“Yes, he was.”
“That was gold coin I left beside Obermeyer. And when I left the man, he was very much alive. We wanted to make it look like a robbery to protect Obermeyer from Blackmann’s retaliation. You getting the picture?”
Grimly, Slade nodded. “Dundee found him.”
“Alone, bound and gagged, with all that money sitting beside him.”
By this time a considerable crowd had gathered around Wolf and Slade. When they heard what Wolf told Slade, they moved back and looked at Wolf with different eyes; they knew Dundee well enough to know that Wolf was telling the truth.
Wolf turned around to face the men and the few women who were in the crowd with them. “I’m going after Dundee,” he told them. “I’d welcome anyone that wants to ride with me.”
The circle around Wolf grew larger. No one stepped forward; a few men averted their eyes when Wolf’s caught theirs. Others turned hastily and started away from The Palace. Wolf swung back to Slade.
“What about you?” he asked.
“I can’t leave my place—not right now, I can’t. If you’ll wait until ...”
“Forget it,” snapped Wolf. “He’s already got an hour on me.”
“Caulder, do you know where Helen Obermeyer is? She came running in here this morning looking for me, then ran out again and rode off like a madwoman.”
Wolf turned and swung back up onto his horse. Before he started away from The Palace, he looked down at Slade. There seemed to have been more than ordinary concern in the man’s voice when he mentioned Helen’s name. “She’s at the Double B,” he told the man. “Betsy Hanson’s taking care of her.”
“You tell her ... tell her we’ll take care of the details … about her father, I mean.”
A thin man in a black suit coated with dust, wearing a white shirt with a string tie at the neck, had sidled up beside Slade. Pushing his black Stetson off his forehead, he peered up at Wolf through the bright sunlight at Wolf’s back. “You planning on going after Dundee, mister?”
Wolf nodded.
“Well, sir, I’m the judge in these parts—Judge Waterman. You ain’t deputized or nothing, so you be sure and bring that man in if you find him so he can stand trial, fair and square. We don’t believe in no vigilante justice in this here territory.”
“I’ll bring him in any way I can, Judge.”
Wolf pulled his horse around and rode down to the livery. As he pulled up in front of it, Abe Forbush appeared in the entrance. Wolf did not dismount.
“You saw to Dundee’s horse?” he asked.
Forbush nodded.
“Which direction did he take?”
“South, along the old Oxbow trail.”
“What kind of horse was he riding?”
“A sad one. Any horse Dundee rides gets sad pretty damn quick. A man like Dundee is bad for a horse, real bad. He don’t sit it right and he don’t know its wants. He just rides it.”
Wolf smiled grimly. Forbush was almost getting upset at the thought of Dundee astride a horse. “What can you tell me about this particular horse?”
Forbush understood at once. “You’ll be looking for sign, eh?” He moved closer and squinted up at Wolf through his white bushy eyebrows. “The horse ain’t lame, mind you. But he’s got a corn on his right front hoof—runs right across, it does. If you’re trackin’, you’ll notice it as a bar across the hoof print.” Forbush shot a black stream of tobacco juice out of the side of his mouth. “I remember I told Dundee he ought to let me file it off, but he never cared none for his horse.” Forbush stepped back from Wolf. “I hope you catch the son of a bitch. He never paid his bill.”
Wolf thanked the man and rode off, leaving the Snake Valley Road just out of town, and heading south along the Oxbow Trail. He didn’t want to punish his black, but he was moving at a fast gallop once he hit the trail.
About five miles south in the soft mud beside a stream that crossed the trail, Wolf caught the sign he was looking for: a right forefoot, leaving an imprint that resembled a flattened A, the crossbar made by the horse’s untreated corn. The print was reasonably fresh and indicated that at this point Dundee had decided to leave the trail and cut across open country. He had let his horse drink his fill at the stream, then pushed him across it and out the other side, after which he headed straight for the peaks of the White Horn Mountains. Once in those foothills, he knew, he would be long gone.
Wolf pushed his horse to a gallop.
