‘You’d best get me out of this safe and sound, McAllister,’ she said softly. ‘That kiss was kind of nice, and I’d like some more of the same without the chance of gunmen descending on us.’
Holding her hand, he started to find them a difficult trail down the ravine. He reckoned they were working their way east again. She walked stiffly and in pain at first, but she was a hardy girl and she soon settled down to walking. As they travelled, he watched the skyline, and every now and then stopped to listen. He told her: ‘We could be in a pretty bad fix. We didn’t eat for a good while and we don’t have any food. Maybe that’s the posse we saw and maybe it wasn’t. And I’m dead set on getting old Joe from them alive.’
‘I’ll go along with that.’
‘I’ll have to hide you somewhere safe, then get to work.’ She stopped in her tracks. ‘Where you go, I go. I’m too scared to do anything else. I don’t know these mountains and if you’re hurt or-if you’re hurt, maybe nobody’ll know where I am.’
He said: ‘I never saw a girl less scared in my life.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
McAllister’s escape with the girl seemed to have transformed Offdike’s character. Now he was all worry and fret. His alarm touched Stevenson, and he too lost his calm. Both men were irritable and edgy. Maybe they had their minds on nothing but saving the gold, any of the gold which they had hidden up here over the years. Lindholm was in a maze, repeating to himself: ‘I just can’t make out how such a thing could happen.’
They were in the saddle now, riding as fast as the rough trail would allow. Once, Stevenson stopped to put his glass on the posse below, but found they were no longer in view.
‘Maybe it wasn’t the posse we saw. Maybe it wasn’t them at all,’ he said.
‘It don’t matter one way or the other,’ Offdike told him.
‘We have to move fast. Remember, that bastard McAllister is out there some place with a loaded carbine. Your loaded carbine.’
‘One man,’ Stevenson said shortly, ‘with eight rounds of ammunition. A fat lot of good that’ll do him.’ But he did not mean it and none of them believed he did. The thought of McAllister spooked him more than the posse.
They sighted the cave near noon and now Offdike stopped again to produce his glass. This time he found the posse. He couldn’t make out any great deal. There were six men there, he said, and they were coming on fast. They were well-mounted and had come much further than he thought possible.
‘Jesus, we got to move, Hank.’
Now it seemed that their hurry became something of a desperate scramble. Lindholm and Carla saw the cave for the first time, a massive hole rent in the peak. This itself was Eagle’s Nest. The road agents’ cache was off to one side of it. When they reached it, Lindholm saw that over the years, the various outlaws who had forted up here had built a stout wall of rocks. Within the confines of this wall, they drew rein and Stevenson said: ‘Offdike, you stay here and keep a look out for McAllister. You others bring the horses and we’ll start packing.’
Offdike said: ‘All right. Joe stays here. McAllister only has to show himself around here and the old crow bait is dead.’ Stevenson led the way into the cave with Lindholm saying at his elbow: ‘We shall have to come to some agreement how we’re going to divide the gold.’
Too easily for Lindholm’s liking, Stevenson said: ‘Sure. You and Carla don’t have a thing to worry about, Howie.’ The banker knew that he and Carla were in acute danger. But the nearness of the gold held him. He had come too far, burned too many boats and taken too many risks to leave without enough to last him the rest of his life, or at least set him up in a good business in some place that did not know him. He and Carla would have a good life together. The girl was genuinely fond of him.
They turned into the side cave and Stevenson found a lamp and lit it. They went forward no more than another thirty feet or so and came into what seemed to be a vast chamber. At once they could see that men had used the place for a number of years. There were bunks, boxes, parfleches and piled sacks.
Stevenson was all business now, telling Lindholm and Carla just what had to be done. Lindholm, who had a deep moral objection to physical exertion, already saddle-sore and bone weary, was sweating and miserable as he labored in the shadowy gloom of the cave, but he put his back into it because he wanted that gold. Warning bells were sounding in his head. He felt that both Stevenson and Offdike, now they knew that Joe Ramage had been stealing their gold, would see that neither he nor Carla had their share. He was no hero, but he meant to come out of this with gold and the girl. He had dreamed for too long to accept defeat easily.
Once, when Stevenson led a laden horse outside the cave, Lindholm turned to the girl. Her face was sweaty and dust-caked, but she still looked beautiful to him. He laid a hand on her arm.
‘Have you changed your mind, Carla?’ he asked.
‘About what?’ She sounded surprised.
‘About us sticking together.’
She smiled. ‘I seemed to remember something a little stronger than that. Like marriage.’
