“By the time we get around the Three Squares herd, the sick cattle will be scattered across the plains,” Carson said.

  “You get ’em movin’ and me and Joe’ll see to the rest.”

  “Don’t drive the Three Squares cows back into the canyon. You let Gregson and the others move them. You and him stay out here. The three of us can just ride off.”

  “That’s smart, Clay, real smart. Henry’d have to push through the entire Three Squares herd to get back out here to stop us.”

  “More likely, he won’t even notice. He and the others will be busy driving the herd back down the canyon to wherever Casimir feeds his stock.”

  “Let’s get to it,” Daniel said. As he rode off to drive the stolen herd into the canyon, he let out another whoop. He called out to the cattle, “I’m ridin’ with the most bodacious gang that ever terrorized Texas!”

  Carson wondered what it would take to leave Daniel hog-tied and gagged somewhere that his brother’d never find him. The idea of having the youngster riding with the gang left a bad taste in his mouth. He was too eager, too rambunctious, and he’d get them all in bad trouble. Carson felt it in his bones.

  But Joseph was a good man and had useful skills. More than that, he claimed to know where Simon Potter was. Finding the last of the gang right away was best for them all. Lemuel couldn’t hang on too much longer. Carson worried that their leader might kick the bucket by the time they were all gathered.

  That would be a pity, but even if the gold from the bank robbery was denied them, he wanted to see Simon again. They had always been blood brothers.

  Another thought intruded. If Wylie and Turner had squeezed the location of the gold from Lemuel, thinking to steal it for themselves, it’d be good to have Simon and the Easterly brothers at his side. Mistrusting the other two rankled, but he had seen the way the two men from Elbow Bend acted. The only thing they hated more than each other was … the world.

  Wylie and Turner cooperating to steal the gold from under the noses of the rest of the gang made sense. Those two could tolerate each other long enough to get rich.

  He rode for a half mile and finally found the Three Squares stragglers making their way toward less grazed land. A few snaps of his lariat got them moving back toward the main herd and the break in the canyon wall, where they’d find a new home.

  As he rode, he wondered how Gregson intended to run the Three Squares brand. Turning it into the Double Diamond was a trick requiring some outlaw artistry, but the ramrod had already changed the Double Diamond brands. It might be easier adding a third box than it was erasing the old brand.

  He shrugged it off. That wasn’t his concern. He was a bank robber, not a cattle rustler.

  The last of the cattle toward his end of the grassland finally moved steadily to where the Easterly brothers formed them into a vee vanishing into the canyon. The Double Diamond ramrod and the rest of his wranglers in the canyon worked to move the new herd and hadn’t bothered to come out onto the flatlands.

  He took off his hat and ran his sleeve across his forehead to mop sweat. The day wasn’t all that hot yet, but he wasn’t used to this kind of work. Hoeing weeds in a cotton field, even picking cotton when the bolls popped open, was harder work, but he had gotten used to the bending and carrying. Every job required different skills and endurance.

  He hoped he never again had to swing a lariat and stare at the south end of a northbound cow. If Lemuel took them to the gold, that wish could easily come true.

  “Who the hell are you and what are you doing with our cattle?”

  Carson went cold inside. Along with the words came the metallic click of a hammer being cocked. He had been caught red-handed and some unseen gunman had the drop on him.

  CHAPTER 14

  “Don’t go doing anything you’ll regret,” Clay Carson said slowly. He looked down at the ground. The sun cast a long shadow. Beside him, stretching for a dozen feet, was another dark length. The shadow of the gun in the man’s fist looked bigger than a boulder.

  “Won’t be me who’s doin’ the regrettin’. I ast a question. What are you doin’ on Three Squares land?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? I’m looking over your herd.” Carson took a big risk. As quick as he was, drawing, turning, and firing at the man directly behind him wasn’t likely to get him anywhere but buried in a shallow grave.

  “Now, what’s your interest?”

  Since an ounce of lead hadn’t shattered his spine, Carson knew he had piqued the man’s curiosity.

