'They all end up the same color in the end.' He mutters to himself.
'What?'
He came here to get the money. Why not go and get the money? Nobody is defending the money now. Maybe the Mexican never put the money there in the first place, but it wouldn't hurt to look. He just needs to get rid of Wilson.
Logan drags himself to his feet. It hurts. Not as much as he expected, but it does hurt. He staggers a bit as his weakened ankle protests. Wilson grabs the back of his shirt to steady him.
'That's good. Do you think you could handle a horse.'
Logan tries to shrug and regrets it.
'Okay, we'll try it. Let's get you back to town and get someone to take a look at that shoulder.'
'Wait,' Logan says, 'shouldn't you go and see who that is over there?' He thinks if he can get Wilson to take a closer look at the Mexican then he might be able to sneak over to see if the money is there.
Wilson doesn't answer but glares at him and wafts the barrel of the gun in Logan's direction.
'That's a relief, for a moment there I thought you were going to be nice to me.'
'Pick up your gun and get yourself on that horse.'
Logan looks at the horse. It's Lake's horse. He considers pointing out that it isn't his horse, but that will just lead to him having to explain where the horse came from. He's killed a man and seems to be getting away with it, he thinks it's best not to get hung for stealing a horse instead.
He struggles into the saddle with only one arm. His eyes are watering from the pain in his shoulder that is getting steadily worse.
'Let's go.' Wilson swings himself easily up into his saddle. He still has his gun in his hand.
Logan looks at the two dead men spread out in the sun. He hears the horse he stole shuffling in the trees where he tied it up. Will anyone come back here to find that horse? Even if they find the bodies, would they realize there was a horse back there? He can't bear the thought of the horse dying of thirst in the sun because he left it tied up.
'My horse,' he says. 'We can't leave it.'
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Behind the locked door everything seems very quiet. She can hear muffled conversation outside but can't make out the words clearly. The office appears only to have a small high window as though it was designed to be used a gaol cell.
She pulls the note from her skirt and unfolds it hurriedly, worried in case Humby should come back suddenly.
'Your friends will help you. M.' reads the note.
She still doubts a little that she has friends, but one of them saw fit to send her this note. Perhaps one of them will help her get away from Humby.
She sits still, listening for the muffled sounds from outside, but there are none. Humby must have gone. Is McLaren still there? With any luck he'll fall into a drunken sleep and she can sneak away. Apart from, of course, the small matter of the locked door.
She is wondering idly what her friends might be able to do to help her and staring at the desk in front of her when she realizes that Humby may have made a mistake. He has locked her up, but not just anywhere, in his own office. All this paperwork is his. There might be something here that she can use against him.
She starts to rummage around the pieces of paper on the desk. They are reports from the mine. Nothing interesting at all. A hand-written report describing something to do with a collapse. Nothing really in that either. Perhaps he keeps the juicy stuff in the drawers.
She starts to open drawers of the desk. One has a bottle of whiskey and some glasses. Another contains more pages and pages of numbers from the mine. The next drawer just contains money. Quite a lot of money. She takes some and tucks it in the pocket in her skirt. Then she takes a bit more. And then she sees that, at the bottom of the drawer, where the money had been, there is a key. Surely that can't be the key for the door?
Too excited to shut the drawer, she rushes over to the door to try the key in the lock.
Careful now. Don't alert McLaren. If he's asleep, he certainly seemed drunk enough to be ready to sleep, then she might be able to get out without waking him. She slips the key in and turns it. It stops. Is it the wrong key? Damn, it must be the key for a different door. In frustration she jerks at the key and it turns noisily. The door is open.
'Hey, how did you...?' McLaren turns round with a start as he hears the door open behind him. He has been sat with his boots on Haskins's desk, the mud clear to see on the fastidious little man's blotter.
'I turned the handle of course.' She will talk at him, confuse him, if she can muddle him for long enough perhaps her friends will help her. She hides the key in her pocket. 'You don't think Mr. Humby actually locked me in there do you?'
'I saw him do it, he...with the key...I saw.' McLaren frowns and stares at the open door accusingly.
'He pretended of course. It wouldn't do for him to be locking up a woman he was trying to marry now would it.'
'He said the judge would force you to do it.'
'And you believe that? What do you think the judge would say if you told him you wanted to marry one of the girls from the saloon whether she wanted to or not? Do you think he'd force her?'
'That's different,' he insisted, but his face betrayed that he was struggling to put together why it would be different. The alcohol was making his thinking rather foggy. 'And that's not the point. He said you should stay in there and that I was to make sure you stayed in there. So you get back in there and stay in there.' He swung an arm expansively to indicate that she should go back into the office.
'You always do what he says don't you?'
'He's the boss.' He smiles. On safer ground now. No thinking required. Mr. Humby is the boss.
'That surprises me. I mean, the way he treats you and all.' She has come up with a plan to take advantage of McLaren's whiskey-slowed mind. 'That business with the dam.' She shakes her head theatrically.
'There was gold there. You built the dam anyway. And you dynamited my house.'
'You're not the only who thinks that's what happened. That's what everyone was supposed to think had happened. That's what Mr. Humby wanted everyone to think.' She pauses to let the idea sink in.
'Get back in there.' McLaren says suddenly, realizing that he's being confused.
'No, wait just a minute. There's a document in there that I think you'll find makes really interesting reading. Mr. Humby has written down the whole thing, right down to the bit where he hired someone to put dynamite in your house to make it look like it was me.'
'I don't want to read no document.' The panic in his eyes was there only briefly but it betrayed him. It can only mean one thing. He cannot read.
'I'll fetch it for you,' she continues, ignoring him, knowing that she can now safely claim that the hand-written report says anything at all.
She puts it down in front of him and is startled for a moment when he does a very good job of theatrically reading it. Her instincts are right though, and when he puts it back down he is clearly still unaware that the paper is just a report of a mine cave-in.
'He hired someone to dynamite my house?' he says.
'He was trying to make me look bad. He didn't care about you. Didn't you read there the bit where he says not to worry if you get blown up or not. He even says it might be better if you were killed.'
'I can't believe it. This must be some sort of trick. Did you write this?'
'Don't you recognize Mr. Humby's handwriting?'
He shakes his head slowly. The whiskey isn't helping. She is getting through though.
'Why don't you ask him?'
'He's here?'
'No, he went to fetch the Judge, but you could go after him.'
McLaren stands up. He sways a little and catches himself on the desk.