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  “Light, set, drink your coffee, then ride,” Crane said. He had made up his mind that the rider was going nowhere but jail. But right now, his Colt unhandy under a slicker, was not the time for a gunfight.

  The man nodded. “Much obliged.” He said, “Name’s Lewt Hope, by the way. No need for you two to give me your’n, on account of how I know them already.”

  Beside him Crane saw Masterson stiffen. When Hope dropped the reins of his horse, thunder rolling above him, the sheriff made no move to let the man pass.

  “You the Lewt Hope that operates out of the Windsor Hotel in Denver?”

  The man nodded. “I call it home, when I’m there.”

  “I hear you’re real good with the knife. They say you’re better than Jim Bowie ever was.”

  “They say right.” Hope’s eyes hardened. “Now, will you give me the road?”

  Masterson stepped aside. The man towered over him by a good six inches.

  Crane tossed out the dregs from his cup and handed it to Hope. “Coffee’s on the stove.”

  As he built a cigarette he watched the man pour coffee, then looked even closer as Hope shrugged out of his slicker and laid it carefully on the table.

  The man wore a plain blue Colt, higher than most, the worn rubber handle between his elbow and wrist. It was a working gun and it had seen a good deal of use. A large Green River knife hung on Hope’s left side, the wood handle also showing signs of wear.

  He sat on the rough bench at the table and lifted his eyes to Crane. “You got two dead men outside.”

  “Found them that way,” the marshal answered.

  Hope showed no interest, or emotion of any kind. “You make good coffee,” he said.

  For some reason Masterson was on the prod. He made little attempt to hide his dislike for Lewt Hope.

  “What’s Stark’s proposition?” he asked.

  Hope sipped more coffee and set down the cup carefully. His fingers were long and sensitive, as you might see on a concert pianist.

  “The reverend extends the hand of friendship,” he said. He looked long at Masterson, then said, “Oh yes, he really does.”

  “Why the change of heart?” Crane asked.

  Hope spread his hands. “No change. You two and the reverend have a common enemy in the person of Ben Hollister. He wishes to join forces with you—if certain . . . ah . . . conditions are met.”

  “And what would those conditions be?” Masterson asked.

  “Wait, Paul,” Crane interrupted. “There are a few things I want to know first.”

  He took a step closer to Hope. The gunman didn’t care for the move, and his right hand dropped from view under the table.

  “Did you kill Joe Garcia and his men?” the marshal asked.

  “The Reverend Stark deemed it necessary. ‘Whittling down Mr. Hollister,’ he called it.”

  “So you didn’t kill them on my behalf?”

  Hope gave his grinning-skull smile. “Don’t flatter yourself, Marshal. You’re not that important.”

  “Then why did you bring me his head?”

  Hope shrugged. “I was taking it back to the reverend, but then I smelled your fire and your bacon cooking and thought it might be fun to scare you. See, we’d been more or less keeping an eye on you all day. You’re not a difficult man to track, Marshal. And that’s a pity, I mean for a lawman.”

  Crane felt Masterson’s eyes boring into him and he was peeved. “If you knew I was in the arroyo, why didn’t you come after me?”

  “Well, the Reverend Stark wanted his young belly warmer back, but he didn’t want to lose good men getting her.” Hope smiled again. “You still have a pretty good gun rep, Marshal. Hell, we lost a man to you at the hotel as it was. How many would have died charging up that arroyo in the dark with a hard wind blowing?”

  “A lot,” Crane said evenly.

  “My point entirely.”

  “Why did you cut out Garcia’s eyes?”

  “Just an idle fancy. For a time I thought about letting him go after that, but the reverend wanted him dead. Besides, Joe was squealing like a stuck pig, so I put him out of his misery.”

  “And the nuns?”

  For the first time Hope’s eyes were guarded. “How did you know about the nuns?”

  “We found the bodies. Did you kill them?”

  The gunman was digging a hole for himself, but he didn’t seem to care. That took sand, or a supreme, arrogant confidence in his gun skills. Probably it was both.

