Carson nodded slowly.

  The dark descended fast. Carson built a fire but contented himself with a slab of jerky and an airtight of tomatoes. He finished the simple meal and looked around. The Easterly brothers hadn’t returned from what would be a futile hunt. Potter had curled up some distance away, his blanket pulled around his shoulders. In the dark, Carson hardly made out the slow movement as Potter sucked in air enough for a gentle snore.

  He stretched, then unrolled his own blanket and lay on his back. The stars stared down at him. He felt they accused him of not finding the hiding place quicker. A shooting star momentarily scarred the night sky, then faded quickly.

  Carson closed his eyes and slipped off to a deep sleep. He had ridden far and fought and felt the pressure from the others too much not to be exhausted.

  His eyes popped open when he felt the cold steel muzzle of a Colt pressed into his forehead.

  “Give me the map,” came the soft, menacing words.

  CHAPTER 34

  “You’ll pull the trigger if I do,” Clay Carson said.

  “Don’t move a muscle.” Billy Turner pressed the muzzle harder into Carson’s forehead. “I want the map.”

  “Kill me and you’ll never get it.” Carson tried to look out of the corner of his eye to see if Turner had already killed Potter. He couldn’t tell. No matter what, he knew he was on his own with a turncoat willing to blow his brains out.

  He felt the press of that cold steel like the edge of the devil’s own fingernail, and a flash of all the times he’d trusted Turner flickered like lightning through his mind—campfires shared, whiskey bottles passed, backs watched in gunfights. And now here he was, pinned to the earth like a rabbit in a trap.

  “You’ve got it somewhere. I saw you looking at it. And Joe and his kid brother took off. Did you send them after the gold?”

  “Why do you want the map if you think I sent them to fetch the loot?”

  “The map. I can’t track them on this rocky ground.”

  “So you’ll sneak up on them and shoot them both in the backs, like you did Sam?”

  Turner leered. “That was a real pleasure. He crossed me every time I was close to getting Lemuel to hand over the map. Where’d he have it hid?”

  “Doesn’t matter now, does it?” Carson’s hammering heart slowed as he began hunting for ways to stay alive.

  Every breath burned with the heat of panic. He had seconds to find a thread, any thread, to pull Turner off the edge. His mind kicked into overdrive, flipping through lies and half-truths like a card sharp in a saloon.

  “Joe and his kid brother will steal the gold,” Turner went on. “You’ll be done out of it. Does it matter if I’m the one taking it? Or them?”

  “Yeah, it does. You shot Sam in the back. If I gave you the map, you’d shoot me. The worst I’d expect from Joe and Daniel is them stealing the gold from under my nose.”

  Turner scowled. “They took the map, didn’t they? You don’t have it!”

  “It might have happened that way. If so, they’ll have the gold by now. Every last gold coin from the robbery. Think about them spending those gold double eagles.”

  “I watched the four of you arguing back at the canyon mouth. Joe’d make off with the gold if he found it.”

  “That must be why he’s not back yet.”

  Carson went cold inside when he saw the sneer pull back Turner’s lips.

  He knew that look—like a man savoring the last bite of a stolen meal. Turner wasn’t just after the gold. He wanted to bury every last ghost of the Dirty Creek Gang beneath rocks and betrayal.

  “If that’s true, Brody’ll have taken care of them. We made a pact, me and him.”

  “He gets outlaws and you get gold? He’s not that dumb.”

  “We’ll divvy up the loot. And yeah, he collects every dime of any reward. That makes my revenge on all of you about perfect.”

  “I assumed Lemuel died from being a lunger. Did you help him along?”

  “He didn’t have the map. I knew that when you left him in town and the rest of you rode here.” Turner sneered a little more. “I should have taken care of him, but I figured he was suffering plenty. He was in more pain than I could give him.”

  “You’re such a fine fellow, letting him die on his own.”

  “The map, Carson. Quit stalling.”

  Carson wondered why Turner still whispered. If Brody had taken care of the Easterly brothers, and Turner had slit Potter’s throat, who was he afraid of alerting? The shadows danced around them like the ghosts of every man Turner had wronged.

