“A real suspension,” Carson said. He heaved a sigh. He didn’t like the way this talk meandered. They had real problems. And the night felt heavy—too still, too watchful. Like something waited out there in the dark.

  “Any ideas where to go? I can’t find Lemuel’s tracks, not in the dark.”

  “If we use a torch, we—” Daniel clamped his mouth shut before he finished the thought. The posse would spot a sputtering torch in the night quicker than a bunny.

  “If you’re in the desert and not thinking straight,” Potter said, “you start curving to your right. You can’t help yourself. Before you know it, you’re going back in the direction you came.”

  “Or you’re walking in circles if you’re out there long enough without a compass,” said Carson. “Since Turner and Wylie are picking the trail, we had better assume that’s happening to them.”

  “But they got stars to guide theyselves by!”

  “Daniel, we rode with them. They never looked up from the ground in front of them the whole time.” Carson pictured the cabin, the direction their partners had started, and then how a slow turn to the right would play out.

  His belly knotted up. He and Potter said at the same time, “After all this time, they’ll be riding toward Boone.”

  “Right into the arms of that marshal,” Joe said after listening to the byplay. “What do we do, Clay?”

  “Cut across the prairie and ride straight for town,” he said. His mind raced. He was the one that found what the gang should rob. It had always been Lemuel’s job to do the planning. Now he found himself thrust into that role. He wasn’t sure he liked it. One mistake on his part and they’d be swinging like wind bells in a high wind.

  “If we can cut ’em off before they ride too far, we’ll be all right.” This was the best he could come up with. It sounded dangerous, though, if Lemuel and the others were riding straight and true.

  Even Joe saw the danger.

  “If they are heading toward the North Star, we’ll be riding into the marshal’s wide-open arms.” Joe Easterly let out a breath like a venting steam engine.

  “You and your brother head north, in case they had an attack of common sense. I’ll see what there is around Boone and steer them away if I spot them in time.”

  “Clay, old son, I know the lay of the land better’n you do,” said Potter. “The two of us will go after Lemuel. If he’s all turned around.”

  “It’s not good splitting up,” said Joe. “We should all stick together. Or give up on this wild-goose chase and head for safety, maybe up in Colorado.”

  “No! Joe, what’re you sayin’? This is our chance to get rich! Think of all the gold that Lemuel’s hid somewhere.” Daniel reached out and tugged on his brother’s sleeve, as if to shake him out of his crazy dream of turning tail and running.

  Carson heard the longing in the boy’s voice. The gold was a bright, shiny trinket, the kind that attracted crows. Becoming rich after punching cattle appealed to him, but what Daniel wanted more than anything else was his brother’s approval. To get that, he had to be accepted as an equal in the gang.

  Their bad luck, so far, made him consider the chance that they’d all dangle at the end of a noose. Marshal Sutcliff wasn’t the kind to bother himself with trivial things like trials and judges and guilty verdicts.

  Carson realized the lawman hardly needed to go to such bother if he caught four men herding horses stolen from dead posse members.

  “That way,” Carson said, heading to the southeast. “We’ll cross the main road into Boone before we see the town. If there’s no trace of Lemuel along the road, we turn straight north and get the hell away.”

  They rode in silence for a half hour before they reached the road. Carson halted there and tried to pierce the darkness by scowling. It didn’t work. The wind had kicked up a little, causing a soft sigh through the small stands of trees along the road, but something else other than the quiet bothered him.

  “You feeling prickly, Clay?”

  Potter also picked up on his nerves. “Me, too. Someone’s been on our back trail for the past few minutes.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?” Carson touched his six-gun, but didn’t draw. A fight this close to town would bring any roving posse down on their necks. It might be too late for patrols to be out, but he had believed that when the posse found them at the cabin.

  “You’re the one who notices things like that. I thought you knew.”

  “Been distracted.”

