Carson fell silent, thinking about that. He and Lemuel had always gotten on well. The way the gang leader thought sometimes puzzled him, but until the bank robbery that had gone to hell, Lemuel had shown real genius. Somehow, Carson had never gotten the feeling he was second-in-command or even Lemuel’s best friend. Friends, yes, but not best friends.

  He looked around the small circle. Distrust churned below the surface, but the promise of divvying up the gold kept them in check. Barely.

  “So we need to hunt for a ranch using that brand?” he asked. “That’ll only take us from now until the cows come home.”

  “There’s a ranch twenty or thirty miles to the east that uses that brand,” Wylie said. “The rancher came in a few months back wanting a loan. He didn’t get it because of splenic fever rumors.”

  “Texas fever,” grumbled Turner. “We need to find Joe when he’s surrounded by a herd dropping dead from that?”

  “It’s a start,” Lemuel said. “And it may only be a rumor. A false rumor. You say the Double Diamond is east of here?” He chuckled. “It figures that Joe is to the east. He always looked for the easiest way to ride and it’s hard for him to forget, him being Easterly and all. That’s a ways closer to Bear Creek, too, so he didn’t have to go very far before finding a hole to hide in.” He slapped Carson on the back, then braced against him to reach his horse.

  Lemuel Jones mounted quickly enough, but his face was grayer than ever from the effort. Carson hoped he wouldn’t die before they rounded up the last two of the gang and were told where the gold was hidden. Coming this far without a payday would be a crime worse than the actual robbery.

  Almost. Clay Carson heaved a deep sigh, mounted, and rode beside Lemuel, as befitting a lieutenant. If the outlaw thought he was worthy of the position, it was the least Carson could do to acknowledge it.

  CHAPTER 10

  “Them two aren’t getting on very well, are they?” Lemuel Jones looked over his shoulder. Wylie and Turner rode a dozen yards apart, pointedly ignoring each other.

  “They were never the best of friends, but something must have happened after the robbery to make them that edgy.” Clay Carson had other worries. Lemuel looked peaked and ready to keel over at any minute. But he resisted telling Carson anything about the location of the gold.

  That was for the entire gang, once they rode together again, he said. Carson bit his tongue to keep from pointing out that the gang might ride once more, but without its leader. Consumption was a tyrant and every day took more from Lemuel Jones.

  “Imagine hiding out in the same town and not talking?” Lemuel shook his head. “That’s even worse in a dinky town like—what was it called?”

  “Elbow Bend,” Carson said absently.

  “Maybe that saloon girl was the cause of them being so touchy. Makes sense. They both could have made a play for her and she refused both.”

  “Or,” Carson said, “she toyed with them, making them jealous. What else is there to do in a town with only one saloon?”

  They rode in silence for a spell, the hooves of their horses thudding rhythmically over the dry earth. A hot wind pushed dust devils through the sage and buffalo grass, and buzzards circled lazily in the blue above, as if already sensing death riding with them. In the distance, the land shimmered in waves of heat, stretching out in every direction.

  Carson couldn’t help wondering if the gold was as much a mirage as what he saw dancing in the distance.

  “Clay,” Lemuel said, turning back and leaning forward. He gripped the saddle horn with both hands and wobbled. “I’m feeling a bit on the puny side.”

  Carson knew it had to be serious for him to mention being less than raring to go. Lemuel Jones wasn’t one to admit weakness, not to anyone.

  “There,” Carson said, looking around. “Head for those cottonwoods. There’s got to be water for them to be that green. A pond, maybe. That’ll be a good place to rest.”

  Carson signaled the other two that they were taking a side trip. Both Wylie and Turner objected, then saw how bad off Jones was. They trotted ahead and rode on either side of the ailing man.

  “You feeling poorly, Lemuel?” Billy Turner asked. “I wish there was a doctor back in town. He could fix you up.”

  “Don’t be an ass,” Wylie snapped. “What’s ailing him is more’n any small-town sawbones can cure.” He looked from Lemuel to Carson, who nodded silently in agreement. Lemuel Jones was past any earthly cure.

