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  “We have a sitting room here,” Davis said. “We’ll talk there.” He stepped aside, allowing Arlo and Dallas to enter, but blocked Wheaton’s way. “Sorry, Sheriff,” he said, “but this is a private meeting.”

  “Not that private,” Arlo snapped. “We invited Sheriff Wheaton to sit in. He stays.”

  “Excuse me, then,” said Davis with poor grace, “while I fetch my associates.”

  Davis left the door open, stepped into the hall, and knocked on the door of another room. Returning with two men, he introduced Barry Rust and R. J. Bollinger. Rust was the shortest man in the room, a startling contrast in stature to Davis and Bollinger. Rust’s shoes were low-cut black patent, his suit solid black over a gray shirt and a navy tie. The very top of his head was bald, and his lips turned down at the corners as though he had never smiled in his life. Bollinger had adopted an obnoxious swagger, and his wolf grin seemed calculated to convince Arlo, Dallas, and Sheriff Wheaton that he, R. J. Bollinger, knew something the visiting trio did not. He wore scuffed high-heeled boots, Levi’s, and a red flannel shirt open at the throat. His fancy gray Stetson had a thin band of silver, and the polished walnut grips of his Colt gleamed in the lamplight. The six men eyed one another warily, nobody quite sure what the next move should be. Sheriff Wheaton was the first to speak.

  “Arlo an’ Dallas ain’t met the Logan girls an’ their mother.”

  “This is business that don’t concern females,” replied Davis stiffly.

  “I reckon you can speak for Mrs. Davis,” Arlo said, “but not for Kelly and Kelsey Logan. Until we meet them, this medicine show stops dead in its tracks.”

  Bollinger strode across the room until he stood face-to-face with Arlo.

  “I don’t like you, bucko,” snarled the gunman.

  “It’d disappoint the hell out of me if you did,” Arlo said coldly. His right fist suddenly struck Bollinger on the point of his chin and slammed him against the wall, dropping a framed picture with a tinkling crash. Bollinger staggered but kept his feet, pausing with his hand on the butt of his Colt. Sheriff Wheaton already had him covered.

  “You reach for that iron again while you’re in this town,” said Wheaton, “and I’ll take it away from you. We got our own rules here, and you just broke one of ’em.”

  The tension quickly died as both bedroom doors opened in response to the commotion. Through one door stepped a woman in a long dressing gown, her face painted like a Coahuila puta. Arlo and Dallas wouldn’t have given her a second look if she’d set herself afire. Their eyes were on the girls who emerged from the other bedroom. They were identical twins, with blue eyes and curly straw-colored hair to their shoulders. First they eyed Bollinger, who stood with his back to the wall, a bruise beginning to purple his chin. Arlo still had his fist clenched, and there was a trace of blood on the knuckles of his right hand. Finally, Gary Davis introduced the Logan girls and their mother. Kelly and Kelsey Logan seemed to have their eyes on Arlo and Dallas, and it infuriated Gary Davis.

  “Back to your room,” he shouted. “Now!”

  Dejectedly the girls returned to the bedroom and closed the door. The man’s brutal attitude got the best of Dallas, and he turned on Davis in a fury.

  “They’re Hoss Logan’s kin!” he shouted. “They have a right to know what we’re doin’, since me and Arlo are involved in this.”

  “You won’t be involved in it much longer,” said Davis. He nodded to Rust.

  “It is our contention,” Rust said, “that this … ah … claim of Henry Logan’s should go, in its entirety, to his blood kin, Kelly and Kelsey Logan. In that light, we are going before the judge at nine o’clock in the morning to contest your right to any portion of Henry Logan’s estate and to demand part of a map which is now in your possession. I believe this concludes our business with you. We’ll see you in court.”

  The sheer gall of the ultimatum left Arlo and Dallas speechless, and Sheriff Wheaton was barely able to get them out of the hotel without further violence.