  Carson turned slightly, trying to get a better look in Potter’s direction. Turner clobbered him on the side of the head with his gun barrel. He let out a moan as pain lanced into his skull.

  “Shut up!” Turner moved the gun down to Carson’s open mouth. He rammed it in. “Map. Now.”

  Carson gurgled when he tried to tell him. Turner realized his mistake and drew back a couple inches.

  “I’ll blow your teeth down your throat if you lie to me.”

  “Coat pocket.”

  “No, it’s not!” Turner cocked the Colt.

  “In my holster. Pull out the gun. Stuck the map there.”

  He grunted as Turner drove his knee into his breadbasket. For a moment, Carson lay paralyzed. Pain roared in his gut like a kicked beehive. By the time he got his breath back, Turner had dumped the six-shooter onto the ground and rooted around in the holster. He gave a tiny yelp of glee. He held the fragile map between thumb and forefinger.

  Turner whirled about, stood over him, and pointed his six-gun at his heart.

  “You think you’re so good. You can never take Jones’s place in the gang.”

  “You think you should be the one riding in front?” Carson rubbed his belly.

  “It won’t be you!” Billy Turner fired his gun.

  Carson winced, sure the slug would rip into his chest. The bullet dug up a bit of the ground an inch away. Turner stumbled.

  “Help me, dammit,” Simon Potter grunted. His arms slipped and slid off Turner as he grappled with him.

  Turner was like a snake, slithering this way and that. When Carson tried to sit up, he caught a boot in the stomach that knocked him back to the ground. He wasn’t sure who kicked him. Struggling with the pain, he forced himself to hands and knees in time for Potter to shove his attacker over his back.

  Turner collided with Carson and went flying. His gun fired again.

  Carson flinched as the hot lead creased his cheek. As he rolled away, he collided with Potter. They went down in a struggling pile.

  “Get off me. Git!” Simon Potter sat up and looked around. He swung his six-shooter in a wild arc, hunting for Billy Turner.

  The intruder had disappeared into the night.

  “He’s got the map,” Carson said. He got to his feet, brushed himself off, then found his gun and hefted it. With Potter at his side, they searched the area around the camp for any hint of movement.

  “We need to get him.” Potter snorted. “We need to get the map back.”

  “It might not be necessary if Joe found the gold.”

  “Where is he? Him and Daniel should have been back hours ago.” Potter spat. “Unless they found the gold and hightailed it.”

  “Their horses are still tied up.”

  Carson’s voice was low, thoughtful. He stared out into the dark canyon as if trying to see beyond time itself. If the Easterly brothers had found the gold, they’d have taken the horses—or so any man with sense would. But those reins were still tethered, swaying like hanged men in the moonlight. That meant something was wrong. Or something worse.

  “I’ve heard that if a man has enough gold, he grows wings and can fly.” Potter looked over his head.

  Carson had to chuckle. His friend managed to say the funniest, most ridiculous things. When Potter had plenty of time to hone the story, he’d have everyone around a campfire holding their bellies as they laughed. But right now, Turner had the map, the Easterly brothers were nowhere to be seen, and the gold’s hiding place was still a mystery.

  And Carson couldn’t shake the feeling that the whole canyon had turned against them.

  “Did you hear a horse?”

  “Just ours. What are you getting at, Clay? Oh.” Potter checked his gun to be sure it was fully loaded.

  Turner hadn’t ridden off. He had run. That meant he wasn’t far from the camp.

  Carson considered the matter and came up with a plan. He whispered to Potter. They argued over it for a moment, then Potter said loudly, “I’ll track that gnat-brained backshooter down. He’ll regret ever having disrespected the Dirty Creek Gang. Come on, Clay. Let’s show him what for!” He stomped off, making enough noise to scare a grizzly bear.

  Potter thrashed about as he headed toward the mouth of the canyon. Carson took a deep breath, then moved quietly to their horses. The animals snorted and pawed the ground, then settled down when they recognized Carson. He moved around to look into the deep shadows, searching for any movement.