  “Don’t go fussing over me, boys. I just need to rest up for a couple minutes. Maybe sip some of that fine water I see in yonder stock pond.” Lemuel almost fell from the saddle when he turned his horse in the direction of the water. Upon reaching the shade of a towering cottonwood, he gave up the struggle and slid down, catching himself before he fell flat on his face.

  The cottonwoods whispered in the breeze, branches nodding as if in silent agreement with Lemuel’s fatigue. Their leaves shimmered like green coins in the light, and the smell of damp earth and algae mingled with the dust and sweat.

  “This shade surely does feel good.” Lemuel looked up and said in a low voice only Carson heard, “I wonder if it’ll look like this when I’m put in the ground. Wouldn’t be bad. Nice and quiet and cool, and leaves making sweet, soft music overhead. Lots of greenery for me to stare at for all eternity.”

  “You’d be staring at the roots, not the leaves,” Turner grumbled. He fell silent when both Carson and Wylie glared at him.

  Carson eased Lemuel to the ground, then helped the outlaw scoot up to rest against a tree trunk.

  “Fetch him some water.”

  “Who made you our boss?” Wylie thrust out his chin, begging for Carson to take a swing.

  “I’ll do it. Lem’s in a bad way.” Billy Turner rummaged in his gear, found a tin cup, and filled it from the pond. He handed it to Lemuel.

  For all his weakness in the saddle, his hands didn’t shake as he sipped the water. He took two sips to drain the entire cup. He smacked his lips and wiped his mouth on his filthy sleeve.

  “That hit the spot, Billy. Thank you kindly.”

  “You favor me enough for this act of charity to cut me in for an extra share of the gold?”

  For a moment, no one said a word. Then Turner laughed and broke the tension.

  “I know you’re not gonna do that, Lem. I was just joshing.”

  “All for one and one for all,” Carson said. He stood by Lemuel and said, “It might be a good thing if you told us where to find the gold. We’re all together, so nobody will run off by himself to rob the rest of us.”

  “No!” Lemuel’s denial came sharp and firm. “You said it. We’re all in this together. When Joe and Simon join up, then I’ll tell you. We all share. They deserve to hear what I got to say, too.”

  “What if no one does? Finding either of them’s likely to require a stroke of luck unlike anything we’ve seen in years. You’re fixing to kick the bucket any minute.” Wylie spat.

  “That’s the way it’ll be, Sam. Let’s get on to that ranch where you think Joe’s working.” Lemuel tried to stand, but his legs failed him. He collapsed, panting. This set off a fit of coughing, which ended with him hocking up a bloody gob of phlegm. “Sorry, gents. I need to rest for a while longer.”

  “You’re not in any shape to ride another mile, Lemuel,” Carson said. “What say one of us stays with you and the other two ride on to find Easterly?”

  “That’s a good idea,” Turner said. Then he looked hard at Wylie. “Who stays with Lem?”

  Carson’s mind raced. If he had read Turner’s thoughts, the man’s worry couldn’t have been clearer. Leaving Sam Wylie alone with Lemuel might end up with the bank teller torturing the gold’s hiding place from him. Turner shifted his look to Carson. The same problem lifted its ugly head with the other man. Trust wasn’t long among them anymore.

  “You two stay with him,” Carson said. “Watch him real close while I find Joe.”

  They thought this over. For Carson, it solved most of the problems. He doubted from the way Wylie and Turner were so thin-skinned with each other that they’d partner up to force Jones to spill his guts. Besides, Lemuel wasn’t entirely out of the picture. He just wasn’t up to riding.

  And the two men had nothing against Carson finding yet another member of the gang. After all, only Lemuel knew the hiding place. If anything ensured his return, that knowledge was it.

  “Nothing wrong in resting up, Lemuel,” Carson said, bending over and patting the man’s bony shoulder. “Catch some sleep. If Sam’s right, the Double Diamond can’t be more than a day or two’s ride ahead. I can be back with Joe by the end of the week.”

  “If he wants to join in this wild-goose chase.” Wylie sounded skeptical that Joe Easterly wanted any part of the loot. Or maybe he hoped he wouldn’t. That’d give each of them a larger share.