  “Now,” the sheriff said once they were outside, “I reckon you can see why Hoss needed somebody he could trust to look out for the Logan girls.”

  “My God, yes,” Arlo said angrily. “They’re lambs surrounded by lobo wolves.”

  “I reckon that snake in the grass Rust has a whole deck of cards he can draw from,” said Dallas, “but by God, a loaded Colt still beats four of a kind in anybody’s game.”

  “Whoa, boy,” Sheriff Wheaton warned. “You heard what I told Bollinger. I don’t want Judge Colt handin’ down any verdicts while I’m sheriff. I don’t want either of you startin’ somethin’ I might have to finish. You pull iron in Phoenix, then it’d better be in defense of your own hide, an’ you’d better have witnesses.”

  “We don’t aim for this slick-tongued coyote to talk us into a corner,” Arlo huffed. “How can the court, or anybody else, claim we have no right to this map, when Hoss made it a point of sending it to us?”

  “That’ll be a good question for you to ask the judge in the morning,” replied the sheriff. “It’s easy enough to drag somethin’ into court, but if it don’t belong there, it can just as quick be throwed out. Remember that.”

  Arlo and Dallas reached the courthouse a few minutes before nine and took seats at the table provided for the defense. The courtroom was packed. While any strangers arriving in Phoenix would have kindled local interest, this bunch from Missouri had fanned the flames by almost immediately revealing the purpose of their presence. Gary Davis and Barry Rust had gone to the assayer’s office, showed the letter the Logan girls had received from Hoss Logan, and demanded information about any claim Hoss might have filed. Herk Peterson, the assayer, felt justified in revealing the ore Hoss Logan had left there six months before, and the secret was out.

  “This bunch has sure played hell,” said Dallas grimly as they waited for the judge to take the bench. “Every sneakin’ coyote in Arizona Territory will be on our trail, ready to shoot us in the back for that piece of map.”

  “For whatever it’s worth,” Arlo said, “this Gary Davis will be as much a target as we are, since he supposedly has the other half of the map.”

  “Well, I don’t want him gettin’ his hands on our half,” said Dallas. “Let’s hang on to it till hell freezes over, whether we understand it or not.”

  “Everybody stand,” the bailiff suddenly said, as the judge entered.

  All conversation ceased and everybody stood.

  “Court is now in session,” intoned the bailiff, “Judge Tom Grady presiding.”

  “We will begin,” Judge Grady said, “by asking counsel for the plaintiff to explain the nature of his complaint and what he expects of this court.”

  Rust gave a reasonably close but rambling account of the alleged passing of Hoss Logan and his division of the map.

  “To sum it up,” said Rust, “we believe Henry Logan has mistakenly given half a gold claim to a pair of common cowboys, a claim that rightfully belongs to Kelly and Kelsey Logan. We are asking the court to seize whatever Henry Logan may have given to Wells and Holt that has led them to believe they are entitled to share in the Logan estate.”

  “You may be seated, Mr. Rust,” Judge Grady said, “and we’ll hear from Mr. Wells and Mr. Holt. State your case, gentlemen.”

  “We’ll have our say. Judge,” said Arlo, “after you’ve read this letter from Henry Logan to us.”

  Judge Grady accepted the letter, read it twice, and then returned it.

  “Hoss Logan aimed for us to have an interest, and we have his word as proof. What more do you need?” Arlo asked.

  “You have no proof that Henry Logan wrote that letter!” Rust shouted.

  “ You have no proof that he didn’t,” Arlo shouted back, “and no way of proving he wrote the letter you have.”

  “Order in the court!” declared Judge Grady. “Now, Mr. Rust, Mr. Wells voluntarily allowed me to read his letter, while I have yet to see yours. I am no handwriting expert, but I want t
o compare these two letters.”

  Again Arlo presented his letter, while Rust seemed reluctant to come forward with his. Finally he took it from an inside coat pocket and passed it to Judge Grady. The judge took only a moment to reach a decision.

