The burial at dawn the next day consisted of a gravedigger, the undertaker, and the four—three—old-timers of the Dirty Creek Gang and one new member. The sky blushed faint pink as they lowered Lemuel down. Clay tossed in the first handful of dirt, his voice steady but low. “He rode with pride, fought with fire, and died with secrets. But he gave us one last chance.”

  Simon Potter touched his hat brim. “Rest easy, you stubborn old coot.”

  Daniel finished his prayer, his voice cracking. Joe stood silent, his face hard.

  Then they turned and walked away, their boots crunching dry gravel, leaving Lemuel to sleep in the red soil of Silverwood Springs.

  The map burned in Carson’s pocket. For that moment, the gold could wait.

  CHAPTER 31

  “That’s a good marker,” Potter said, looking at the wooden cross over Lemuel Jones’s grave. “Better than he’d ever have thought he’d get.”

  “This makes it right,” Carson said, settling one of Lemuel’s boots down over the marker. Dust still clung to the worn leather, its cracked sole curling at the edge, like it, too, had been through hell and back.

  “A boot,” mused Joe Easterly. “It gave us the gold. Thanks, Lemuel.”

  Carson knew better than to believe that the gold already jingled in their pockets because they had a map. They still had to find it. After all they’d been through, the bodies left rotting in the sun, the hunt was far from over. But the map had landmarks clearly marked that had never been mentioned before. That gave him a hope he had lost since he and Lemuel had sipped whiskey and reminisced on the porch of the Hidetown cabin.

  “The undertaker got off real quick, didn’t he?” Daniel asked. “He was as nervous as a long-tailed cat layin’ next to Granny’s rockin’ chair.”

  Carson turned from the grave. Daniel was right. The undertaker had disappeared like a ghost. The gravedigger had shuffled about, taking his time before the ceremony. Hastily shoveling dirt into the grave after a planting kept survivors from thinking too hard about their own future. But the man now moved like his tail was on fire.

  The breeze shifted, and Carson caught a sharp tang in the air—sweat, horses, something acrid beneath it. Powder, maybe. Or fear.

  “Mount up. We’ve got to get away,” Carson said suddenly.

  “What’s wrong, Clay?” Joe Easterly gently pressed down the dirt around Lemuel’s grave. “We need to make sure the grave is tamped down all properlike. Out here on the plains, the wind will blow it away before you know it.”

  “Stay, then,” Carson snapped. “The undertaker sold us out.”

  “What’re you sayin’?” Daniel reached for his six-gun. He looked around frantically, the whites of his eyes showing like a spooked colt.

  Carson had seen nothing to convince him of the man’s treachery. For all he knew, the gravedigger and undertaker had important business somewhere else. People died all the time and their skills were probably in constant demand. But his gut told him this was all wrong. He stepped up onto an adjacent grave marker to gain some height and looked around.

  “Down by the main road,” he said. “There’re men waiting for us.”

  “Wait, Clay,” called Potter. “They’re too obvious. They want us to see them, so we’ll run somewhere else.”

  Carson calmed down and began thinking. Simon was right.

  If they responded instinctively to avoid the obvious trap along the road, there was a gully running along the eastern side of the cemetery. The channel had been dug to take runoff and prevent the graves from washing open during heavy rain. Mount up, ride down the arroyo, and avoid the men down on the road.

  That was what a sensible man would do.

  “The arroyo makes a quick turn, not fifty yards downhill. A dozen men could hide there and we’d never see them until it was too late,” Carson observed quietly. He quickly ran through all possible schemes that might be used against them and came up with one that gave the best chance of escape.

  If the law had laid an ambush, it would be in the arroyo.

  “Joe, ride a few yards down the arroyo. Keep your rifle ready. We’re going to flush a pack of law dogs, if I’m right.”

  “What’re you going to do, Clay?” Potter drew his rifle from his saddle sheath.

  “Frontal attack. They outnumber us downhill, but they’re misjudging what we’ll do, now that we’ve figured out their real attack.”