  Potter rode closer and said in a low voice, “There’s nothing we can do if Billy and Sam have wormed the location of the gold from Lemuel. If he’s feeling poorly enough, he’d tell them before he died.”

  Carson wanted to argue the point, but the breeze caught the sound of horses behind them.

  “Have you seen anywhere that we can fight it out?”

  “The trees. That’s all I’ve got.”

  “Round up the others, Simon. Get ready to make a stand if it comes to that. I’ll see what our back trail looks like.”

  Potter grumbled and wanted to argue. Staying together added to their firepower, but they needed to know how much trouble they had fallen into now. It was best for Carson to do a solitary scout.

  He saw the dark shapes of his friends head for three trees on the north side of the road. When they had time to unlimber their guns, Carson cut across the road to the south and found a ditch to hide in. With his horse tethered a few yards away, he settled down. Thick storm clouds blew in from the south, obscuring what little light came from the waning moon. Those clouds would drench them within an hour from the look of the fierce, dark underbellies and occasional lightning flashes many miles away.

  He listened for thunder from the approaching tempest. Instead, he heard hooves clomping along the road. Pistol clenched in his hand, he pulled off his Stetson, set it beside him, and pressed down into the ditch until only the top of his head poked up.

  The air was electric, alive with the charge of the storm creeping closer. Distant thunder now rolled faint and long, like a warning drumbeat.

  He counted two men. Then he realized the darkness tricked him. There were four—two more riding close to their partners. They walked slowly, then halted a few yards away.

  “They’re in those trees. I’m as sure as there’s sin,” declared one. A shadowy arm pointed toward the very spot where Potter and the Easterly brothers had taken cover.

  “We ought to tell Sutcliff. He’ll want to make the arrest.”

  “Arrest?” The word was followed by a half-drunken snicker. “He ain’t never gonna arrest any of those desperadoes.”

  A general agreement went up from the others.

  “Yost, go tell the marshal what we found. We’ll wait for you and him to get back. If we don’t tell him, he’ll throw one monster of a conniption fit. You know how he gets.”

  One rider separated from the others and headed in the direction of Boone. Carson had no choice. He tracked the rider and fired. More luck than skill guided the bullet. The man tumbled from the saddle. Carson whipped his six-shooter around to get off a few more shots before the remaining trio spotted him.

  Their horses reared and pawed the ground, making it hard to aim accurately. He fired until the hammer on his six-gun clicked on a spent cartridge. Ducking back into the ditch, he frantically reloaded.

  His hope that he was hidden quickly evaporated. Bullets kicked up the earth around him. The lip of the ditch provided little protection from their lead. His hat danced a little. Another bullet had ripped through the tall felt crown. If he’d been wearing the hat, his brains would have been splattered along the ditch.

  He received a momentary reprieve when Potter and the others opened fire from the trees. Carson winced. He located every one of them by their muzzle flashes.

  The posse shouted in confusion and flung lead in all directions. He winged another but failed to put him out of the fight.

  “We gotta get the one varmint behind us. We can’t let him pick us off like he did Charlie.”

  The voice crackled with authority. The others obeyed.

  Carson scooted belly down as fast as he could to get away. He was partially hidden. All their gunfire went to the spot where he had been. Clutching his hat in one hand and the gun in the other, he flopped out onto flat ground. His horse nervously jerked at its reins a few yards away. Carson had no choice but to run for the horse and hope to escape.

  “They’re getting away! After them!”

  The three posse members galloped back along the road away from town. For a moment, Carson wondered why. Then he saw two horsemen in a flash of distant lightning. They aimed rifles at the posse and took a toll, bringing down another of the deputies. The remaining two lawmen charged headlong toward the riders.

  Another lightning flash showed nothing but empty road, empty save for the deputies. They quickly disappeared down the road in pursuit of the pair that had attacked them. Carson vaulted into the saddle, hesitated, then rode straight for the trees where his partners had taken refuge.

  “Don’t shoot, Daniel. It’s Clay.”