‘Of course. But have you changed your mind?’
She kissed him. ‘No. I haven’t!’
‘All right, now. Be ready. Offdike and Stevenson do not mean to play fair with us.’
‘I’m damn sure they don’t.’
They talked together until Offdike came back to take Stevenson’s place. The three of them sweated in the cave for another hour and all the horses were carrying all they could. Now, Lindholm said with more calm than he felt: ‘Carla and I are not blind or dumb, Hank. You have packed gold on all the horses except three. It looks as if you intend to leave one of us behind. Which one?’
Stevenson turned.
His right hand held his belt-gun. He said: ‘We’re leaving two behind, Howie. You and the girl. We’re taking old Joe along with us as insurance. You can have all the gold that’s left here – if you can tote it out.’
Carla said: ‘We expected something like this, Hank.’
‘Then it comes as no surprise. We kept our word. You have your share.’
Carla said: ‘You’ve both turned out to be the cheap bastards we thought you.’
Offdike ignored her. ‘I’ll take your weapons, just in case.’ He rammed the muzzle of his gun into Lindholm’s belly and lifted the banker’s gun from leather.
‘You realize, Hank, you could be leaving us for the law. We’re afoot. Neither of us could survive in the wild.’ Stevenson said: ‘Too bad. At least we didn’t kill you. Thank the Lord for small mercies.’ He stuck Lindholm’s gun behind his belt and walked out, leading the last horse. Lindholm started towards the exit, but the girl laid a hand on his arm to restrain him.
‘Let them go,’ she said. ‘The law will follow the horses. Let’s take what gold we can carry and quietly lose ourselves in the landscape.’
He kissed her and said: ‘Carla, you’re a wonderful woman and the best thing that ever happened to me.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
As soon as Offdike stepped out into the clear sunlight, the shot came. The flat slam of the rifle echoed and re-echoed through the hills, so that neither Offdike nor Stevenson knew where it came from. It hit the face of the rock at least six feet from Offdike and sang away into the blue.
Stevenson, who had been crouched down beside Joe Ramage behind the rocky wall, was on his feet in an instant, shouting: ‘Let’s get the hell out of here.’ Offdike did not need any second bidding, but at once started to fix the pack-animals in a string, while Stevenson drove the old man in front of him, telling him to get into the saddle fast or he’d put a bullet through his head. Another shot came, but it was no nearer to a human target than the first. But close enough to hasten their efforts.
‘Which way now?’ Offdike demanded as he vaulted into the saddle.
‘West,’ Stevenson shouted, swinging astride. They both laid on quirts and got their precious train moving. They headed for the downward trail, moving at a reckless spe
ed for so difficult a descent, Offdike towing the lead horse, Stevenson urging the string of animals from the rear. They came down through the rocks and hit the first timberline. Offdike could see the posse toiling slowly to the south of them, still a couple of hours off. He pointed to them and shouted back to Stevenson. He turned in the saddle to see Stevenson blowing the posse a kiss and laughing.
It was at this point, when Offdike turned his face to the west, that Stevenson started in the saddle in sudden alarm and surprise. There was a man running beside his horse. He saw that it was McAllister; but that was impossible, because McAllister had fired two shots at the cave, which meant that he must have been to the south. As the truth came to Stevenson, as he realized that it was the girl who had fired the shots, as he reached hastily for the gun at his side, something struck very hard across his chest. McAllister’s crude club, nothing more than a twisted bough of scrub-oak, took him out of the saddle. He was a badly hurt man before he hit ground. His horse started to pitch, and away it went, following the others. Stevenson made one more effort to draw his gun, but this time the club caught him on the crown of his head.
As his partner disappeared round the bend in the trail, Stevenson’s wrists were lashed together with all the speed of a calf being hogtied by a skilled man. When he came to his senses, he was alone in the world and McAllister had gone from sight. He enjoyed but one thought: I should never have messed with amateurs.
He did not know it then, but he was more fortunate than his partner. Offdike reached a mountain torrent and found his progress slowed by the difficulty of the crossing. Turning to shout back to Stevenson, he failed to find him. To Joe Ramage, who was riding with his horse tied in the middle of the string, he said: ‘Where the hell did Hank get to?’ and Joe replied: ‘How in hell should I know?’ Which was a good question, because he had neither heard nor seen Stevenson’s meeting of his comeuppance.
