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  Looking back down at the shocked expression frozen onto Colonel Fuller’s bloodless face, Sam knew that Red Booker himself hadn’t been fully aware of what he was doing when he slashed a blade across the colonel’s throat. Now Booker would be even more dangerous in his dealings with Billy Odle. Booker wouldn’t realize it until it was too late, but the longer it took for him to end this hunt, the more desperate he would become.

  Sam turned his eyes to the weather, wondering if the snow had begun to slacken. Then he turned his eyes in the direction of the disappearing hoofprints—the same direction Willie John’s rifleshots had come from earlier.

  “Well, Willie John,” Sam said under his breath, “looks like you and I are going to get a chance at one another. But it ain’t going to be the way you planned it . . . me, neither, for that matter.” He stepped back up into his saddle and looked down again at the blood in the snow as he pushed the horse forward. “Billy boy, I sure hope you’re worth all this . . .”

  Over a mile ahead and up in the deep hill paths, Willie John led his dapple-gray instead of tiring it in the deep snow or taking a chance on laming the animal on what unsteady elements of rock lay beneath the thick snow. But up here the storm had waned a little, offering some partial view of the gray sky; and farther ahead toward the old ruins, Willie John could tell the snow had just about stopped falling altogether. He looked back down toward where he knew the Ranger was following. Then he shifted his gaze forward to where he expected Billy Odle would be turning upward about now. He hoped that in his eagerness to join him, Billy Odle wouldn’t risk his horse’s safety.

  Fifty yards farther up, Willie John stopped when he heard the faint sound of a voice drift upward from one of the lower paths. He halted and listened closely, until at length he heard the sound of horses. This was not the sound of Billy Odle’s lone horse the way he’d expected, but rather the sound of many horses. The animals were struggling up toward him through the deep drifts. He looked back along his path at his horse’s hoofprints. With the snow lessening, there was no way to hide his tracks. Somewhere out there Billy Odle was still trying to get up here, but Willie John couldn’t worry about that right now. For all he knew, Billy Odle could be with whomever was down there—Billy could even be leading them here, he thought. Willie John hurried his pace. This wasn’t at all what he’d had in mind.

  On the lower path, Nells Kroft’s horse slipped out from under him and lay thrashing in the snow, screaming long and pitifully, its foreleg broken and angled to one side, a silver of white bone showing through the skin. “Damn it to hell, Kroft!” Red Booker shouted. “Shut that animal up! You can hear it two miles off.”

  “But a gunshot would be worse,” Kroft offered in a worried voice, jerking his hat up from the snow and slapping it against his leg.

  The horse continued shrieking long and loud.

  Red Booker yanked the big knife from its sheath and flung it down in the snow at Kroft’s feet. “Shut it up now, Kroft!”

  Nells Kroft looked at the big knife and felt his stomach turn at the prospect of using it. “Oh Lord, Red, I never . . . I mean, I couldn’t just take that and—”

  “Jesus Christ!” Red Booker cursed. His Colt flashed up from his holster and exploded. The horse’s head fell to the snow, its screams silenced. “There, now we’ve tipped our hands to anybody up there!” He swung the barrel toward Nells Kroft, his thumb cocking it. Kroft’s cold face turned stark white in terror. He caught a quick mental image of Colonel Fuller lying dead in the snow back on the flatlands. The thought of it sent a dark chill up his spine.

  “Red, please!” Nells Kroft pleaded. “It weren’t my fault the horse went down! Give me another chance!” He backed up a step in the snow, seeing the hard killing look in Booker’s wide red-rimmed eyes.

  “I’m tired of giving men chances they don’t deserve.” Red Booker aimed the pistol at Nells Kroft, tightening his grip on it.

  Beside Red Booker, Bernard Gift said with a blast of steaming breath, “Lord God, Red! Don’t kill him! Look at him . . . it’s Nells Kroft! He’s been with us from the get-go!”

  At the sound of Gift’s voice, Red Booker swung the pistol at him, the barrel only a couple of feet from Gift’s belly. “What is this, Bernard? Are you taking charge now?”

  “No, Red . . . please,” said Bernard Gift. “I’m just saying what we’re all thinking!” He jerked a nervous nod toward the men behind them. “You’re in charge . . . but damn, not if you’re going to start turning against your own men! Look at yourself. You were all set to kill Nells, and now me!”