  An amorphous form stepped out from deep shadow.

  “Simon,” Carson called, “mount up! We’ve got to get away.”

  He heard the Easterly brothers bringing the horses around.

  “North,” Carson said.

  They tore up the grassland with their horses’ flying hooves. When the horses tired, they slowed.

  “What happened back there?” demanded Potter. “You nailed one. We shot at the other three, but they lit out right away. We weren’t accurate enough to make them retreat.”

  “Two sharpshooters opened up on them. The posse went after them.” Carson wiped his mouth. “They decoyed the deputies on purpose.”

  “Who were they?” asked Daniel.

  Carson didn’t have an answer for that. Whoever they were, they had saved the day.

  “Want to give them a hand with the posse?” Potter asked.

  “What I want, other than a good night’s sleep, is to find Lemuel.” Carson had no idea where to look, but it wasn’t back near Boone, not with the entire countryside swarming with law dogs. They had poked their heads into the bear’s den and come out alive. They might not be so lucky a second time.

  And whoever those two men were might not be around to lure away the marshal’s men a second time.

  CHAPTER 26

  “We’re safe,” Simon Potter said. “Nobody’s on our trail.”

  Clay Carson kept his worry to himself. They had gotten away from the posse through luck—through intervention by the two mysterious riders. Not knowing who their benefactors were bothered him more than the notion of lawmen dogging their every step. The silence that followed Potter’s statement didn’t feel safe. It felt hollow, like the stillness before a Texas twister.

  “The same can be said about Lemuel,” Carson finally said. “I can’t find his trail.”

  “He couldn’t have ridden too far, could he? A man in his sorry condition can’t ride long ’fore keeling over.” Daniel Easterly circled the small group, endlessly moving. His nervous energy put Carson’s teeth on edge.

  “Settle down,” Carson said, finally reaching the end of his patience. It was hard enough to think without the constant rattle of horseshoes against rock and Daniel’s endless comments.

  “Don’t you go telling my brother what to do, Clay.” Joe Easterly rode between the men.

  “He’s old enough to take care of himself. He claims he’s old enough to ride with us.” Carson wasn’t going to take any guff off Joe, either.

  “The Dirty Creek Gang,” Joe said sarcastically. “What a bunch of losers we are. Going here, riding there, afraid of our own shadows. We might end up at the end of a noose at any minute. And for what?”

  Simon Potter rode between Joe Easterly and Carson.

  “If you don’t like it, Joe, why don’t you just stick your tail between your legs and ride off?” Potter’s ire rose now.

  The four of them faced off. Their horses pawed the ground and bucked just enough to make it hard for any of them to assert dominance. The stare-down lasted long enough for Carson to realize they wasted time.

  They were surrounded by scraggy cottonwoods and sandstone bluffs, the dawn light slanting low across the brush like pale fire. The land bore the look of old scars—rocky ridges split by dried riverbeds, mesquite snags clinging to life. Nothing about it seemed forgiving.

  “We can continue trying to figure out whose lariat is longest when we get away from Boone,” Carson declared. He saw this had some effect on the Easterly boys. They had helped rescue Potter, but Simon Potter was the one who reacted most, coming to his defense.

  Potter ran his finger around under his collar. A quick nod showed he was willing to follow Carson.

  If Carson had had any notion of taking over the gang, he’d have appreciated the gesture more than he did. All he wanted was the weight of gold in his saddlebags and an empty horizon. The days of the Dirty Creek Gang were over, and had been even before the ill-fated bank holdup. They’d been notorious without getting rich from their robberies.

  “North,” he said with enough authority that the others automatically turned that direction. They might have gone east, but skimming along the edge of Boone wouldn’t be something Lemuel would approve of after the shoot-out at the cabin.

  “He had thought to head toward the town,” Joe said. “And you said a man wandering around blind always curled around. That’d send Lemuel and the others toward Boone, too.”