  “Any of the posse in the arroyo will come on us from the rear if we get into a shoot-out with the deputies down along the road.” Potter thought a moment, then grinned broadly. “Joe can send them scurrying back under their rocks if he ambushes them.”

  “Do you expect me to hold them all off?” Joe sounded angry.

  “Take out as many as you can, spread all the confusion you can, then get out of there and join us on the road.”

  “If we get all split up,” asked Daniel, “where do we get back together?”

  Carson smiled without humor. If they failed to break through the cordon, none of them would be alive to meet anywhere.

  “The rocky spire at the mouth of the canyon where we shot up Brody and Turner. That’s a hard day’s travel outside town and close to where we need to start hunting for the gold.”

  “How long should we hang around there?” Daniel sounded frantic now. He bobbed up and down in the saddle. He clutched his pistol with such intensity that his hand shook.

  “Joe,” Carson said. “We’ve got to do this now, or we’ll have to make a stand here in the cemetery.”

  The cowboy swung around and rode into the arroyo. Carson ignored Daniel’s blathering until Joe reached a spot to make a stand. Then Carson said, “Let’s make every bullet count.”

  He levered a round into his rifle, tugged on the reins, and gave the bay its head in a downhill gallop. Simon Potter pressed close behind. He wasn’t sure what Daniel did. The time had long passed to worry about such things.

  The fight started when Carson was halfway to the road.

  The ambushers blazed away. Carson flinched as bullets whined past him, then brought his rifle to his shoulder and began firing. He had no idea if he hit any of his attackers, but their firing became sporadic. He burst past the ring of men crouched along the road who were firing at him. His horse kicked up a dust cloud. Carson leaned hard to the right and turned his horse, using only his knees; then he had a better shot at the posse. The Winchester snugged into the hollow of his shoulder as his finger curled around the trigger.

  Two quick rounds found their targets.

  “Eight of ’em!” Potter called from nearby. He emptied his rifle, then switched to his six-shooter.

  Carson came up empty and began using his own pistol. Just coming down the hill, Daniel bellowed like a charging bull. All it did was distract the ambushers, since he wasn’t firing. Carson got off two more shots into the deputies, thanks to the boy’s wild attack.

  “Use your gun!” Carson shouted. “Shoot ’em!”

  It was as if Daniel had forgotten he held his six-shooter. He leveled his weapon and emptied it as fast as he could pull the trigger. Carson didn’t see that Daniel hit anything, but it scattered the posse. Once they left their positions, they exposed themselves.

  Both Carson and Potter reloaded fast and used the disarray to cut down several more deputies. And then the fight escalated.

  Joe Easterly raced downhill. He had done his best to slow the posse laying their ambush in the arroyo. Now he joined the rest of the gang.

  “Clay. Behind Joe. See him?” Potter holstered his six-gun and worked to reload his rifle.

  Carson did the same. Marshal Sutcliff thundered along behind Joe. The lawman had been so sure the gang would retreat down the arroyo that he had waited there to arrest the outlaws he didn’t kill outright.

  “Joe’s in my way.” Potter had to return fire when a nearby deputy opened up on him. His bullet caught the man in the head. The back of the deputy’s hat seemed to explode with the passage of the bullet.

  Carson settled down and took aim at the rampaging marshal. His horse shied just as he drew back on the trigger. In spite of this, his bullet took Sutcliff from the saddle. But Carson saw right away that he had missed a killing shot.

  Chop off the snake’s head and the body dies. If Sutcliff had been disposed of, the posse would have not only lost its leader, but also its gumption. Carson knew the deputies were all recently sworn in. Those badges meant nothing to them. Without Sutcliff’s rage firing them up, they’d return to Boone as quick as they could, belly up to the bar, and drink. Tales would be told of their personal bravery. The marshal’s might be praised. After a toast to the lawman, they’d slowly drift back to their homes.

  But Sutcliff had to be removed permanently for that to happen.

  Joe reached the road. He and his brother slapped each other on the back, then turned to the serious business of stemming the flood of posse that had followed Sutcliff. It took only a few rounds to scatter the lawmen. With Sutcliff out of the fight, they lost their will to arrest the Dirty Creek Gang.