  “You got sick cattle out there. I’m with the county health agency.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with those beeves.”

  “It’s something I need to talk to Mr. Bailey about. He’s the owner, isn’t he?” Carson turned around slowly, hands out wide from his sides to present as little threat as possible. He expected use of the owner’s name to defuse the situation. A little. A rustler wasn’t likely to know who owned the cattle he stole.

  “What do you mean they’re sick?”

  “Heard tell that the Double Diamond herd’s got splenic fever. That’s so contagious these cows are likely to catch it, too.”

  “We keep our herds apart. Casimir’s got inferior breeding stock. You sayin’ he’s got infected beeves?” The cowboy rode around. He still clutched his six-gun, but his eyes darted past Carson out to the cattle grazing nearby. This was all the opening that Carson needed.

  He swung his lariat around. He missed roping the man’s gun hand, but the hemp rope lashed across the extended arm. It hurt enough for the cowboy to yelp and grab for the injured biceps. Carson swung around a bit more and launched himself from the saddle. Arms grasping, he caught the other man and dragged him down to the ground.

  They wrestled about until Carson rolled over and got to his feet. The cowboy tried a different tactic. Rather than standing so he could have it out, he stretched out to retrieve his dropped gun.

  Carson saw the danger. A quick kick sent the six-shooter flying. The move caused him to lose his balance, but he turned this to his advantage. Carson dropped down awkwardly, his knee driving into the man’s gut. Air whooshed out.

  “You need help, Clay?”

  He glanced over his shoulder. Joe Easterly had his rifle out and pointed at the fallen cowboy.

  “No need to ventilate him.”

  “Show us how to hog-tie him,” Daniel Easterly piped up. The younger rider trotted over. “Joe says you throw the best knots of anybody ever.”

  “You’d do a better job. I’m out of practice, but I’ll see what I can remember.” Even as he passed out the compliment, he worked on his captive. The rope whipped around weakly groping hands. Rolled over onto his belly, the man’s feet came back, heels up. Carson gave the ankles a couple quick twists. Then he yanked the cowpoke’s bandanna free and tied it around his eyes.

  Before Daniel could ask why, Carson put his finger to his lips to silence him. He gestured for help. With Daniel’s help, he lugged the bound captive a dozen feet to a large rock. Carson forced the man onto his side. Using the rope from their prisoner’s saddle, they secured the cowboy so he couldn’t stand and attract attention.

  “We better hightail it,” Carson said. “He might not be out here alone.”

  “Did he get a good look at you?” Joe asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Why didn’t he gun you down? That’s one of the Three Squares crew.”

  “He’s got a gift, Daniel. Clay Carson can talk the rattles off a snake.”

  Daniel Easterly made appreciative sounds.

  Carson looked around for other wranglers from Bailey’s spread. All he saw were the sick cattle sporting their altered brands and the Easterly brothers.

  The air stank of sweat, sage, and something fouler—disease in bovine form. A fly buzzed his face and he shooed it away with a tired flick. This kind of deception—it clung to a man worse than cow dung. The wind carried no redemption.

  “Where do we head?” he asked. “This is your territory.”

  Joe Easterly reached back and dug around in his saddlebags. He pulled out a sheet that had been folded over too many times. The yellowed paper had turned brittle and cracked along the creases, but the picture on it was plain enough.

  “Simon has a Wanted poster out for him?” Carson shook his head. None of the others in the gang had kept up their banditry. From the date on the poster—it was only two months old—Simon Potter had chosen not to hide but to keep up his thieving ways.

  “Only for fifty dollars and not a hefty reward like for big outlaws, but you know him. He always got himself in trouble up to his ears,” Joe said. “This was printed over in Boone.”

  “It’s old. How long have you had it?”

  “I took it off the town marshal’s desk six weeks back while him and Mr. Casimir were having an argument. I know, I know,” Joe said, shaking his head. “Simon’s likely to have skedaddled by now, but it’s a place to start.”