  “North.” Carson’s tone brooked no argument.

  He snapped the reins and trotted off, anxious to put as much distance between them and the posse as he could. What Joe Easterly said was true. Lemuel had headed east and would have passed through Boone, but he hadn’t known about the marshal there and his liking for stretching the neck of any stranger passing through.

  Or had he? If Lemuel wanted to go out in a blaze of glory, this was the way to paradise for him.

  The trail narrowed, hemmed in by brush and shadows. Somewhere nearby, a coyote let out a single yelp before falling silent. The temperature dropped just enough to make the sweat on Carson’s neck feel like ice water.

  They rode for over an hour before Potter came alongside and said in a low voice, “How long do we go this way? We’ll be in Hidetown in a few days.”

  “Lemuel wasn’t heading there.”

  “You mean he didn’t have the gold with him there,” Potter said.

  “Whatever else you can say about him, he’s still got a sharp mind. He knows what he’s doing.”

  “Try to sound like you mean it, Clay. His mind can be sharp as a tack, but his body’s about worn-out. That’s got to count for something.”

  “Back at the cabin, he kept saying he didn’t want to be buried with his boots on. He’s settling his mind. He’s fixing to die by taking care of last-minute business.”

  “That doesn’t sound like the Lemuel Jones I know,” Potter said. “Lemuel’d be thumbing his nose at the Grim Reaper.”

  “Or challenging him to a game of checkers,” Carson said without giving it any thought. He just reacted to Potter and the way Lemuel’s actions struck him.

  They laughed at that. The small joke caused both brothers to ride alongside. When Carson explained it, Joe laughed. Daniel looked confused.

  The ride relaxed a little after that. The horses’ hooves beat a rhythm into the packed trail, the kind that lulled a man into thinking he had time, that the world would wait for him.

  But it wouldn’t.

  Carson kept an eye on the sky. Vultures wheeled above in broad, lazy circles. They always knew when death was close. And the way Lemuel had looked last time they saw him, those birds might have a better sense of direction than the Dirty Creek Gang.

  “If it’s Lemuel’s way of leaving this world, he’ll go out kicking and screaming, not all peaceful,” Potter said. “I can’t picture him going with his boots off.”

  “You reckon he’s dead?” Joe slumped in the saddle as he asked.

  “Are you a betting man, Joe? How much would you wager that Lemuel’s dead? I’ll take whatever you put up and give you odds.”

  “You never were a good gambler, Potter. You know something we don’t?”

  “Would I try to bilk you out of a few bucks?”

  “Simon, you’d steal the pennies off a dead man’s eyes. You’d bet the Grim Reaper you were talking about two out of three flips of a coin. And you’d win every last one because you never bet unless it’s a cinch.”

  “I lost my two-headed coin before they dropped that noose around my neck. I’m hobbling along on what luck I’ve got stored up.”

  “You never were one to save much,” Carson pointed out.

  “That’s—” Potter cut off his sassy reply and fell silent. He ran his hands across his eyes, then yelled, “Wylie!” Potter took off his hat and waved it in the air. He called out again.

  The Easterly brothers and Carson looked around. Not fifty yards away, a dark figure stood near a tree.

  “Sam, finish your business and get over here.” Potter looked smug. If anyone had bet him, they’d have lost. He had already spotted their wayward partner.

  “Not so loud,” Wylie said, coming over. He worked to get his fly buttoned. “Jones has been fitful. He just drifted off to sleep. Where have you been?”

  “Trying to find your trail, that’s where,” Joe Easterly said. “You hid it real good.”

  “We weren’t trying,” Sam said. He motioned for them to follow.

  Before they reached the small stand of trees, Sam pointed. On the far side, they had stretched a rope between two trees and tied their horses to it.

  Carson and the other three hurriedly added their mounts to the growing remuda, then slipped quietly through the wooded patch to where a small campfire guttered. Two dark shapes stretched out beyond it.