  “Get out of here,” Carson ordered the others. He ignored their replies. His eyes were fixed on Marshal Sutcliff as the fallen lawman stirred and finally got to his feet.

  Carson rode over and looked down on him. Sutcliff seemed to be tipsy. He staggered about, unable to stand on one foot without wobbling. A quick step back forced him to sit heavily. He stared up at Carson.

  “Who’re you? One of the gang?”

  “You know who I am. You know I just buried Lemuel Jones. And I know you’re a low-down, no-account, conniving—”

  The marshal jerked around and rolled away. Although he expected it, the move still caught Carson off guard. Sutcliff went from stunned captive to alert attacker in a flash. Carson fired, but the bullet missed the lawman by inches. He levered a new round in and yanked on the trigger. The hammer fell on a dud round. Snarling, Carson dropped the rifle and slid from the saddle. He had his six-shooter out, but Sutcliff continued to duck and dodge. He ended up behind a clump of grass.

  “I see you, Sutcliff. Come out and let’s finish this like men. If you don’t come out, I swear, I’ll cut you down in the most painful way possible.”

  “You’re a rotten excuse for a man!” the marshal called. “You’re a backshooter and a coward.”

  “You hang men for the pleasure of seeing them kicking in the air. Worse, you sell tickets to the people in your town and make a profit off death.”

  “They deserved it. Every last one of them I strung up was a dangerous criminal!”

  “How many, Sutcliff? How many innocent men have you murdered?”

  Carson fired into the bush. One bullet whined away into the distance. He had struck a hidden rock. He moved to the side to get a better target.

  “I never tried hanging you. What’s your beef?”

  “Me!” Simon Potter called out in a cold, harsh voice. “He’s my friend and saved me from your noose.”

  “I’ll take care of him, Simon.”

  “You owe me this one, Clay. I’m asking a favor. Let me kill this snake.”

  They both fired at the same instant as the marshal bolted. He tried to run uphill into the cemetery and the dubious shelter behind tombstones. The bullets danced on either side. Sutcliff lost his balance and fell to his knees. With his back to the two men, he raised his hands above his head.

  “Go on. Murder me. It’s what scum like you do.”

  “Clay …” Potter reached out and pushed Carson’s gun hand away from taking the shot. “I’ll owe you plenty.”

  “It was your neck,” Carson said, agreeing. He lowered his six-shooter and stepped away.

  “Put your gun into your holster. Face me.”

  “Like you never shot a man in the back before,” taunted Sutcliff. He dropped his pistol into the holster on his right hip.

  “Only those I feared. You’re nothing to me, Marshal. You’re something I’d scrape off my boots after mucking the stalls. Lower. I’ve crushed bugs that I respected more.”

  Sutcliff got to his feet, painfully turned, and faced Potter. From the red splotches on his pant leg and vest, he’d been hit at least twice.

  “You shoulda shot me in the back, scum.” Sutcliff went for his gun.

  Carson caught his breath. For an instant, he thought Potter had frozen. The gunman never twitched a muscle until the marshal’s gun cleared leather. Then Simon Potter drew and fired.

  The report sounded louder than it should have. Carson realized it made him wince because his friend’s life rode on the speed of the draw and the accuracy of his single shot.

  For a long breath, Sutcliff stood on the hillside, the cemetery stretching behind him. He held the gun, but he’d never fired. He looked down at his pistol, then dropped it to clutch at his chest.

  “Die,” Potter said softly. He, too, had turned to stone. His six-gun remained centered on the marshal. Gunsmoke curled from the muzzle. “Die and may the devil take your soul.”

  As if finally given permission, Sutcliff toppled over. He lay on his back, staring at the bright blue Texas sky.

  “Your bullet missed dead center in his heart by an inch,” Carson said.

  “He didn’t have a heart.” Potter slid his gun into the holster, took a deep breath, and said, “We’d better catch up with Joe and Daniel. We don’t want them finding the gold and making off with it.”

  “You don’t think they would, do you?” asked Carson. “They’re members of the Dirty Creek Gang.”