  “Both letters are printed,” said the judge, “so nobody can swear they were written by the same hand, but I am virtually certain they were. Both these pages were torn from the same tablet at the same time, and the lettering is remarkably similar. Clearly, if one of these was written by Henry Logan, they both were. Now what more do you people expect of this court?”

  “Nothing, sir,” said Arlo. “We had no complaint to start with, and we have none at this time.”

  “Well, we do,” Rust all but screamed, “and the court has done nothing to resolve it. We maintain that Wells and Holt have no right to share in the Logan estate, and we are asking the court to intervene.”

  “Henry Logan made his wishes clear, insofar as this court is concerned,” said Judge Grady, “and I see no reason for intervention. If you disagree, state your grounds.”

  “Wells and Holt are not Henry Logan’s blood kin,” Rust said angrily, “and Logan did not leave a will. Where there is no will, the estate goes to the nearest kin. That’s an accepted precedent in all United States courts of law, as I understand it.”

  “Mr. Rust,” said Judge Grady coldly, “there evidently is something you don’t understand. You are not in the United States. This is Arizona Territory, and we are not bound by precedent. In any court in Arizona these letters of Henry Logan’s will stand as his last will and testament, and this court accepts them as such. Case dismissed.”

  There were many smiles and much ill-concealed laughter as Rust stomped angrily out of the courtroom. The rest of his party followed, the Logan girls last. As they turned away, they cast wistful looks at Arlo and Dallas. The cowboy partners had won the first hand, but they had no time to consider where they stood in the game, for they found themselves surrounded by insistent, shoving people who fought for their attention.

  “The mine,” someone shouted. “Where’s the mine?”

  “I’m with the Phoenix Record,” said a fat man, taking Arlo’s arm. “I want your story for my newspaper.”

  “Damn it,” bawled Arlo, “everybody back off! This is a private matter.”

  “You can’t keep a gold strike private,” somebody shouted, a sentiment quickly echoed by a dozen other voices.

  “Break it up!” Sheriff Wheaton bawled. “Clear the courtroom.”

  The sheriff’s intervention provided enough of a diversion for Arlo and Dallas to dash through the crowd and get to the door.

  “Come on,” said Arlo, once they were outside. “We’re goin’ to offer to work with Davis and Rust, and if they refuse, I have a little surprise for them.”

  The Missouri party had returned to the hotel, also seeking to avoid the crowd from the courthouse. Reaching the Davis suite, Arlo knocked on the door and Davis opened it. There was no sign of the girls or of Mrs. Davis. Barry Rust and R. J. Bollinger sat next to a folding table on which stood a half-empty whiskey bottle. Arlo and Dallas made no move to enter, nor did Davis invite them in.

  “Unless there’s some way of us working together,” said Arlo, “we aim to start our search tomorrow. Alone.”

  “Go ahead,” sneered Davis. “You don’t have the rest of the map.”

  “We don’t need it,” Arlo said.

  Davis slammed the door, but not before Arlo and Dallas saw his face go white and the shocked expressions on the faces of his companions.

  “For whatever it’s worth,” said Dallas, “you struck pay dirt.”

  “It’s worth plenty,” Arlo said, “because they need us, and we don’t need them. They don’t know that both halves of the map are the same, that there is only one map.”

  “You’re right,” said Dallas, “we’re that much ahead. But we don’t happen to be all that familiar with the Superstitions. We still have to find the claim.”

  “If it can be found, we’ll find it,” Arlo said, “and Hoss was countin’ on that. I want the rest of the gold-hungry coyotes that’ll be trailin’ us to get the same idea. It’ll keep us alive until we find the gold.”

  “We’d best spend the rest of the day gettin’ our supplies together,” said Dallas. “I’ll ride back to the cabin and fetch the mule.”

  “No,” Arlo said, “we’ll buy another mule and a pack-saddle here in town. I aim for Paiute to ride that mule that belonged to Hoss.”

  “Are we takin’ him with us for his sake or for ours?”