  “They tried to turn the people away from the Promised Land, filling their heads with their popish superstition and lies. The reverend ordered me to take care of the problem.”

  Hope looked at Crane. “Don’t look so glum, Marshal. I didn’t have as much fun with them as I did with Garcia. The old woman died quick enough, though I made the one who gave me this”—the fingers of his left hand moved to his torn cheek—“last a spell longer.”

  Crane studied the man and reached a decision—to hell with jail. Lewt Hope was not going to leave the cabin alive.

  But he didn’t want the gunman on guard. “All right, what’s Stark’s proposition? Then be on your way.”

  “Now you’re talking sense, Marshal. It’s very simple: Within the next two days, you take me to the place where the bank robbery money is hid. The reverend figgers one of you, or both of you, know where Judah Walsh stashed his loot.”

  “And if we don’t?”

  Hope dug the hole deeper.

  “Then the cute little gal you’re sweet on, the one called Sarah, gets skun.” He patted the knife at his side. “Reverend Stark says I’m to gut her like a deer and dump her at the sheriff’s office.”

  Paul Masterson’s face looked like it had been hewn from granite. His eyes were colder than ice, glittering.

  “Hope, before I gun you, did you kill a man in the Texas Belle saloon?”

  He was digging the hole deeper still.

  “Yeah, but I was trying for Hollister.” He looked at Crane. “And you ain’t gonna do no killing, Crane. That’s my job. Now, I want your answer. Do you show me where the money is hid or do I start work on that little Sarah whore?”

  Crane opened his mouth to speak, but the sheriff stopped him.

  “Ever hear of a woman by the name of Maxie Starr?”

  “Sure, everybody knew Maxie.” His grin was an obscene thing. “Most of us knew her very well.”

  Masterson’s voice sounded like a death knell. “Did you see her die?”

  “Hell, she was only a whore.”

  “I asked you—did you see her die?”

  The hole Hope had dug for himself was now a grave.

  “Yeah, I was there. The reverend did the whipping, drug it out, but she wouldn’t say where you and Walsh was holed up.” His eyes lifted to Crane. “Tell him, Marshal, she was only a damned whore and who the hell cares?”

  Thunder crashed outside and for an instant a searing white light filled the cabin.

  It sounded as though Masterson was talking from inside a cave, his voice hollow, like a muffled drum.

  “Hope, get on your feet, you sorry piece of trash,” he said.

  The gunman showed no fear as he rose from the table. “Then the answer to the Reverend Stark’s proposition is no?”

  “That’s right, but you won’t live to tell him so.”

  Hope’s hand moved closer to his gun. “It won’t be that way. The day I can’t shade a couple of stupid lawdogs is the day I’ll hang up my gun.”

  His hand flashed for his Colt.

  He was fast, very fast and smooth on the draw.

  But he died with two of Masterson’s bullets in his chest before his gun leveled.

  For a fleeting moment, Crane caught a glimpse of Hope’s face as he went down. There was horror and disbelief in his eyes. Then nothing at all.

  The marshal looked at Masterson, at the smoking Remington in his hand. He knew now that back at the sheriff’s office Paul had been right.

  Nobody could mat
ch his speed on the draw and shoot. Not he. Not anyone he ever knew.

  Chapter 23

  Paul Masterson punched out the two empty shells from the Remington and reloaded. As he holstered the big revolver he turned to Crane.

  “He had his chance.”

  “Looked like.”

  “Where do we go from here?”

  “Want to bury your dead?”

  “Hell no, coyotes got to eat.”

  Thunder thudded and lightning flashed around the cabin. Rain racketed against the windows and fat drops ticked from the top of the open doorway.

  “I can’t stand by and let Sarah die,” Crane said.

  “No, you can’t.”

  “Any ideas?”

  “Nary a one.”

  “We could brace Stark.”

  “No we couldn’t. We’d both be dead and who’s going to help the girl then?”

  “Paul, I saw you use a gun. You’re good, real good.”