  “What do you think, Clay? Would they snatch the gold from under our noses?”

  Carson didn’t answer, but truth be told, that was exactly what he feared.

  The Dirty Creek Gang had died along with Lemuel Jones.

  CHAPTER 32

  “You’re going to twist your head off if you keep swiveling around like that, Clay.” Simon Potter chuckled. “No, I was wrong. Keep doing it. I want to see what it looks like if your head comes unscrewed, so I can amuse myself identifying what leaks out.”

  “I’ve got this feeling,” Carson said.

  “You haven’t seen anybody trailing us, have you?”

  “Nary a soul.”

  “When the marshal caught one slug too many, the rest of the posse lit out like their horses’ tails were on fire.”

  “The ones that were left.” Carson was still amazed that his prediction about that had come true so fast. Without Sutcliff riding at their head, the posse lost all interest in bringing anyone to justice, even the man who had been snatched from the noose and the man who had helped him.

  “We accounted for a fair number.”

  Carson didn’t respond. They had mowed down more men than he cared to think about. Some might’ve been bad to the bone, but others were likely just boys playing at lawmen, caught in the wrong game. A fight didn’t let you separate the guilty from the green.

  “That, old son,” Potter rambled on, “is what makes for legends. That’s us. The legendary Dirty Creek Gang. It’ll be a cold day in July before Boone’s new marshal can raise a posse.”

  “Whoever the town hires, I hope he doesn’t run the same kind of side business. Paying to see a hanging is downright wrong.”

  “Especially when I was the main attraction.” Potter ran his finger around his collar and swallowed hard.

  “Too bad we both couldn’t have removed him, but you did a good job.”

  “Thanks for letting me. And you did all right softening him up for me. I wasn’t in much of a mood to track him down.” Potter held out his arm. The coat sleeve was caked in blood. He had been repeatedly hit and never noticed it until after Marshal Sutcliff lay dead on the ground.

  “Brody is still out there,” Carson said.

  “We’ve got a score to settle with Billy, too. It’s one thing to be a rabid dog like Sutcliff. It’s something else to sell out men you rode with for more’n a year and a half.”

  Carson didn’t say anything, but this was more proof that Lemuel Jones’s gang had ceased to exist. They were individuals now, not a band of friends relieving the too-wealthy institutions and the well-to-do patrons of their money.

  “I don’t remember when Turner joined us,” Carson said, thinking on the matter. “Was it before the Central Pacific train robbery?”

  “Could have been. I remember thinking we didn’t make much from that robbery because there were more mouths to feed. Turner must have been new to the gang.”

  “Him and Martinez. Too bad about Martinez.”

  “Yeah, it was,” Potter said, remembering their fallen comrade. The clerk in the mail car had been a little too accurate when he defended the U.S. Mail. “We had some times, didn’t we, Clay?”

  Carson took off his hat and waved it about slowly. The sweatband had soaked through. He put the Stetson back on and felt a momentary coolness.

  “You need a few more holes shot through the crown. If you don’t ventilate the top of your head in this heat, you’ll lose the rest of your hair.”

  “It’s beginning to worry me. I’m growing it in my ears instead of on the top of my head.”

  “Why’d you cut that big beard you wore?”

  “I wanted to confuse any law dog coming after me with a Wanted poster. All of them showed me with a beard.” Carson sighed. “The farmer I went to work for wanted me to cut it off, too. I was never sure why. His wife objected to men with bushy beards, maybe.”

  “Women,” Potter said. “There’s no accounting for what they like.” He looked sideways at his partner. “What’d that filly outside Boone see in you? You and her spent the whole danged night talking.”

  “She’d lost her husband. Sutcliff had hung him.”

  “You never got her name.”

  “Never told her mine, either. It’s better that way.” But she had heard the others call him Clay. He remembered her touch and the kiss. And she had called him Clay.

  Potter grunted. “Life on the run, huh. Lotta ghosts, not many names.”

  “Another thing that’ll be better is finding Joe and that kid brother of his waiting for us. That’s the tip of the rock where we shot it out with Brody before.”