  Carson heard something more in the man’s words. If he pretended to find Easterly and report that the man refused to join, that’d be fine. Or if he rode out of sight, camped, and came back in a few days without even trying to find their partner, that was also good.

  “No Joe, no gold,” Lemuel said in a clear, unfaltering voice. “He’s one of the Dirty Creek Gang. He’s a friend. We’re not dealing him out of the biggest hand we ever played.”

  “I’ll find him,” Carson promised. He stepped up into the saddle and saw how Wylie sat on one side of Lemuel, and Turner took up residence on the other. It was as if they prepared for a tug-of-war with Lemuel Jones in the middle.

  Carson shook his head in disgust, trotted back to the road, pulled down the brim of his Stetson to shield his eyes from the bright sun, and headed east.

  CHAPTER 11

  Fence posts strung with barbed wire ran along either side of the road. Clay Carson drew rein and studied the stretch. The fenced area wasn’t more than fifty feet long. No sign of other fence posts, either before or after the fenced area, was apparent. He pushed his hat back and scratched his head, trying to figure out the reason for the work that had gone into this small portion of the road.

  The best he could think was that wagons parked here while a herd roved around.

  “Sanctuary in a sea of beeves?” he observed aloud.

  He scratched a little more, then settled his hat brim down to the tops of his ears. Maybe the drovers cut out a few head and kept them here. For branding? He saw some evidence that the ends might be closed off across the road on either end, but any wire strung there was missing.

  Some folks had ideas too odd for him to understand. All the cattle he’d ever seen were more than willing to walk around a chuck wagon and actively avoided a wagon set up for springtime branding. They might be cows, but they knew the things that mattered to them. Closer examination showed some evidence of branding along this stretch of road. A fire pit suitable for heating branding irons had been covered over with a mound of dirt at one end. Nowhere did he see broken branding irons or any of the other debris left after a springtime roundup.

  It was as if whatever happened here was done on the sly. He just couldn’t decide what it was.

  He circled the area. The ground was torn up by hundreds of hooves. The herd had been driven north. Any chance of finding horses’ hoofprints or wagon tracks was lost in the churned ground. This was a big ranch. But was it the Double Diamond?

  He turned off the road and trotted in the direction taken by the cattle. From the look of the recent tracks, the cows weren’t far ahead. Even if this wasn’t the ranch he sought, finding an outrider might be all it took to figure out where Joseph Easterly rode.

  The terrain turned rocky and then deep arroyos cut into the grassland. Mesquite and stunted cedar sprouted up between the rock shelves, as if nature itself was working hard to hide secrets in these parts. The grass thinned and was replaced by hardpack and sun-bleached stone, all heat-cracked and blistered like a cast-iron skillet left too long on the fire.

  In less than an hour of following the herd, he reached the mouth of a canyon that dipped down like some jagged knife had cut away the rock.

  Not only did he find a winding canyon that meandered off to the north, he discovered the herd milling around the mouth. Streams trickling down the canyon floor fed several small lakes here. He fished around in his saddlebags until he found his field glasses. A quick sweep of the land showed several wranglers. At this range, he wasn’t able to identify any of them as being Joe Easterly. That would have been too easy, and he was becoming resigned to always needing to ride the roughest trail. Not for the first time, he wished he had ignored Lemuel Jones’s telegram.

  He returned the field glasses to his saddlebags. He tamped down his ire at Jones and his own greed for stolen gold, then urged his horse down an increasingly steep slope into the canyon. The air cooled slightly the deeper he went, the red rock walls catching shadows and holding them tightly, like secrets in a thief’s pocket.

  He found the first rider—or the rider found him—as soon as he came out near one of the small ponds and disturbed the drinking cattle. The cowboy trotted up on the far side of the lake and took off his floppy-brimmed hat. He waved it back and forth and shouted something Carson failed to understand.

  He got the feeling he was being waved off. If the rider came to him, he could ask his questions and not bother the cattle, if that was the problem. Too many rustlers in the county gave herders itchy trigger fingers. He wanted the cowboy to realize he posed no danger to either human or bovine. Otherwise, he’d have to ride closer to hear what was the trouble. Another tale of woe was about all he expected.