There were only two hours of sunlight left when the country lifted from its flatness into rolling dunes of sand and clay gulches; here and there a pine tree stood as advance sentinel to the hills before him, black and bulky and high, with the white streak of a narrow trail vanishing into the timber at their base.
Coming to a shallow creek, he dismounted and found the sign he was following; it was close to the water’s edge and as yet no moisture had crept into the print. He swung back aboard his black, let the animal have a short drink, then pushed it on into the bench lands.
The trail cut through a rocky defile, one side of it a cliff reaching straight up, gray and weathered and cracked. He rode cautiously along the trail and once through the defile found himself approaching a rising wilderness of boulders that seemed piled by some furious giant long before. Beyond the broken world in front of him the dark bulk of the mountains rose into the sky, closer now, formidable, great ramparts that seemed flung up before him as a warning.
And then he caught the glint of a rifle barrel ahead of him among the rocks above the trail. He pushed his horse to a gallop, holding his breath, waiting for the shot—gambling that when it came it would mark Dundee as good a marksman as he was a sheriff.
The shot came when Caulder had about concluded that Dundee had given up the idea of ambush. It was a flat report that sent a flurry of echoes chasing after it. Wolf grabbed his Winchester from its scabbard and flung himself from his saddle as the bullet whined uncomfortably close and ricocheted off a boulder beside the trail just behind him.
It had not been a poor shot. Wolf slapped his horse’s rump and sent him off the trail. He found cover, quickly unstrapped his spurs and then levered a cartridge into firing position. Another shot from above sent echoes rebounding among the great boulders. The ricochet was uncomfortably close this time and Wolf realized that Dundee had him pretty well locked in. But Wolf was remembering the vantage point from where that glint had come and knew that from his present position he could outflank it.
Keeping down, he ducked across the trail into a light stand of pine, then angled quickly up the rock-strewn slope, his long frame low, his speed deceptive. A hopeless, prayerful rifle shot came as Wolf was approaching the crest, followed by the sound of lead whining off rocks far below. Dundee had no idea where Wolf was now and was shooting simply to keep up his courage.
Racing along the crest of the ridge, Wolf leaped down to the flat back of a huge boulder, then clambered swiftly up its slope until he was well above the narrow perch where the gleam of Dundee’s rifle had first been sighted.
Dropping to his belly, he inched his way along the stone ledge until his head was barely peering over the lip.
Below him at a distance of perhaps a hundred feet, Dundee was crouched, his rifle resting on a shelf of rock in front of him. Dundee had an unobstructed view of the trail. Looking over Dundee’s shoulder, Wolf could see his black cropping grass beside the trail far below. Dundee’s horse was plainly visible as well, tied to a sapling behind Dundee, unable to reach a patch of grass less than ten feet back.
And then Wolf saw the man reach into his hip pocket and pull out a whiskey bottle. Dundee tipped it well up, swallowing greedily, then stuck the bottle back into his rear pocket. Wolf no longer felt much pride in outflanking Dundee. The man was half drunk more than likely.
“Dundee!” he cried. “Drop your rifle!”
The man whirled, caught sight of him, and fired rapidly up at him, working his lever frantically. Wolf ducked back as the slugs whined off th
e rock face beneath him. When he looked again, Dundee was scrambling back from his vantage point, reaching for his horse’s reins.
Wolf sighted carefully and fired. The bullet seared the horse’s flank like a brand, causing the animal to rear wildly, pulling the reins out of Dundee’s grasp. Whinnying shrilly, the horse bolted. Dundee turned and frantically pumped more lead in Wolf’s direction.
Wolf pushed himself back down the rock, got to his feet and raced along the ridge until he was able to drop to a narrow ledge below him. From there he dropped to a trail that ran behind Dundee. He was below Dundee now, coming at him from the direction his horse had taken.
The rapid click of hooves against stone caused Wolf to flatten himself against a low rock face. He was just in time as Dundee’s horse bolted past, nostrils flared, eyes wild. As soon as it was safe to move, Wolf continued up the narrow trail, his rifle held ready in front of him. The clink of Dundee’s spurs warned him.
