had taken the wrong trail. This one led nowhere, if he recollected correctly. It would take them half a day to cross south over the ridges between them and the pass that led to the great inner valley of the Cibola Range. There they could get reinforcements and resupply at Datil, or further on at Horse Springs.
Provided, of course, that Smoke Jensen didn’t get there first and tie up with some local guns. That could get nasty. The heavy breakfast the sheriff had eaten rumbled in his gut. Oh, lord, all he needed was to work up a burnin’ stomach. Those damned traps set out by Jensen had cost them half a day. Just thinking about them put him in a stew.
“Herkermer, I want you to round up a dozen of the
boys and take the shortest route to Cristoforo Pass. I got me a feelin’ we’re in the wrong part of the Cibolas.”
“The trail led us northwest,” Herkermer protested. “Besides, the shortest way is the longest. All them ridges to climb.”
“You’ll pick up speed goin’ down the other sides,” Reno snapped back.
“What’ll you be doing in the meantime?”
“Look, Herkermer, I’m runnin’ this posse, not you. We’ll be havin’ a look-see at this trail; the canyons yonder link up, make for hard goin’, but a body can get through. We have to be certain which way Jensen went. Then we’ll join you in Datil. I’ve a hunch Jensen is makin’ for the main part of the range.”
“He’d sure have to know a hell of a lot about the country for him to figger that out,” Payne Finney said obstinately, the pain in his side making him more irritable than usual.
“What’s to say he don’t have a map, you ninny? Those buckshot holes is makin’ you dizzy-headed. Truth to tell, you ain’t in fit condition to ride with us. I think I’m goin’ to send you back to Socorro with a message for some certain gentlemen.”
“Our mutual employers, you mean,” Payne prompted nastily. “Suits me. I ain’t feelin’ all that whippy, no how.” “You tell ’em where we are and what we’re doin,” came the sheriff’s command.
You ’re splittin’ the posse, an’ makin’ a fool of yerself, Payne Finney thought silently. He knew only too well how damned dangerous Smoke Jensen could be. Goddamn you, Smoke Jensen , Payne Finney vowed to himself, I’m gonna fix your clock sure as shootin’.
* * *
Geoffrey Benton-Howell and his partners already knew of the fiasco in the jail. Miguel Selleres and Dalton Wade fumed, while Geoffrey Benton-Howell tried to calm his partners and get some positive thoughts out of them about a bit of news just delivered. The bearer of the good tidings, Axel Gundersen, watched the two would-be tycoons vent -their spleens with mild amusement. At last, he spoke into the silence after their tirade.
“ Ja , sure, Sir Geoffrey, it’s exactly like I say. The gold is there, true enough, hufda . Make no mistake about that. Some of it is exposed on the surface. The problem is getting it out.”
Miguel Selleres rounded on him. “ Hijo de la chingada! Make sense, Señor ! Didn’t you just say that gold was to be found on the surface? What’s to make it difficult getting it out?”
Gundersen drew a straight face and called on his ample knowledge of English idiom. “About eight hundred angry White Mountain Apache warriors, ja sure.”
“Ah . . . ummm, yes, Miguel. There is a small difficulty to get around the Apaches.”
“What’s the problem in that?” Dalton Wade snapped. “The gold is on their land,” Geoffrey Benton-Howell reminded his listeners.
“Land they’ve got no goddamned right to,” Wade thundered. “What do those stupid savages know about gold?”
Benton-Howell tried a soft approach. “That we white men desperately want the yellow rocks, as they call the gold. That we go absolutely mad over possessing it.”
Wade’s lip curled downward in a parody of a pout. “There you go. To those stinking Apaches, they are just rocks. If people can’t appreciate what they
Provided, of course, that Smoke Jensen didn’t get there first and tie up with some local guns. That could get nasty. The heavy breakfast the sheriff had eaten rumbled in his gut. Oh, lord, all he needed was to work up a burnin’ stomach. Those damned traps set out by Jensen had cost them half a day. Just thinking about them put him in a stew.
“Herkermer, I want you to round up a dozen of the
boys and take the shortest route to Cristoforo Pass. I got me a feelin’ we’re in the wrong part of the Cibolas.”
“The trail led us northwest,” Herkermer protested. “Besides, the shortest way is the longest. All them ridges to climb.”
“You’ll pick up speed goin’ down the other sides,” Reno snapped back.
“What’ll you be doing in the meantime?”
“Look, Herkermer, I’m runnin’ this posse, not you. We’ll be havin’ a look-see at this trail; the canyons yonder link up, make for hard goin’, but a body can get through. We have to be certain which way Jensen went. Then we’ll join you in Datil. I’ve a hunch Jensen is makin’ for the main part of the range.”
“He’d sure have to know a hell of a lot about the country for him to figger that out,” Payne Finney said obstinately, the pain in his side making him more irritable than usual.
“What’s to say he don’t have a map, you ninny? Those buckshot holes is makin’ you dizzy-headed. Truth to tell, you ain’t in fit condition to ride with us. I think I’m goin’ to send you back to Socorro with a message for some certain gentlemen.”
“Our mutual employers, you mean,” Payne prompted nastily. “Suits me. I ain’t feelin’ all that whippy, no how.” “You tell ’em where we are and what we’re doin,” came the sheriff’s command.
You ’re splittin’ the posse, an’ makin’ a fool of yerself, Payne Finney thought silently. He knew only too well how damned dangerous Smoke Jensen could be. Goddamn you, Smoke Jensen , Payne Finney vowed to himself, I’m gonna fix your clock sure as shootin’.
* * *
Geoffrey Benton-Howell and his partners already knew of the fiasco in the jail. Miguel Selleres and Dalton Wade fumed, while Geoffrey Benton-Howell tried to calm his partners and get some positive thoughts out of them about a bit of news just delivered. The bearer of the good tidings, Axel Gundersen, watched the two would-be tycoons vent -their spleens with mild amusement. At last, he spoke into the silence after their tirade.
“ Ja , sure, Sir Geoffrey, it’s exactly like I say. The gold is there, true enough, hufda . Make no mistake about that. Some of it is exposed on the surface. The problem is getting it out.”
Miguel Selleres rounded on him. “ Hijo de la chingada! Make sense, Señor ! Didn’t you just say that gold was to be found on the surface? What’s to make it difficult getting it out?”
Gundersen drew a straight face and called on his ample knowledge of English idiom. “About eight hundred angry White Mountain Apache warriors, ja sure.”
“Ah . . . ummm, yes, Miguel. There is a small difficulty to get around the Apaches.”
“What’s the problem in that?” Dalton Wade snapped. “The gold is on their land,” Geoffrey Benton-Howell reminded his listeners.
“Land they’ve got no goddamned right to,” Wade thundered. “What do those stupid savages know about gold?”
Benton-Howell tried a soft approach. “That we white men desperately want the yellow rocks, as they call the gold. That we go absolutely mad over possessing it.”
Wade’s lip curled downward in a parody of a pout. “There you go. To those stinking Apaches, they are just rocks. If people can’t appreciate what they
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