  “I know I’m good.” He smiled. “Real good. So maybe between us both we could down half a dozen of Stark’s men. But we can’t win a gunfight against three hundred.”

  “Then we ride back to town and round up a posse. If there are enough of us, those sodbusters of Stark’s may not be so eager to start a fight.”

  Masterson nodded. “It’s a way.”

  “But you don’t think it’s a good way.”

  “Depends how many men we can muster. Stark is headed for Hollister’s range. He’ll probably throw in with us, and most of the other ranchers.”

  “At least then we’ll have a fighting chance.”

  “It depends, Gus. If Stark really does move onto the Rafter-T, Hollister will fight for his range and his punchers will ride for the brand. The other ranchers will fight because they know they could be next. But if Stark heads farther north into his Promised Land, maybe the Comstock silver mines, Hollister and the rest will sit out that dance.

  “I tell you this, they sure as hell won’t fight for an orphan gal they don’t even know.”

  Crane stepped to the door and looked out at the rain and the ashen, sullen sky.

  “The Promised Land isn’t a silver mine,” he said. “For Stark it’s range and herds. For his followers, open ground to plow.”

  “You’re probably right, but what if you aren’t?”

  “There’s one way to find out. We trail the wagon train and see where it’s headed.”

  Masterson nodded. “I’ll go along with that, but only because I can’t come up with something better.” He moved beside Crane and stared into the gray land. “Hell, Gus, I never did cotton to riding in the rain and getting a wet ass.”

  “Goes with the badge,” Crane said.

  Ahead of the two riders the seven-thousand-foot McTarnahan Hill was a wedge of rain-gleaming black against the sky. Four miles to the northwest, in Eagle Valley, lay the Carson City boomtown and state capital, bustling with eight thousand permanent residents and on any given day tens of thousands of miners.

  The tracks of the wagons veered away from the city and headed toward Hackett Canyon and Ben Hollister’s range.

  This was a land of unexpected abrupt hills covered in piñon, ephradine and juniper that still held on to the clustered blue-green berries of spring. The fragrant pink blossoms of desert peach bloomed everywhere, as did scattered stands of cholla.

  Crane began to see white-faced cattle and a few longhorns grazing on the lush grass near the dozens of narrow creeks that laced the country, and the cottonwoods were heavy with smoke-colored foliage.

  The marshal did not know if the cattle belonged to Hollister or someone else, but whoever the owner was, he’d lost money. Three slaughtered cows, their bones stripped of meat, lay on a creek bank.

  Masterson swung out of the saddle and examined a slab of dripping hide. His eyes rose to Crane, looking at him through the rain. “Bullet holes there and there.”

  “I see them.”

  “Low thing. Shooting another man’s cows.”

  “I reckon.”

  “Stark’s people needed meat, I guess.”

  “Reckon.”

  Masterson glanced around him, then at the wagon tracks heading north into the rain haze. “Headed for Hollister’s range, all right.”

  “He’ll fight.”

  “For his ranch? Yeah, he’ll fight.” The sheriff smiled. “Isn’t that part of your job, Gus? I mean, stopping range wars?”

  “Paul, God in his heaven couldn’t stop this one.” His gaze moved beyond Masterson to a ridge about fifty yards away. “And speaking of wars, it wouldn’t surprise me if we have one on our hands right now.”

  Masterson turned and saw what Crane saw.

  Five riders sat their horses on the rim, their faces lost in the shadows of their hats and the shifting steel mesh of the rain.

  Crane cursed under his breath. It stood to reason that the canny Stark would have men covering his back trail, probably among the best he had, but he’d totally overlooked that possibility.

  It was the kind of mistake that could get a man killed.

  Carefully, Crane unbuttoned his slicker and moved it away from his gun, his eyes fixed on the unmoving riders. This was shaping up to be big trouble and those boys up there looked to be quietly confident.

  “Don’t let them catch you afoot, Paul,” he said.

  Masterson strolled casually to his horse and swung into the saddle. As he did, in a single, fluid motion, he lifted his Winchester from under his knee.

  “Now what?” he asked.

  “They’ll make a move soon.”