Wolf crouched and waited. Dundee appeared less than ten feet from him, his eyes on the rocky ground in front of him as he tried frantically to overtake his horse.
“Drop it, Dundee!”
The man did not have that much sense. He swung up his rifle, eyes wild, desperate. Wolf fired twice, pumping carefully each time. Dust puffed and neat holes appeared in his vest just above his Bull Durham tag as he was hurled violently backward onto the rocky trail. He did not move again.
Wolf climbed up beside him. The stench of cheap whiskey assailed Wolf’s nostrils, so strong he realized the man must have shattered the bottle in his back pocket when he landed. Wolf took a deep breath and looked down into the dead man’s face, wondering what there could have been in the man to have made him worth one Russ Obermeyer. The unevenness of the exchange depressed Wolf and he reached down abruptly and took from the dead body the two bags of gold coins.
Hefting them, he decided Dundee had not spent as much as he might have on drink. He tied the draw strings of both bags together and looped them over his cartridge belt.
Then he went looking for Dundee’s horse.
It was after midnight when Wolf rode into Willow Bend, Dundee’s horse trailing Wolf, the dead man tied over the saddle. A few bars were still open and a small crowd watched as Wolf pulled up in front of the livery.
Abe Forbush appeared in the stable doorway. “How much did Dundee owe you?” Wolf asked.
“Close to five dollars,” the old man said without hesitation.
Wolf nodded. “The horse is yours then. Since the town hired him, the town can bury him.”
Wolf let the reins to Dundee’s horse drop and pulled away. As he did so, Gibson and Judge Waterman pushed their way through the crowd.
“Hold it there, Caulder!” Gibson barked.
Wearily, Wolf pulled up and glanced over at the merchant. The man was wearing those matching, single action Frontier Model .45’s. They gleamed handsomely in the light from the lanterns hanging by the stable door.
“You realize,” Gibson said, “that we have only your word that Dundee took that money from Obermeyer—indeed, that he had anything at all to do with Obermeyer’s death.”
“That’s right,” said Caulder. “Just my word.”
“The word of a drifter,” said the Judge. “A hired gun who admits to stealing from Obermeyer’s warehouse in the first place.”
Wolf looked at the judge. “You’ll have Helen Obermeyer’s testimony to that when you want it.”
Gibson looked as if he were about to say something, but Wolf was too weary by this time for any more games. Ignoring the two men, he turned back around in his saddle and headed the black out of town. All he wanted was a good meal and a place to stretch out his long frame and sleep. The next day, he realized, was already alarmingly close and already pretty well filled up with at least one funeral.
Wolf rode wearily through the night.
Nine
Wolf awoke the next morning with the sound of rain on the bunkhouse roof and the instant awareness that Russ Obermeyer’s death changed things radically in Snake Valley country. He ate his breakfast silently beside an equally silent and equally grim Pike Hanson, served by a drawn and bitter Betsy, a haunted Helen Obermeyer. Ben, unable to fathom the full depth of the trouble that weighed on all those about him, ate quickly and fled the cabin.
Betsy did not even bother to tell him to keep dry as he legged it barefoot across the sopping grass to the stable.
Wolf looked across the table at Pike. “You up to the ride into town?” he asked.
“I’m up to it,” Pike replied.
Not long after, while the two of them sat on the porch out of the rain, Slade Hamner rode into view, his yellow slicker gleaming in the rain. Helen greeted him warmly at the door. The man stamped into the cabin, peeling off his wet slicker and hat as he went.
Betsy stepped out of the cabin a few moments later to let the two of them talk in private. Wolf got off his chair to let her sit down. She thanked him with a nod and took the seat. Wolf stood beside her, his back resting against the cabin’s cottonwood wall, a fresh cigarette glowing between his lips.
At length Betsy said, “The funeral’s this afternoon. Parson Brimson will read over Russ Obermeyer.”
“And Dundee?” Pike asked.
Betsy’s face went hard. “Slade didn’t mention Dundee.”
Wolf stirred himself. “Guess I’ll see to the buckboard,” he said, striding off the porch into the rain.
