after all that had happened. It would not be beyond possibility for Sarasen to join Madden, and together, with Madden’s cutthroat gang backing them up, they would make an unbeatable combination—especially for Six’s reduced party.

  He said nothing of this, however. He only added, “They’re seven, were five. I count on a couple of those toughs to break if things get too rough. But don’t underestimate them. Madden’s as tough as they come. Drake Ivy’s too stupid to scare. Faro Price never backed off from a fight, and neither did the Bolton boys. I look for a tough fight. Now, the way I see it, they’re several hours ahead of us; they probably didn’t hear all this shooting. They probably think we’re all chasing our tails around back in the Yellows. They’ll figure they’ve got a breathing space. There’s no telegraph within a day’s ride of Tilghley’s Ford, so I assume they’ll feel safe enough there until about noon. After that they’ll most likely divide the loot and split up the gang. I want to catch them before that.”

  Bones Riley said idly, “How much did they get out of the bank, anyway?”

  “Not as much as they expected,” Six said. “The cashier was over at the doctor’s, and he was the only one with the safe combination except George Cushing, and Cushing’s in Denver. All Madden got was what was in the till—no more than a couple of thousand dollars. Pretty slim pickings for a hard day’s run.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Oakley Madden felt uneasy. Things hadn’t gone right. He stood in the door of Tilghley’s trading post, looking down across the meadow at the river crossing. Beyond the cottonwood banks stretched the expanse of desert he and his men had crossed during the night. Now the hot mid-morning sun battered the old adobe outpost, and while his men slept, Madden stood restively smoking, inhaling deeply, frowning across the land.

  Old Tilghley came out and complained in his aged cracked voice; Madden shut him up sharply and the old man, after glaring spunkily at him, went back inside. Madden reflected bitterly how the pint-sized Gutierrez had managed to cut down two of his men yesterday; how that fop of a bartender had killed Luke Holliday, and after all they had only cleared twelve hundred and eighty-seven dollars out of the bank, on top of which the raid on the Silver Dollar wagon had backfired; how Chris Holliday had stubbornly insisted on remaining behind to bury his dead brother, when, if Chris had owned the sense God gave a bumblebee, he’d have left his no-good brother in the street of Spanish Flat, where at least he would have had a doctor.

  Madden twirled the points of his mustache between his fingers; he ground out his smoke underfoot and went down to the barn to glance in on his crew. Although no riders were visible on the eastward stretch of the desert, he had a strange feeling. He didn’t trust the silence. He might have shrugged it off: reasonably, the law would have gone chasing up into the Yellows, with no tracks to follow. The rain, he reflected, had been the only good luck in a rotten day. But just the same, he was troubled. Chris Holliday had not caught up. Of course, most likely, Chris’ horse had given out and he would be plodding afoot across the sand, sweating under the brassy sun and the hundred-and-fifteen degree heat. But none of this reasoning served to dispel Madden’s nervousness. Yesterday morning, when Walt Smiley had met him on the trail, an arm bullet-shattered and reporting the dismal failure of the plan against Six and the wagon, Madden had been of half a mind to let the gang rot and take off by himself. Smiley had ridden for Mexico; it was the last Madden would see of Smiley or any of that bunch. Six had killed Peso. Madden shook his head; all the way around, he had made a bad job of things. Now Six was after him, probably fortified by the guns of fighters like Tracy Chavis and Bones Riley, men whom Madden was too smart not to respect. And Madden knew that if he could think of dodging the law by cutting across the desert, Six was perfectly capable of coming to the same conclusion. That was one reason why Madden had stayed awake all morning to watch the east.

  But no one showed in that direction, and from this slight elevation Madden could see many miles out into the flats.

  If the posse was out there, they still had a good long way to come before he was in danger.

  That was why he distrusted his own feelings of imminent trouble. But those feelings kept growing in him, forcing themselves against his reason, spooking him, until, shortly after eleven—still with no riders visible on the desert—he gave in to his own premonitions, and stalked back into the barn to kick his men awake.

  Ivy was the first one he awakened. Ivy looked up sleepily and complained, “What the hell’s wrong?”

  “Were getting out of here,” Madden said.

  “What for? Hell, I only got three hours’ sleep. Nobody comin’, is there?”

  “No.”

  “Then I guess I’ll go back to sleep,” Ivy said.

  Madden kicked him again, harder, in the ribs. “Get up, damn it.”

  Ivy knew him too well to ignore a direct command when he heard it. The big ox-bodied man sat up and ground knuckles into his eye-sockets to wipe away sleep. Madden went on down the line, waking the rest of them. When all eyes were open, he said, “On your feet. Get saddled and pack some grub. We’re leaving.”

  Not leaving time for argument, he went back outside. His horse, a fresh one he had forcibly swapped from Tilghley, stood saddled and waiting by the front of the adobe trading post. He walked over to it and tightened the cinch, tested the bit, and made sure his saddlebags were full of food. Then he took his canteen over to the water trough and filled it at the pump. Afterward, hanging the canteen on the saddle, he went inside the trading post and said to Tilghley, “My boys need food and fresh stock. We’ll leave our own horses here—fair trade.”

  “Hell,” Tilghley said bitterly, “them broncs of yours is wind-broke for good. Ain’t worth more than horsemeat.”

  “Tough, old man,” Madden said, and went back to the door to look out.

  Behind him he heard Tilghley breathing hard in anger. The old man was grizzled and lean; how he had survived the Indian wars in this lonely outpost was beyond Madden. He heard the old man’s complaining voice rise once more: “Am I goin’ to get paid for the grub?”

  “Afraid not,” Madden said. “Chalk it up to charity.”