  Red Booker calmed down, taking a deep breath and looking at the faces of the men, some of them sitting their saddles with one hand on their pistol butts.

  Red Booker raised the tip of his pistol barrel and uncocked it. He spit and ran a gloved hand roughly across his face as if ridding it of cobwebs. Without facing Nells Kroft, he said, “Kroft, get mounted. Let’s get going.”

  “Mounted on what?” Nells Kroft asked, his knees visibly shaking behind his trouser legs. He looked all around, gesturing with a trembling hand, his big eyes watering.

  “Mullins,” said Red Booker, “throw that kid off his horse and give it to Nells.”

  “Down you go, kid,” said Herbert Mullins. He reached out with his rifle butt and unseated Billy Odle. Then he jerked Billy’s horse forward by its bridle until it stood before Nells Kroft, saying with contempt, “There you are, fat man. Try to keep it between your legs.”

  “Obliged,” said Kroft, embarrassed, taking the reins and stepping up into the saddle.

  Herbert Mullins turned to Red Booker and added, “Red, if I can keep this bunch together for you, say the word. You’ve got enough on your mind trying to sniff that Injun out.”

  Red Booker just stared at him for a moment, then nodded. “Boys,” he said, “Mullins is going to be doing for me like I used to do for the colonel. Don’t give him any guff . . . just do what he tells you.” Booker looked at each man in turn, then down at Billy Odle in the snow as if for a second he’d forgotten about the boy.

  Mullins also looked down at Billy. Then he acted quickly, saying, “Kroft, you double up with the kid . . . you’re the one got his horse. Go on, hurry up. Red wants to get going.”

  “Not so fast, Mullins,” said Red Booker. His eyes riveted on Billy Odle as he stepped down slowly from his saddle. “It’s time this boy started earning his keep.” He stepped over and yanked Billy up by his coat collar. “I was going to keep you for the Injun when we got to him . . . but I reckon that dying horse and the gunshot changes things.” He held Billy with one gloved hand as he jerked a nod upward into the hills. “You know where he’s at up there, don’t you?”

  “No,” said Billy. “Cross my heart, hope to die. I don’t know where he is right now.”

  “But you know where he’s headed,” said Booker. “You hid him out before. He’s got a safe hole up there and you’re taking us to it, ain’t you, boy?”

  “No I—” Billy’s voice stopped as Red Booker backhanded him across the face.

  The men winced and looked at one another. Mullins saw their expressions and said, “So what? The little bastard deserves what he gets! Huh? Doesn’t he?”

  The men avoided Mullins’s eyes, offering no agreement with him.

  Billy Odle spat more blood on the ground, then looked up at Red Booker with tears streaming down his cold bruised cheeks. “You can kill me . . . I ain’t telling. Willie John’s my friend.”

  “Hardheaded little shit!” Red Booker slapped him again, this time sending Billy flying, landing six feet away, again spitting out a mouthful of blood.

  Again the men grimaced and tightened their eyes and faces toward Red Booker. Booker stalked forward and loomed over Billy, snatching the big knife from its sheath again. “Boy, you will tell me what I want to hear, or I will take you apart one piece at a time, starting with your ears. You think the colonel was tough on you? You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

  Now, even Herbert
Mullins was getting nervous, seeing the expressions on the men’s faces as they watched Red Booker run a gloved thumb along the cruel knife blade. “Uh, Red?” said Mullins. “I believe I can get us up to where that Injun is. Don’t cut the boy . . . not yet, anyway. Like you said, we’ll most likely need him for bargaining.”

  “What makes you think you can find the Indian?” Red asked, letting his temper ease down a notch as he turned away from Billy Odle.

  “Well . . .” Mullins pointed upward into the gray sky, where it grew lighter along the high hill line. “It looks like the snow has let up there along the high trails. If we get up there pretty quick, we’ll see any tracks that Injun left. After all the noise we’ve made, it’d be best if we swung wide and came up on another path, too . . . in case that Injun is waiting on us.”