  He crouched beside a rock and waited. The cold seeped up from the stone into his bones. His breath fogged slightly in the night air, and every creak of leather, every rustle of brush, became a gunshot in his ears.

  In less than five minutes, the horses started to show their nerves again. Tugging at their tethers, pawing the ground, they tossed their heads and neighed. Carson tensed. He almost cried out in surprise when Turner approached the horses less than five feet from him. Where the former gang member had hidden caused a shiver to pass up Carson’s spine. They had been ten feet apart and he hadn’t known it.

  It made him think again about Lemuel, about Sam. How close had Turner been to them before they died? How many shadows had he slipped through, unseen, waiting like a copperhead in the grass?

  But he saw Turner now. The man’s back was to him. He took aim and cocked his gun.

  The sound echoed through the night like a death peal. Turner froze.

  “That you, Clay, old buddy?”

  The small attempt at hinting that they had been friends fell on deaf ears.

  “You wanted to kill me. We’ve ridden together over long trails and short ones, too. We watched each other’s backs,” Carson answered.

  “Now you’re going to shoot me in the back. It’s what I’d expect from you.”

  “Drop your hogleg, Turner.”

  “You want to murder an unarmed man. Is that it, Carson?”

  Carson said nothing. He knew the next few seconds would decide who walked out of the canyon with breath in his lungs. There was no going back. Not after Sam. Not after Lemuel. Not after the look in Turner’s eyes.

  Turner feinted to the right, causing Carson to follow his body in the wrong direction. At the same time, Turner was twisting around hard and raising his six-gun.

  They both fired at the same time. Turner’s bullet missed Carson by a country mile. The gasp Turner made told of a more accurate shot. Turner hit the ground and rolled. Carson fired again and was rewarded with another gasp of pain.

  Then Carson had to move to get a better shot at the sneak thief. The horses began rearing. Their hooves lashed out and made it impossible to shoot at Turner without hitting them.

  This let Turner get off a couple more shots. Lead whined into the night. His aim wasn’t any better now than it had been.

  “You’re not getting away, Turner. Drop your gun and crawl out. Those horses will kick you to death if you don’t.”

  Even as he spoke, Carson realized how prophetic his words had become. Turner’s body never moved as the horses reared and hammered down, hooves smashing wetly into the prone man’s back. Carson grabbed the reins of the nearest horse and led it some distance away. When it had calmed, he repeated the gentling with a second horse. By the time he went to tend the third horse, Potter had slipped from the night and worked on the other mounts.

  Carson grabbed Turner by the shoulders and pulled him away from the horses. The ground turned muddy under him as blood leaked out of a dozen hoof-shaped wounds.

  “Did you plug him first?”

  “I don’t think any of the bullets I put into him did more than slow him down.” Carson shook his head. “Getting trampled to death’s not the way anyone would want to go.”

  He stared down at the mangled body. Somewhere in that mess had once been a boy with big eyes and fast hands who’d helped him skin a rabbit on a cold Wyoming night. Somewhere under that blood was the man who used to sing out-of-tune trail songs and laugh at Carson’s worst jokes.

  “It’s better than one or two I can think of. Remember all he did to us, to Sam.” Potter ran his finger around the inside of his collar. “I’d’ve hung him and left the carcass for the buzzards.”

  “We’d better get to burying him.”

  “After we take the map off him,” Potter said.

  Carson decided the chore was all his, since he’d let Turner get the drop on him. He peeled away blood-soaked cloth and finally ripped open a pocket. He took out the map.

  “That piece of paper’s seen better days,” Potter said.

  “It looks like I feel,” Carson said. He spread it out on a rock and did his best to wipe away the blood and grime. He left his handiwork on the rock, wiped his hands off on a bush, and then ran them through the dirt. They came away caked and still sticky.

  “Go soak that off,” Potter said. “I’ll get to burying the traitor.”

  Carson washed his hands, face, and clothing the best he could in the spring. The faint scent of sulfur made his nose twitch, although the water tasted pure. He plunged his head underwater a final time and came up, sputtering.