  The rider circled the pond at a gallop.

  “Get on out of here, mister!” He continued waving his hat as if he could shoo Carson away like an annoying insect.

  “Are all the folks in these parts so inhospitable?” He was tired and testy. Such insolence tried his patience, but he had a cowboy to find. Returning this wrangler’s impertinence with a jolt of his own only lengthened the time it’d take to find Joe Easterly. “I wanted to—”

  “Don’t matter why you’re here. Turn around and clear out. This herd’s off-limits.”

  “Do I look like a rustler? All I want is—”

  “You got bad ears? Clear out. Now.”

  “Are those Double Diamond cattle?” Carson tensed at the man’s response. The cowboy went for his six-gun.

  “Whoa, wait, I don’t mean to rile you none. This isn’t about the beeves. I’m looking for a friend.”

  “You ain’t got friends here.” The cowboy had his drawn six-shooter aimed in Carson’s direction, but any shot would go into the ground between them. The nervy cowpoke wasn’t fixing to kill him, just give him a warning. For an instant, he remembered Lemuel Jones shooting at his feet back in Hidetown. That had been a joke, and Lemuel was a good shot, in spite of his ailment.

  He doubted this cowhand was anywhere near as adept using his sidearm. Along with his attitude, he’d be more inclined to put a slug in Carson than to argue much longer. What wasn’t obvious was the reason. A simple conversation, and then a denial that he knew Easterly, would have sent Carson on his way.

  Not now. His temper flared. Keeping it under control would be difficult.

  Carson cleared his throat. Two other cowboys rode up and joined the man facing him down. The one he figured was the ramrod spoke rapidly, but not to him. The anxious cowboy returned his pistol to its holster, but kept his hand on the butt. This didn’t bring any rebuke from the ramrod, warning Carson he was still at risk of getting filled with lead. This time, he faced three guns, not one.

  That made him even angrier. He had a simple request. Not only wouldn’t they listen, they intended to throw lead in his direction.

  “You the head wrangler?” Carson started to trot closer, then saw all three men fixing to throw down on him. “I told your partner there I wasn’t a rustler. I’m looking for a friend.”

  “Take your hunt somewhere else. You ain’t got friends in this company.” The cowboy signaled to a fourth rider coming from farther up the canyon, who joined him. They made sure their six-shooters rode easy, in case Carson chose to go against the warning.

  “Are these Double Diamond cattle?”

  The cowboys went for their guns. Carson threw up his hands and called out, “Wait! Don’t go doing something you will regret.”

  “Won’t be us doin’ the regrettin’, mister. Did Jim Bailey send you?” The ramrod stood in the stirrups, shielded his eyes from the sun and squinted at Carson’s back trail.

  A quick look over his shoulder convinced Carson he hadn’t been followed. But these cowboys were worried that he had an army at his back. He wished others from the gang rode with him. Anyone backing him up in a fight would be appreciated. Depending on how serious these four owlhoots were, having Wylie and Turner with him might mean the difference between life and shaking hands with the Grim Reaper.

  “Don’t know anyone by that name,” Carson said hastily. “Is he another rancher?”

  “You know dang well he is. You hightail it back to the Three Squares spread and tell him Mr. Casimir ain’t sellin’ out, no matter how many cows we got to put down.”

  “Aw, don’t go arguin’,” said the cowboy who had first stopped Carson. “You gotta be firm with any fool who’d ride for that swindler Bailey.” He gave in to the impulse he had been denying. The six-gun slipped free of the wrangler’s holster and he cut loose.

  At this range, on horseback, he wasn’t likely to hit anything, but it spooked Carson’s horse. The bay reared, forcing him to turn his full attention to staying in the saddle. By the time the cowboy had emptied his six-gun, Carson had gotten the message. He gestured to the wranglers what he thought of them and galloped away.

  But he didn’t go too far. When he reached the top of a low hill, he swung around and studied the herd. Two cowboys returned to their jobs. They kept the cattle moving deeper into the canyon. The other two, Ramrod and Hothead, remained at the edge of the pond to be sure he didn’t return to pester their herd.