“It’s the bounty, isn’t it? All that money has you droolin’? Of all the simpleminded silliness, this takes the cake.”
Charley’s jaw twitched. “When we want your opinion, mister, we’ll ask for it. And don’t insult the lady again, or you’ll answer to me.”
Enos gestured. “Now, now. Let’s not snip. I’m sure Eli didn’t mean anything personal. He’s only being considerate. Right, Eli?”
Eli was thinking. He still ached from the beating he had taken, and two of his front teeth were so loose they might fall out any day now. He had never hated anyone as much as he hated the Hoodoos. Hate so potent that sometimes, when he thought about what they had done, his head swam and his temples pounded, and he couldn’t hardly see for the red haze in front of his eyes. He spent hours day-dreaming about paying them back. About staking them out over ant hills or sneaking up in the dead of night and slitting their throats. He wanted them dead, stone dead, Brock Alvord most of all. Brock was the one he had always liked and respected. And look at what the man had done.
“Got a bee in your ear?” Enos prompted.
Eli slid a chair from another table over to theirs and sat. “What if I could tell you how you can go about settin’ a trap for the Hoodoos? A trap they would never suspect? It could mean the difference between your livin’ and dyin’.”
The four manhunters looked at one another, then leaned toward him. Charley Pickett said, “We’re all ears, mister.”
“Not so fast, boy. There’s a condition. If I help, you take me with you. I want to be there when you tangle with them. And I want to be the one who blows out Brock Alvord’s wick.”
Enos tugged on his beard. “What’s gotten into you, Eli? As I recollect, you never were much for spillin’ blood.”
“I have my reasons.”
“I suppose you also want a share of the bounty?” Enos said. “Seems to me, you callin’ us simpleminded is like the pot callin’ the kettle black.”
“The reward is all yours.”
Again the four manhunters looked at one another. Tony Fabrizio remarked, “I have never met a man who has no interest in money. Why else would you want to go along?”
“Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies.”
Enos was frowning. “You worry me, Eli. It’s too much to ask you to explain, is it?”
Eli couldn’t if he wanted. The words would choke off in his throat. His humiliation ran bone deep. So did his craving for revenge. “Do you want to hear about me or the Hoodoos?” He did not wait for an answer. “I happen to know Kid Falon has taken a shine to a certain saloon gal and pays her a visit every chance he gets. I know where the saloon is. I know the name of the saloon. And wherever you find him, the rest of those bastards are bound to be.”
Enos was quick to see the possibilities. “We could lie in wait for ’em and pick ’em off like buffs from a blind.”
Eli nodded. “Five of us and five of them. We each choose one and blast away. All I ask is that Brock Alvord is mine. Do we have a deal?”
“And there is nothing you want in exchange?” Tony asked. “Nothing at all?”
Eli remembered a trading post he had stopped at on his trek west. The owner kept the pickled hand of a hostile who once tried to scalp him in a jar and displayed it for all to see. “I’d like Brock Alvord’s ears.”
“What in the world for?” asked Melissa.
Enos dismissed her question with a wave. “Who cares so long as he helps us find the Hoodoos?” He extended his hand. “We have a deal, Brandenberg. And you know me. I’m as good as my word.” He leaned toward Eli. “So tell me. Where is this saloon at?”
“Painted Rock.”
Northeast Colorado Territory
Ubel Gunther was not one to complain, but he had reached the point where if he never rode another horse for as long as he lived, it would be too soon to suit him. His lower back ached constantly, and his right foot was sore from where one of the pack animals had stepped on it when he was stripping the packs off.
Ubel’s associates were in worse shape than he was. Hans, Oscar, Rutger, and Arne were not used to riding for weeks on end. All four were as stiff-legged as brooms at the end of each day and could not sit down without wincing. Oscar was the worst. He needed to place a folded blanket between his buttocks and his saddle or he could not ride at all, and at night he had to lie on his side because sitting up straight was torment.
Most frontiersmen would have been amused at their expense, but Trask merely offered to make an Indian potion that would soothe their sore muscles. Ubel politely declined. To him, using the potion would be a sign of weakness, evidence he and the others were not tough enough to endure petty discomforts. Then, too, he did not trust anything “In dian.” That included the tracker.
Trask was not a typical breed. The ones Ubel had encountered at Radtke’s boarding houses and gambling dens were temperamental, explosive men who turned violent at the drop of an insult. Men who looked down their noses at everyone because everyone looked down their noses at them.
Not Trask. He was always as calm as the prairie when no wind was blowing. His self-control was superb. It was impossible to gauge his feelings by his expression. The man would make a great poker player, but by his own admission he never gambled. He also hardly ever imbibed strong spirits, another atypical trait.
Ubel prided himself on his ability to read people with the same ease he read a newspaper, but Trask baffled him. The times he tried to engage Trask in conversation, the tracker was as laconic as a Spartan.
Now, under yet another burning midday sun, Ubel brought his mount up next to the half-blood’s piebald. “How far behind them would you say we are?”
Trask answered without taking his eyes off the plain ahead. “The same as the last time you asked. About two days, a little less.”
“Can’t we push on and overtake them sooner?”
“Sure. And tire out our horses. So if they catch wind of us, they’ll leave us eatin’ their dust. If you’re not happy with how I do my job, say so.”
“Have I complained once this whole time? Your skill is everything we were told it was.” Ubel was mystified by Trask’s uncanny ability to read sign where there did not appear to be any. Their fifth day out, an afternoon thunderstorm disgorged a torrent of heavy rain, erasing the hoofprints they had been following. Or so it seemed to Ubel’s untrained eye. But Trask pressed on, and the next morning they came on the charred embers of a campfire made by Fabrizio’s party. Ubel never doubted the breed’s ability after that.
“They’ve been headin’ northeast for several days now. Makin’ for Eli’s, unless I miss my guess.”
“Where?”
“Not a ‘where’—a ‘who.’ Eli Brandenberg sells liquor and trade goods. He has the only waterin’ hole for hundreds of miles.”
“Is he a friend of yours?” Ubel entertained hopes of sleeping in a bed for a change. He would pay good money for the privilege.
“Hardly. He can’t stand Indians or breeds. I never buy supplies from him.” Trask rested his Spencer across his pommel. He always rode with the rifle in one hand, his reins in the other. “But he might know where Fabrizio is bound if you ask him real polite.”
“Leave that to me.” Ubel let a minute go by before he brought up what else was on his mind. “Have you given my offer more thought?”
“No need. My answer is still the same. I’m a tracker, not an assassin. I won’t take part in killin’. Told you that before we left Denver.” Trask looked at him. “I’ve been open and honest with you from the beginnin’, which is more than I can say about you. You fed me the notion we’re after a pack of city dwellers. But I know better. One is a buffalo runner.”