  Red Booker thought about it, looking at the faces of the men staring at him. He needed a chance to wind down, seeing the boy wasn’t about to tell him anything. He wasn’t sure how the men would take it, him doing any serious damage to this kid. “Jesus,” he murmured to himself. What had come over him, anyway? He was acting no different than Fuller. He’d have to be careful from now on not to let the boy get to him.

  Billy Odle picked himself up from the ground, spat out more blood and staggered toward Nells Kroft atop the horse. Kroft lifted him into the saddle and sat him in front of him. “You best keep quiet and go unnoticed, boy, if you know what’s good for you.”

  Red Booker stepped up into his saddle, then turned and looked at Billy Odle, his temper cooled some now, but still intent on making the boy tell where the Indian would be hiding out. “Think it over, kid,” Booker said. “When we get to the top, if we’ve got no tracks to follow, you better be ready to lead us on. If not, you ain’t worth us riding you double and wearing out a good horse.” He looked at the other men’s faces for any sign of support, but in the falling snow he wasn’t sure what he read in their eyes.

  As the horses turned off the path and headed farther around the side of the hill, Billy Odle leaned out one last time and spit blood down onto the turning hoofprints. Then he rubbed both hands in his eyes, drying them and saying over his shoulder to Nells Kroft, “Don’t worry mister, I ain’t causing no more trouble.”

  Chapter 23

  At the top of the path, Willie John had ridden his dapple-gray along the high trail, then circled off and stepped down from the saddle. He led the horse back to where he’d started, carefully looking for footing on the steep hillside. Once back at the top of the hill path, he put the horse out of sight between two stands of tall rock. He waited there with his cocked rifle until he heard the sound of hoofs seeking purchase at the edge of the trail. He steadied his rifle along the side of the rock and took close aim.

  Topping the edge of the path afoot, Sam clung to his horse’s tail and let the big animal help him upward. As soon as he had stepped up behind the horse and onto the snow-covered trail, Sam immediately felt eyes on him from somewhere in the snow-capped rocks. There were hoofprints along the trail ahead of him, but something told him they weren’t headed anywhere but off the trail a few yards up, before doubling back on him. He peered around the rocky hillside. Yep, sure enough . . . Willie John had jack-potted him. “Kid, I hope you’re worth it,” Sam murmured, losing track of how many times he’d said the same thing to himself throughout the day.

  But Sam stayed at ease, taking his time moving around the side of the horse, letting his hand fall to the butt of his big Colt while he kept the horse between him and the watching eyes. A few feet ahead of him, Sam saw the only rock alongside the trail large enough to provide him any cover. He moved closer to it, hoping he could fling himself forward at the last second before a gunshot ripped across the trail. As for his horse, he could only hope he had time to slap its rump and send it back down the slope below the trail. Just as Sam got ready to make his move, as if having read his mind, Willie John called out, “Don’t shoo the horse away, Ranger, you’re going to need it.”

  Sam froze, staring straight ahead, not toward Willie John’s voice, but listening hard for its direction. He’d managed to draw the Colt and cock the hammer. It hung down his thigh, his finger poised on the trigger. “You’re Willie John?” he asked, both he and Willie knowing it was a pointless question. Sam knew exactly who was looking down the gun sights at him. “Looks like you’ve got me cold, Willie John,” Sam added.

  “Don’t fool with me, Ranger,” said Willie, a warning in his voice that surprised Sam. “If I wanted you dead, you already would be.” Sam noted his voice had shifted to a different direction, a few feet to the left and higher up, behind one of the larger rocks, Sam thought.

  “Then what is it we’re doing, Willie John?” said Sam, still staring straight ahead, but with Willie John knowing full well that this Ranger was trying to locate him by the sound of his voice. “You know I’ve come to take you in, Willie John. What now?” Sam judged the distance to the rock in front of him; at the same time he tried to pinpoint the voice on the other side of the trail, getting ready to turn and throw lead at it.

  But Willie had moved again since he’d last spoke, back down to where he’d been a moment ago, again taking aim with the rifle against the rock. “They’ve got the boy, Ranger,” said Willie. “I thought you ought to know.”

  “Yep, I know it,” Sam replied. “That kid’s been leaving me a blood trail to follow ever since they overtook him. He even let me know when they took another path farther along. I hoped to get up here and get ahead of them. I believe that’s what Billy was telling me to do.”

