"Load him into a wagon," Sharp insisted. "If you don't have one, I'll send one up, and enough men to load him up."
Fetchen backed off. "I'll see. I"ll talk to him," he said.
Right at that moment I figured him for the most dangerous man I'd ever known. There'd been talk about his hot temper, but this man was cold - cold and mean. You could see it in him, see him fighting down the urge to grab for a gun and turn that branding fire into a blaze of hell. He had it in him, too, only he was playing it smart. And a few moments later I saw another reason why.
Moss Reardon, Cap Rountree, and Galloway had come up behind us, and off to the left was Kyle Shore.
Fetchen's gang would have cut some of us down, but not a one of them would have escaped.
Russ Menard looked at me and smiled. "Well meet up, one of these days."
"We can make it right now," I said. "We can make it a private fight."
"I ain't in no hurry."
James Black Fetchen looked past me toward the chuck wagon. "Judith, your pa wants you. You comin'?"
"No."
"You turnin' your back on him?"
"You know better than that. When he comes down to Mr. Sharp's, at Buzzard Roost, I'll be waiting for him."
The Fetchens went to their horses then, Russ Menard taking the most time. When he was in the saddle, both hands out in plain sight, he said, "Don't you disappoint me, boy. I'll be hunting you."
They rode away, and Tom Sharp swore softly. With the back of his hand, he wiped sudden sweat from his forehead. "I don't want to go through that again. For a minute there, anything could have happened."
"You sleep with locked doors," Galloway said, riding up. "And don't answer no hails by night. That's a murdering lot."
The rest of the roundup went forward without a hitch. The cattle were driven in from the hills and we saw no more of the Fetchens, but Costello did not come down from the hills. Twice members of the gang were seen close to the Spanish Peaks. Once several of them rode over to Badito.
The roundup over, Rodriguez announced a fandango. That was their name for a big dancing and to-do, where the folks come from miles around. Since no rider from the Fetchen crowd had come down to claim the beef that still wore their brand over the Half-Box H, it was slaughtered for a barbecue ... at least, the three best steers were.
Rodriguez came around to Galloway and me. "You will honor my house, Senores? Yours is a name well known to me. Tyrel Sackett is married to the daughter of an old friend of mine in New Mexico."
"We will come," I said.
Nobody talked much of anything else, and Galloway and me decided we'd ride down to Pueblo or up to Denver to buy us new outfits. Judith was all excited, and was taking a hand in the planning.
We rode off to Denver, and it was two weeks before we got back, just the night of the big shindig. The first person we saw was Cap Rountree.
"You didn't come none too soon," he said. "Harry Briggs is dead ... dry-gulched."
Chapter 13
It had been a particularly vicious killing. Not only had Briggs been shot from ambush, but his killers had ridden over his body and shot into it again and again.
There could be no doubt as to why it had been done. Briggs was a hard-working cowhand with no enemies, and he carried no money; of the little he could save, the greater part was sent to a sister in Pennsylvania. He had been killed because he rode for the Half-Box H, and it could just as easily have been any of the other hands.
And there was no doubt as to who had done it, though there didn't seem to be any chance of proving it. It was the Fetchen crowd, we knew. There was no other possibility. From the fragments of tracks found near the body, they could tell that more than one killer was involved; he had been shot with at least two different weapons - probably more.
"We've done some scoutin' around," Reardon told us. "The Fetchen riders have been huntin' around the Spanish Peaks. We found tracks up that way. Sharp figures they're huntin' the Reynolds treasure."
Ladder Walker was glum. "Briggs was a good man. Never done harm to nobody. I'm fixin' to hunt me some Fetchens."
"Take it easy," Reardon warned. "Those boys are mean, and they ain't about to give you no chance. No fair chance, that is."
Judith was standing on the porch when I rode up. "Flagan, I'm worried about Pa. All this time, and no word. Nobody has seen him, and the Fetchens won't let anyone come near the place."
I'd been giving it considerable thought, and riding back from Denver, Galloway and me had made up our minds to do something about it. The trouble was, we didn't know exactly what.
Nobody in his right mind goes riding into a bottle-necked valley where there's fifteen to twenty men waiting for him, all fixing to notch their guns for his scalp. And the sides of that valley allowed for no other approach we knew of. Yet there had to be a way, and one way might be to cause some kind of diversion.
"Suppose," I suggested, "we give it out that we've found some sign of that Reynolds gold? We could pick some lonely place over close to Spanish Peaks, let out the rumor that we had it located and were going in to pick it up."
"With a big enough party to draw them all away from the ranch?"
"That's right. It wouldn't do any harm, and it might pull them all away so we could ride in and look around."
We finally picked on a place not so far off as the Spanish Peaks. We rode over to Badito - Galloway, Ladder Walker, and me - and we had a couple of drinks and talked about how we'd located the Reynolds treasure.
Everybody for miles around had heard that story, so, like we figured, there were questions put to us. "Is it near the Spanish Peaks?" one man asked.
"That's just it," Galloway said. "Everybody took it for granted that when Reynolds talked about twin peaks he meant the Spanish Peaks. Well, that was where everybody went wrong. The peaks Reynolds and them talked about were right up at the top of the Sangre de Cristos. I mean what's called Blanca Peak."
"There's three peaks up there," somebody objected.
"Depends on where you stand to look at them. I figure that after they buried the loot they took them for landmarks - just looked back and saw only two peaks, close together."
"So you think you've found the place?" The questioner was skeptical. "So have a lot of others."
"We found a knife stuck into a tree for a marker, and we found a stone slab with markings on it."
Oh, we had them now. Everybody knew that Reynolds had told of thrusting a knife into a tree to mark the place, so we knew our story would be all around the country in a matter of hours. Somebody would be sure to tell the Fetchens, just go get their reaction.
"We're going up there in the morning," Walker said, making out to be drunker than he was. "We'll camp in Bronco Dan Gulch, and we'll be within a mile of the treasure. You just wait. Come daylight, we'll come down the pass loaded with gold."
Now, Bronco Dan was a narrow little gulch that headed up near the base of Lone Rock Hill, only three or four miles from the top of the rim. It was wild country, and just such a place as outlaws might choose to hide out or cache some loot. And it wasn't but a little way above La Veta Pass.
Anyway a body looked at it, the place made a lot of sense. La Veta Pass was the natural escape route for anybody trying to get over the mountains from Walsenburg to Alamosa, and vice versa.
Of course, they knew about the knife. That was the common feature of the stories about the Reynolds treasure - that he had marked the place by driving a knife into a tree. The stone marker was pure invention, but they found it easy to accept the idea that Reynolds might have scratched a map on a stab of rock.
That night Cap Rountree went up the mountain and hid in the brush where he could watch the Costello place, and when we arrived shortly after daybreak he told us the Fetchens had taken out in a pack just before daylight