  “You never showed that to me,” Daniel said. “You talk about him and Clay here all the time, but you never said Potter was anywhere near us.”

  “I didn’t want you shooting off your mouth about me knowing him,” Joe said. “If Henry heard so much as a whisper, you know how he’d act.”

  “But, Joe, Simon Potter is one of the gang! We coulda done something to help him!” Daniel was outraged at being left out. “Where do we go to find him so he can join up with Lemuel and the rest of us?”

  “As careless as he was, we ought to look down in Huntsville Prison first.” Carson was only half joking. He put his heels to his horse’s flanks and trotted after the brothers as they rode directly into the rising sun.

  By early afternoon, they reached a well-traveled road and headed toward a town named Boone. They rode in silence, each lost in his own thoughts, but Carson grew increasingly antsy. He spent as much time looking over his shoulder at the road behind as he did ahead toward a town where his onetime best friend had crossed the law.

  Simon Potter’s wildness rivaled the prairie wind. He left it to his partner to think before acting, preferring to react first. That got him into fights he should have avoided and, worse, brought unwanted attention from law dogs. In spite of being so impetuous, he was a good friend and always found a way to make Carson laugh.

  “That’s why we got on,” he said aloud. Joe Easterly never turned, but his brother did.

  “You and this Simon Potter fellow? Joe never talks much about him. Well, not that much. Always you, Clay. He looks up to you.”

  “Simon is an acquired taste. I held him back from doing the most loco things. Anything that entered his head, he’d do without giving it a second thought.”

  “But you’re cold and calculating?”

  “Did Joe say that about me?” Carson looked past the younger Easterly. Joe rode ahead, maybe out of earshot. Or maybe not.

  “Not exactly. He admires the way you never panic, even when everything’s going wrong around you.”

  This put Carson into a dark mood. He hadn’t been so cool and calculating as they raced from the Fort Worth bank. He had been frightened at how badly everything had gone for them. Lemuel Jones had had a couple bags of gold coins, but the bank guards had given as good as they got. Nobody walked out of the bank without at least one bullet hole in his hide.

  A half dozen men had been killed inside the bank. And outside, the passerby who thought he’d be a hero used the woman and her child, who were just walking by with their flowers, as shields. Carson rested his hand on the butt of his six-gun. She shouldn’t have screamed. The only luck she had that day was Carson’s six-gun being emptied in five chambers. That sixth round had been enough to send the gun-wielding hero to the promised land.

  Then Carson had collided with the woman.

  The woman’s screams had stopped and the girl’s had begun, seeing her ma clubbed across the face. Hot steel smashed into her nose and the front sight raked across her eyes.

  Carson took a deep breath and tried to banish the memory of spurting blood. One ruined eye. The other flooded with red—

  “You’re looking mighty pensive, Clay.”

  He jerked around. Joe Easterly had fallen back and now rode alongside. He tried to brush it off, but Joe wasn’t having any of it.

  “I get nightmares to this day. You shouldn’t let it eat away at you, Clay.”

  “What are you talking about?” Carson sounded too abrupt, but Joseph Easterly ignored the tone.

  “I killed two men that day. My first two. I still see the teller’s frightened face, the wide eyes and his mouth opening. I put a bullet smack-dab into his mouth.”

  “We didn’t get the gold then. We deserved it for all the trouble Lemuel put us through.” Carson wanted to change the subject of the wanton killing. The guards had opened up on them and the tellers weren’t far behind, grabbing for their shooting irons under the counter.

  He wasn’t sure talking about the gold they hadn’t carried out made him feel any better.

  “How come he didn’t spend it? We decoyed the posse away from him.”

  Carson shrugged. He had asked himself that. All of them who had decided to ride with Lemuel again had. They knew their leader too well.

  “It might be he has his own bad memories and couldn’t bring himself to spend the money.”

  “It has blood on it, that’s for sure,” Joe Easterly said. “That doesn’t mean I won’t enjoy spending my share.”