“There’s a canvas surrey for the two seater,” Pike called to him. “Have Ben give you a hand.”
Wolf nodded and ducked into the stable, his fresh cigarette hanging wetly from his mouth.
The parson was a lean, taciturn man, not given to great oratorical flights and for that everyone was grateful. He made it clear he thought Obermeyer had been a fine, upstanding member of the community and that he was now on his way to a just reward; then he stepped back and let Slade Hamner—a grim, pale Helen by his side—drop the first spadeful of mud onto the freshly made white pine coffin. Then he stepped back, Helen clinging to his arm, her eyes down, two thin tracks of moisture tracing lonely paths down her cheeks.
And then with brutal celerity they were all moving back from the dark hole ripped in the ripe green earth, the women stepping into carriages, the men lifting into their saddles. As Pike drove the flatbed out of the little hilltop cemetery, Wolf rode beside it on one side, Slade on the other.
On the way down the road leading back to the town, they passed another grim caravan on its way to the cemetery. Blackmann, his Bible clutched in one hand and wearing his usual severe black, was leading the burial party for the late Sheriff Dundee. Blackmann’s iron glance caught at Wolf as he passed. Wolf ignored it, noticing instead the way Josh, riding beside his father, sought out and found Betsy’s eyes. For a moment the two exchanged looks of pure despair.
The rain had slackened considerably by the time the flatbed, with Wolf and Slade still in escort, arrived back at the Double B. Slade and Helen stood to one side just inside the stable doorway and spoke quietly before Slade remounted and rode back to Willow Bend.
Then Betsy and Helen went into the cabin to fix supper. Watching them go as he pulled the harness off the horses, Wolf realized how hungry he was.
Pike moved up beside him. “We’ve got to talk,” the old man said.
Wolf dropped a bridle over a nail. “I’m listening.”
“Slade found out what’s been going on in town—and it don’t sound too good. The town council voted Gibson the new sheriff this morning. Blackmann went along only if Gibson promised to make it his business to bring you in.”
“That so?” Wolf looked at Pike with sudden interest lighting his eyes.
“Don’t get yourself all cheered up,” said Pike. “Gibson tried out the job today some, got slapped around a little and found out he was getting his shiny new pistols all dirty. So he quit. The man Blackmann had in mind from the beginning will soon be the new sheriff—not that anybody in town likes it.”
“The kid.”
Wolf nodded. He had a pretty good idea where the cowboys who had made things unpleasant for Gibson came from. Blackmann, it seemed, left very little to chance. But making the kid sheriff was pushing things a little too far, even for Blackmann.
Wolf pushed the horse’s rump out of his way and left the stall. “Dundee was Blackmann’s first mistake,” he told Pike as he started from the stable. “The kid’ll be his second.”
“Maybe,” said Pike, keeping up with Wolf as they crossed the yard. “Maybe you’re right at that. But he’ll be trouble too—bad trouble.”
“Didn’t mean to say he wouldn’t be.”
Wolf entered the cabin, famished.
After the rain the night sky was clear, the stars brilliant and the darkness among the cottonwoods was alive with winking pin-points of light. The fireflies were out in force. Helen came out to stand in the cool darkness beside him.
“I didn’t have a chance to tell you,” Wolf said, “how sorry I am. It was my fool plan that ...”
“Don’t say that,” Helen replied quickly, cutting him short. “I won’t have it. We all know who’s to blame for the death of my father. It wasn’t you. In a way, it wasn’t even Dundee—though his brutishness accomplished it.”
“Blackmann.”
“Of course—and this entire crew of cutthroats, and the townsmen who support him.”
“Has Slade broken with Blackmann on this?”
“He has.”
“He’ll be in danger then. Slade is indebted to Blackmann. I don’t think Blackmann will treat his defection lightly.”
“Slade is man enough to stand up to Blackmann.” The pride in her voice was unmistakable.
Her face turned to his. He felt her eyes studying his face, appraising him. Wolf was certain that she admired him, that at that moment she was comparing him with Slade—coming to a decision.
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