  For an instant, his heart skipped a beat.

  “Turner!” He reached for his six-shooter, but he’d left it back where he’d cleaned off the map. A quick swipe of his hand across his eyes let him see more clearly.

  Just shadows. Just ghosts.

  “What’re you going on about?” came Potter’s irritated question.

  “I … Nothing. I thought I saw something.”

  “I need help burying him. For all the hot springs around here, the ground’s harder than a banker’s heart.”

  Reluctantly, Carson went to help his friend. The first thing he did was retrieve his six-gun. It needed cleaning but would work just fine for a shot or two.

  “Billy getting his brains stomped out’s spooked you, old son. Buck up. You’ve seen worse.”

  “I have.” He looked back in the direction of the spring-fed pool, expecting to see Billy Turner there. A quick look down convinced him that wasn’t possible. Turner was barely recognizable, but he was the man who had ridden with the gang. He was the man who had stolen the map. And he was the man Carson had watched die.

  They dug a shallow grave and laid the body in it. A pile of rocks was the best they could do to cover the body. It wouldn’t keep coyotes off, but at least it prevented the buzzards from enjoying an easy meal.

  “Should we say a prayer over him?” asked Potter.

  “Which one?”

  Simon Potter shrugged and said, “Maybe the one Daniel said over Lemuel’s grave.”

  Carson considered the matter for a moment, then said, “No.”

  He was done with Billy Turner. Let him burn in hell.

  CHAPTER 35

  Boots crunching against gravel made both Carson and Potter whirl about. They had their guns out and aimed into the night when Daniel Easterly stormed into view. His expression matched the worst mountain storm Carson had ever seen.

  “It wasn’t there. I do declare, it wasn’t there! We searched everywhere!” Daniel threw his hands up in the air in frustration, spun entirely around, and then slapped his thighs. The noise rang like gunshots. Only then did he notice the six-shooters trained on him. “What is this? Put them smoke wagons down unless you mean to shoot me.”

  “The temptation is great,” Potter said softly. He lowered the hammer on his pistol and tucked it away.

  Carson was slower to respond.

  “What’s got you all het up?”

  “It wasn’t there. I tell you, it wasn’t there!”

  “The gold?” Carson glanced at Potter, who scowled.

  “What else, Clay? What else’d I be talkin’ about?” Daniel pointed. “You got me covered, too. Why’s that?”

  Carson lowered his weapon and stepped aside to reveal Turner’s grave. It took Daniel a few seconds to understand what the shape and piled rocks meant.

  “Who’d you kill?”

  “Turner. And how is it you didn’t hear the gunfire and come running?” Carson edged around.

  “Me and Joe was way up on the side of the canyon wall. We thought we heard shots, but when the sun goes down, the rock starts to creak. It sounds like a ghost moanin’. It scared the dickens out of me.”

  “Why were you climbing the side of the canyon?” Potter shook his head. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

  “Because that’s where the map said to look,” growled Joe Easterly. He moved in from the shadows with a quieter step than his brother. “That’s what it had to mean.”

  “You scaled the wall?” Carson hardly believed it. He looked up toward the night sky. Halfway up, the dark blanked out everything. The canyon wall towered more than fifty feet here. “Why’d you go and do a loco thing like that?”

  “Because Joe figgered that’s what Lemuel did. He crawled up there to see who was on his trail. That’s a perfect place to watch for a posse and take a shot or two at ’em.”

  “So you think Lemuel left the gold up there while he was waiting for the posse to catch up with him?” Potter shook his head. “That’s about the dumbest thing I ever did hear.”

  “Why?” Daniel thrust his chin out belligerently. “It ain’t dumb. Joe thinks that’s what happened.”

  “Does it make a lick of sense that Lemuel climbed all that way, weighed down with the gold?”

  “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Potter.” Daniel looked smug. “Tell him, Joe. Show them both how smart you are.”

  “You found where it was?” Carson felt as if he had jumped off the rim of the canyon and fell endlessly. They were saying they had found the gold’s hiding place, but the gold was gone?