  “A blood trail, huh? Is he all right, you think?” Willie sounded concerned

  “For now he is,” said Sam, his mind at work on how to turn this thing around and get the drop on the Indian. “It looks like he’s just sucking blood from a busted lip and spitting it out. He’s a clever young man to even think of doing such a thing. He’ll get by as long as he can . . . but let’s face it, when they get to where it’s up to him to tell them where you’re at . . . ?” Sam took a breath then finished, “I figure he’s got just enough gravel in him to die first.”

  “I think so, too.” Willie John let his hands relax on the rifle. Again a thin tight smile came to his lips. It was a smile built not of humor but rather of some strange sense of pride. “Damn crazy kid.”

  Sam noted the change in Willie’s tone of voice. He also noted that this time the Indian hadn’t shifted positions. Sam readied himself to turn and make his play. Willie John continued, “I reckon maybe he does have the makings of an outlaw after all.”

  “Is that what you want to see him do, Willie John?” Sam asked, taking a short slow step forward, just enough to swing the pistol clear of his horse when he took his shot. “You want to see him turn into an outlaw?”

  “It’s not up to me what he turns into,” said Willie, putting up a front of toughness regarding the boy.

  “No, I reckon not,” said Sam. Then he added, “No offense, Willie, but it doesn’t take much to be an outlaw . . . just a willingness to turn your back on everything and everybody who ever cared about you, and be willing to run until you run out of road.”

  “Look who’s talking, lawman,” said Willie John. “I’ve managed to stay alive all this time. I’m still calling my own shots.”

  “Really?” said Sam. “Then let’s get down to why you led me up here. And don’t deny it, you did put me on your trail.”

  “You’re out of your mind, Ranger.” Willie John dismissed the thought. “But the fact is, those possemen will kill that boy if something ain’t done to stop them.” As he spoke he noticed the slightest movement of Sam’s hand, and he said hurriedly, his voice turning cold again, “Don’t do it, Ranger. You won’t be the first one who thought they caught me napping. I don’t want to have to kill you yet . . . but don’t push it.” That was close, Willie thought, seeing the Ranger’s pistol relax back down his thigh. This Ranger was good, Willie warned himself. He’d have to stay on his guard with this one.

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nbsp; “What are you proposing, Willie John?” Sam asked. “Some sort of alliance? The two of us against the posse? It won’t work . . . I’m here to take you back. I’ll have to get Billy away from that posse myself.”

  “Just you, by yourself? What if you miss your chance, Ranger? There’s nobody up here but you and me. Don’t forget I’m the only one who knows the way to where Billy’ll take ’em. That’s if they don’t kill him first. And let’s face it, Ranger, if we don’t make a truce here pretty quick, only one of us is going past this spot in the trail.”

  “That’s how it looks then, Willie. The only way I’ll work with you is if you toss out the gun and give yourself up. Then you can take me where they’re headed . . . I’ll handle it from there.”

  “I was thinking more like you drop your gun. When it’s over I’ll give myself up,” said Willie John.

  “Not a chance in the world, Willie John,” said Sam. “See where that puts us?”

  There was a silence, followed by Willie John saying in a resolved voice, “Then it’s the kid who has to pay for us, Ranger. Is that it?” His hands turned steady on his rifle again, his eyes taking aim as he spoke.

  “That’s all I can give you, Willie John.” Sam took a breath and let it out slowly, knowing the talking was through. Now came the killing.

  “Then answer me one question—tell the truth on your word of honor,” said Willie John. “Did you mean it?” He felt his finger tightening on the rifle’s trigger, the center of the Ranger’s back locked in his sights.

  “Mean what?” Sam asked, readying his hand to make the swing and catch what sliver of a target the Indian’s face would offer.

  “That you would take me in if I threw out my rifle and helped you find the kid? Was that the truth? You’ve been on my trail all this time, just to take me in?”

  Sam thought about it for a moment, then raised his pistol slowly, only to lower it into his holster and turn to face the snow-capped rocks with his hands rising chest-high. “I was lying telling you that. We both know what I came here to do.” He leveled his gaze toward Willie John. “Was it true you’d have given yourself up after the kid was safe?”