Offdike might be puzzled and alarmed, but he did not lose sight of his priorities, which were to get out of this alive and in the company of his gold. He therefore raked his horse with spurs and urged it across the water. He was in mid-stream and having the greatest difficulty in keeping his horse on its feet, when he looked up and saw a man standing on the far side of the stream with a gun pointed at him. His reaction was much the same as his partner’s – that the sheriff could not possibly be here. He also slapped his right hand down on the butt of his gun. It was a suicide move, of course, but Offdike three years before had successfully drawn against a naked gun down in El Paso, Texas. Offdike was fast and he was accurate. To give him due credit, he not only drew his gun, but he also got off a shot. His aim was spoiled, however, by the fact that McAllister’s gun had also gone off and a bullet was lodged in his chest. He grabbed leather with his left hand and fought to raise his gun for a second shot, but McAllister’s second bullet hit him within an inch of the first and lifted him out of the saddle, for his grip on the saddle horn was by then quite feeble. He hit the surface of the stream with a great splash. His horse tried to pitch, but lost its footing and went down. The strength of the torrent rolled the animal over, but it fought to regain its footing and managed to do so. McAllister waded into the water, leaning against its strength, and led the horse back across to Joe Ramage.
The old man looked down at McAllister and said: ‘Jesus, it took you long enough. I don’t know what the hell lawmen’re coming to these days. Do I have to sit here all day before you cut me loose?’
McAllister said: ‘You can stay up there all day for all I care. Unless you can defend yourself against the charge of being a goddam old swindling son-of-a-bitch.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Joe said.
‘You know what I’m talking about,’ said McAllister, ‘About you stealing the road agents’ gold and getting half Black Horse working itself into a sweat on behalf of the poor old millionaire.’
Joe smiled like an evil old angel. ‘Aw, that,’ he said. ‘That ain’t so, Rem.’
‘Prove it,’ said McAllister.
‘Nothing easier,’ said Joe. ‘Follow this here stream down about a half-mile and you’ll find where I’ve panned and dug for three, four years. I don’t care who knows now. I got all the gold I need.’ He cackled with delight. ‘You mean I had you fooled too?’
McAllister snarled: ‘You stay tied till you quit grinning. You goddam millionaires’re all the same.’
Chapter Thirty
Mark Tully said: ‘McAllister, I reckon this time you used up the last of your luck.’ The posse sat around toasting deer meat on sticks over the fire. Well, half the posse sat around; the other half had spurred for home to fetch picks, shovels, pans, anything to hand which would help them lift some of the gold before the whole country heard of it and there was a stampede. McAllister rose abruptly and walked into the moonlight to the edge of the creek. A moment later, Mark Tully was at his elbow.
‘Hell, Rem,’ he said, ‘was it something I said?’ McAllister looked surprised. ‘No. Just I killed a man. It don’t get any easier, Mark.’
Tully nodded. ‘Me too. I’ve had my bellyful. That’s why I ain’t too eager for posses and such.’
‘I’ve had my fill of killing other folk’s snakes. Time they got around to killing their own. From here on in, I stick with horses.’
‘Still, times like that have their compensations.’ McAllister grinned. ‘You mean half the gold dug up here will be spent at your place?’
‘No, I was thinking of old Joe’s girl.’
‘What were you thinking?’
‘She ain’t took her eyes off you since you got into camp. How’s it I never get around to hiding out in the brush with a lovely girl?’
McAllister turned and looked back at the camp fire. He saw that Allison was gone. One of the young possemen was missing too. Hell, he thought, that was the way it went. The young were attracted to the young.
‘I’m too damned old,’ McAllister said. ‘Got to face it.’
Mark walked chuckling back to the fire, saying: ‘That’ll be the day.’
McAllister strolled along the creek bank. He had not taken three paces when he walked into somebody.
She said: ‘What’s this about being too old?’
‘Me,’ he said. ‘I’m too old.’
She reached up a cool hand and laid it against his face. She said: ‘You weren’t too old when you were comforting me out in the brush.’
‘You were kind of upset,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t think of anything else.’
She laughed and put her arms around his neck. ‘I’m upset now,’ she said. He put his arms around her waist and pulled her gently against him. With her mouth almost against his, she whispered: ‘You’re a great comfort to a girl.’
‘Ain’t I,’ he said, and their mouths and their bodies came together.
About the Author
Peter Christopher Watts
(19 December 1919 — 30 November 1983)
Is the author of more than 150 novels, is better known by his pen names of “Matt Chisholm” and “Cy James”. He published his first western novel under the Matt Chisholm name in 1958 (Halfbreed). He began writing the “McAllister” series in 1963 with The Hard Men, and that series ran to 35 novels. He followed that up with the “Storm” series. And used the Cy James name for his “Spur” series.
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