  “Even if he had spent the money, seeing Lemuel one last time before he dies is worth the effort.”

  “We were the worst there was,” Joe Easterly said. “In our day, none worse.”

  “No better friends could be found anywhere.”

  Easterly started to say something more, but his brother rode back, waving his hat in the air.

  “Boone is just over the hill,” Joe said. “What do we do now?” He looked at his brother, but Carson felt the question was directed at him. He had been elected leader without asking for the burden.

  Clay Carson willingly assumed the position. It’d be good seeing Simon again. Better, with Simon Potter riding along, they could retrieve the hidden gold denied them for an entire year. He hoped the small town offered some hint as to the whereabouts of the last member of the Dirty Creek Gang.

  Maybe then, Carson hoped, he could forget the images that haunted him.

  Damn Lemuel Jones for creating those memories.

  Damn them all.

  CHAPTER 15

  “Let me see the Wanted poster.” Clay Carson held out his hand.

  “It’s not a good likeness,” Joe Easterly said as he fished it out of his pocket. “But then Simon wasn’t all that good-looking.”

  Carson took the poster and turned it around to get a better look. He shook his head. There wasn’t any doubt this was Simon Potter.

  “A fifty-dollar reward,” he said finally. “It doesn’t say what he did.” He looked at the Easterly brothers. They had no idea, either.

  “Rumors? When you were in Boone, did anyone complain of some terrible robbery?”

  “It must be something pretty low-down,” Daniel Easterly said. “That’s a handsome reward for small fry like him.” He patted his pockets. “If he wasn’t one of the gang, I’d be willing to turn him in.” He chewed his lower lip and said softly, “Imagine having that much money on your head. Fifty whole dollars.”

  Carson worried that Joe’s brother might consider turning the rest of them in if sufficient money was offered. Other than being blood kin to a man he’d called his friend a long year ago, Daniel Easterly was a wild card in this poker game. He had no idea how far to trust him.

  Or if he trusted him at all.

  Joe motioned him aside. He licked his lips and looked uneasy at what he was going to say.

  “He’s steady, Clay.”

  “He’s your brother. You have to take his part.”

  “No,” denied Joe, “I don’t. I wouldn’t.”

  “How many gunfights has he been in?” He read the answer on Joe’s face. “How many men has he killed?” The answer to that was the same. None.

  There was no need to ask about his history with robberies. Daniel had worked as a cowboy, not a bank robber. Or a road agent or any other owlhoot taking other people’s money and property. All he wanted was to impress his brother by idolizing the men who had ridden in a notorious outlaw gang.

  But admiration and readiness to commit a crime weren’t the same. Carson had seen too many young bucks eager to make a name with a gun and get planted before they could learn how to reload under fire. Death didn’t wait for second chances.

  “If we breeze into town and start asking after Simon, we’re likely to run afoul of the law.” Carson ran his finger along the frayed bottom of the poster. It had small print too difficult to read.

  “It says to turn him in to the Boone marshal,” Joe said. Seeing Carson’s frown, he added, “It said that before I smudged it.”

  “Why’d you take the poster? Wouldn’t the marshal notice it was gone?”

  “He was passing them out all over town. He even gave Mr. Casimir one,” Daniel said.

  “I never heard tell of such a thing. Does your marshal usually drop Wanted posters on ranchers?”

  “Rustlers bedeviled us about the time this showed up.” Joe pointed to the poster, then took it when Carson handed it back.

  “So he might be wanted for rustling. That sounds like something Simon would do.”

  “So does a lot of other things, if he wasn’t trying to hide out after we all scattered. He kept up the thievery.” Joe Easterly stared down at the town. “Are we going to jaw all day or go find him?”

  “Let’s ride!” Daniel started to whip his horse into a gallop, but Carson stopped him with a sharp command.

  When he had the boy’s attention, he said, “We need a plan. There’s not much chance this marshal will be hunting for Joe and me, but why take a chance? He is hunting for Simon, and no crime was printed on that Wanted poster.”