  “We can take five of them.” After a moment’s hesitation, he added, “But not a dozen.”

  More riders had joined the men on the rim. They began to talk among themselves and one of them laughed.

  Masterson slowly turned his eyes to Crane. “Know what the Irish say, Gus?”

  “No, tell me.”

  “A good retreat is better than a bad stand.”

  “Then what are we waiting for? Let’s get the hell out of here!”

  Crane swung his horse around and set spurs into its flank. Masterson followed at a flat-out gallop.

  Bullets splintered the air around their heads as the lawmen ran. The country in front of them promised nothing by way of cover and Crane slapped the spurs to the buckskin.

  “Head for the cabin!” Masterson yelled. “We’ll make our fight behind walls.”

  A bullet smashed into the pommel of the sheriff’s saddle, then ricocheted away, whining viciously.

  Turning in the saddle, Crane cut loose with his revolver. He fired three shots but as far as he could tell did no execution.

  The dozen Stark riders either had sand or they were fanatics, but they came on gamely at the gallop, rifles bucking against their shoulders.

  “Gus,” Masterson called out, “we’ve got to slow them.”

  Crane’s mount had the bit in its teeth, his neck was stretched and the marshal had his hands full.

  “When you see me turn, stop and give covering fire,” Masterson hollered.

  “I don’t know if I can stop this damned hoss.”

  “Then shoot him if you have to, but give me cover.”

  A few tense moments fled past. Then Masterson wheeled the sorrel and charged toward the oncoming riders, firing his Winchester.

  Crane leaned back in the saddle and grabbed the reins with both hands. Using all his strength he wrenched his horse’s head around.

  The buckskin turned and its forelegs flew out from under him. His haunches slammed into the ground hard and Crane nearly flew out of the saddle. But the big horse recovered and the marshal drew rein.

  The buckskin stood, trembling, as Crane grabbed for his rifle.

  Masterson was already among them.

  Surprised by this sudden switch, the riders split into two groups. Masterson charged through the gap, firing. A horse went down, spilling its rider onto the ground. Then a second man, hit hard, toppled backward out of the saddle.

&
nbsp; Crane fired at a man in a gray slicker. A miss. He fired again and the man went down, thumping onto the wet ground.

  In a state of confusion, Stark’s men milled around, looking for a clear shot at Masterson.

  But the sheriff was through them again, galloping hell-for-leather toward Crane.

  Swinging the buckskin, the marshal slapped spurs and he and Masterson were running neck and neck again.

  The sheriff was laughing, his head thrown back. “Hot damn, that will make them think!”

  Stark’s riders were shooting again and a bullet tore through the loose material of Crane’s sleeve.

  But Stark’s men had lost two of their number and a horse and were wary now.

  They slowed to a canter, enough to keep the lawmen in sight, and every now and then one of them tried a hopeless, long-distance pot.

  Suddenly, through the shifting gray veil of the rain, the cabin loomed into sight.

  Both men cantered to the door and quickly stepped out of the saddle.

  “They’ll shoot the horses,” Masterson said urgently.

  “We’ll take ’em inside with us.”

  “Anything you say, Gus, but it’s going to be mighty crowded in there.”

  Masterson stepped into the cabin and pulled his horse after him. Crane did the same.

  With two horses and two men inside, the small cabin was crowded, especially since their mounts were still excited from the chase and were restive and in no mood to be accommodating. The presence of a dead man and the smell of blood made things worse, and white arcs showed in their rolling eyes.

  Closing the door, Masterson smashed out the glass in the cabin’s only window.

  The shack had been built solidly of sod and would stop bullets. Only the door was a danger. The horses were big targets and a few rounds through the thin timber could kill them.

  Crane saw the danger and dragged the heavy table to the door, then set it up on its edge. The table had been hammered together from thick pine boards and should stop even rifle rounds.

  At least he hoped it would.

  An open, flat area of brush and bunchgrass stretched a hundred yards from the front of the cabin, then rose gradually to a shallow hill crowned with a thick growth of juniper and piñon.