  “Charity, hell. Thievery. I’ll tell you something, you young stud—it’ll take a powerful lot of runnin’ before you get away from your own meanness.”

  “Button it up, old man,” Madden said, and went outside. Faro Price came out of the barn leading his saddled horse; Price took the horse over to the water trough to let it drink. Madden sat down on a stump near his own horse and waited impatiently. The sun made him sweat and he longed for the cool country he had left behind in the Yellows. Yesterday’s raid had been a bad mistake; he had no choice but to admit it, at least privately. He remembered Baltimore and Charleston, carefree younger days, and wondered where it had gone sour, where he had turned wrong; all this time, he felt, he had been sliding downward into blackness. After he got out of this, and disbanded his crew, he thought perhaps he would head farther west, try to make a fresh start in California. But secretly he knew it would do no good. Once again he would choose the wrong roads; it was in the cards.

  The others came straggling out of the barn and Madden felt a sudden need to get away, as fast as he could, alone. Controlling himself, he called them all over to him and took the heavy saddlebags off his saddle, and spilled the money out on the ground. There were ten golden double-eagles, twenty-dollar pieces, among the litter of smaller coins and one-dollar-bills. He took the double eagles and said, “Split up the rest of it yourselves. Then ride out of here. I don’t aim to see any of you again.”

  With that, he pocketed the coins and strode to his horse. Climbing up, he was ready to turn when Ivy’s whining voice came at him: “What am I going to do, Oak?”

  “Hang yourself,” Madden said, and turned his horse north out of the yard.

  Leaving the trading post, he had it in mind to strike north along the Smoke River, going up into the Mogollon country, then turning west toward the Rio Colorado and eventually cross into California. But he had not gone a hundred yards upriver when he was chilled to the bone by sight of a grim gathering of five riders coming toward him from the trees.

  “Six,” he hissed. Sudden panic struck him. He jerked the horse around and spurred it back toward Tilghley’s.

  Six had resolved that the only way to catch Madden’s bunch by surprise was to cut northwest from Chris Holliday’s grave, striking the Smoke at a point several miles north of Tilghley’s Ford, and coming down to the trading post under cover of the cottonwoods. He had known that Madden, if he chose to hole up at the trading post, would keep a man on guard, to watch the desert, and from Tilghley’s a man could see miles out onto the flats, far enough to get away with plenty of lead. Thus Six had gambled, and taken the longer route.

  Now, spotting Madden at the same time Madden saw them, Six felt a fierce exultation: his guesswork had proved successful. He drove his horse to a dead run, the others right behind him, and lifted his gun. It was not a time for strategy; he could not plan to surround the outlaws, for that would give Madden time to alert them. The only course was to ram right into their midst and take them while they were confused.

  Beside him Elias and Riley and Redondo, all of them wily fighters, were flanking off into the trees to form a wider net. Larry Keene came up alongside and the two of them rushed abreast into the yard.

  It took not more than a single glimpse to see what was happening. Just ahead, Madden was sitting his wildly rearing horse, bellowing orders to the half dozen men who stood awkwardly around the yard. Only one of them, Faro Price, had a horse. Six saw Drake Ivy by the barn, arrested in the act of looking up; he seemed to have been counting coins. Jed and Creed Bolton were by the trading post door. Faro Price was with his horse, loading supplies into saddlebags. Two others were near the water trough, in the act of diving behind it. What about Sarasen? He was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps Sarasen had, after all, simply ridden out of the country.

  Madden, cursing in great cries, seemed to see the uselessness of making a stand; he wheeled his horse and tried to make a dash for the trees to the south. Off to Six’s left, beyond the building, Bones Riley’s rifle roared and Madden’s horse went down. Windmilling his arms for balance, Madden found his feet and raced into the barn with Riley’s bullets kicking up dust at his heels. Six called out in a loud voice, “Throw down your guns!”

  The Boltons looked at each other, confused. Ivy whirled inside the barn; that put two men in there, Ivy and Madden. Price had swung behind his horse and was using it for cover, lifting his revolver. All this impressed itself on Six’s mind in a fraction of a second. He brought his gun around and snapped a shot at Price’s exposed legs; Price’s knee buckled and he sank to the ground under the horse, which reared wild-eyed and ran off. But Price was not out of the fight yet. Six fired at him again, missed, and realized that he was too much of a target sitting tall on the horse; he jumped out of the saddle and ran up against the corner of the trading post.

  Price was crawling to the protection of the water trough, which already sheltered two of the toughs. The Boltons had gone inside the trading post. Keene was not in sight; at the far edge of trees Six saw Redondo. He looked around in back of him and saw Elias and Riley coming up from the river, Elias going around the far end of the building. Riley came up beside Six. “Looks like a stand-off.”

  Just then two guns bloomed at either side of the barn doorway—Madden and Drake Ivy. Six shot back, to keep their heads down. From a position in the nearby trees to his right, a big-bore rifle opened up and methodically plugged bullets into the water trough. That would be Keene, and immediately Six saw what the rancher had in mind. Coolly, Keene was punching holes near the bottom of the trough. The water would run out, and when it did, the thin wood of the trough would not keep a bullet from penetrating a man.

  There was a deafening explosion from within the trading post—buffalo gun, Six decided, or perhaps a double-barreled greener. A second report followed on the heels of the first, and after it came a high old man’s cracked voice, “I taken these two buzzards out of the fight, Marshal.”

  “Obliged,” Six called back, and could not help a brief grin. Keene’s bullets were rapidly emptying the trough in mid-yard; water already stained a wide area of ground. Then, from the far side of the building, Elias’ pistol began to fire steadily, setting up a murderous crossfire on the three outlaws who were pinned down behind the trough. Faced with that and the fast-dropping water level, the three called out and stood up, hands high and empty.