  “Some of both,” said Arlo. “He has nowhere to go, and he’s spent the last twenty years with Hoss in the Superstitions. He can’t talk, but he knows we’re the closest pards Hoss had. I can’t shake the feeling that before we reach the end of this trail, we’ll be glad that old Indian’s with us. I think we’ll stay in town tonight and pick him up tomorrow.”

  “We ain’t exactly flush,” Dallas noted. “Can we afford a hotel?”

  “The best,” replied Arlo. “We’ll stay right here at the Frontier.”

  At the desk Arlo requested a first-floor room. Much to his satisfaction, they were given a room right across the hall from the Davis suite.

  “I reckon you aim to give them Missouri coyotes a chance to make a move before we ride out in the morning,” Dallas said.

  “Not so much that,” said Arlo, “as the possibility we’ll be able to talk to the Logan girls. They haven’t been allowed to say a word to us. Given a chance, I reckon they could tell us plenty.”

  “I think you’re right about that,” Dallas agreed. “I got the feeling they wanted to talk to us but didn’t dare. They might risk it if they know we’re right across the hall.”

  “They’ll know,” said Arlo. Reaching the Davis suite, Arlo nudged the bottom of the door with his boot. When Davis opened the door, Arlo was at his own door, clumsily trying to insert the key. Davis quickly closed his door, but not before one of the Logan girls had seen Arlo and Dallas preparing to enter their room.

  “Now they know we’re here,” Dallas said when they had entered the room and closed the door. “One of the girls saw us. Whether we ever find the gold or not, I aim to meet those girls. My God, how did they turn out so pretty, their mama bein’ the stuck-up old she-buffalo that she is?”

  “I don’t know,” said Arlo, “but she and this Gary Davis strike me as bein’ two of a kind. I don’t blame Hoss for bein’ suspicious, the two of ’em gettin’ together so quick after Jed Logan was killed.”

  “It ain’t quite noon,” Dallas said. “Why don’t we do some lookin’ around for a good mule and a packsaddle? We can buy provisions too.”

  “We might as well,” agreed Arlo, “and be done with it. I’d like to get away from here early in the morning, but even then, we won’t be alone. Thanks to that fool move Davis and Rust made in court, God knows who we’ll have on our back trail.”

  Gold, even the mention of it, brought out the worst in people. Arlo and Dallas found that men had staked out the hotel, while others watched the livery. Eager eyes observed them as they bought a mule and a packsaddle, and men openly followed them as they made their way to the general store for supplies.

  As Gary Davis, Barry Rust, and R. J. Bollinger were about to leave the hotel, Davis turned to his wife, Paulette, and the Logan girls.

  “We may be gone a while,” Davis said, “and I don’t want none of you leavin’ this room. Is that clear?”

  Paulette nodded. Kelly and Kelsey Logan only looked at him, and he could plainly see the hate in their eyes. The trio stepped into the hall, and Davis had barely closed the door when Kelsey Logan exploded.

  “God, how I hate him!” she hissed.

  “No more than I,” cried Kelly. “He’s a brute, the snake that Uncle Henry always said he was.”

  “That’s no way to speak of your father,” Paulette shouted angrily. “I won’t have it!”

  “He’s not our father,” Kelly cri
ed. “Our daddy’s dead, and I believe this … this scum, Gary Davis, had more than a little to do with it.”

  Paulette Davis hit the girl with such force that she stumbled against the wall. Kelly said nothing. She stood there breathing hard, her face white with fury, her eyes a cold blue. Paulette was shocked, for the girl was looking at her in much the same way Jed Logan had the week before he had been killed, the week he had branded Paulette a whore for her relationship with Gary Davis. Jed Logan was gone, but his daughter looked at her with those same accusing eyes. Jed Logan’s eyes! In them was a mixture of disgust, pity, and hate that was too much for Paulette Davis.

  “Kelly … I … I’m sorry,” she said, backing away.