“Victoria, it’s me! We’ve got to get out of here!”
She had the door open and was instantly in his arms. Longarm rushed into the room, grabbed his rifle and shotgun, then his saddlebags, and they took off running from the hotel.
Nogales was such a lawless town that a few gunshots did not arouse much attention. And maybe some of the Spanish gold coins were lying spilled around Hank Bass’s riddled body. Whatever the reason, Longarm and Victoria had no trouble getting to the livery and then riding hard out of town.
At daybreak, they stopped on a high, windswept ridge and gazed across twenty or thirty miles of desert toward Nogales and then on to Mexico.
Only then did Victoria ask, “What about the golden coins?”
“I was able to fill my pockets, but that’s all.” Longarm dug out one pocketful but kept the other. “Do what you want with them.”
“And what will you do with the ones you keep?” Victoria asked.
Longarm’s mind drifted back to Denver, and to Dolly. He recalled making a promise to that woman and said, “I think I’ll spend ‘em all in New Orleans.”
“I could go with you,” Victoria offered hopefully.
“Maybe next year, if you’re not married by then,” he said with a half smile as he reined north and put his horse into an easy gallop. “There’s always next year.”