Luke's Gold by Charles G. West

strangers, Thompson reached down and eased his .44 in the holster. He kept his eye on the approaching rider as the yards between them decreased to the point where he was able to make out the man’s features. All he could really tell at that distance, however, was that the man had bushy whiskers that appeared to be a beard gone wild.
    A sense of caution suddenly caused Thompson to look behind him. Caution turned to concern when he discovered two riders on the trail behind him, moving along at his pace. Concern now replaced by alarm, he looked around him, seeking some avenue of escape. There was none, for that stretch of river was treeless and slashed with narrow gullies that ran down to the water. Maybe just coincidence, he thought. Might not be what it looks like . He was not convinced. There was nothing he could do but keep riding and hope he was wrong.
    â€œMornin’ to you, sir,” Lem Snider called out as he drew up even with Thompson.
    â€œMorning,” Thompson replied curtly, and continued to ride past.
    Snider wheeled his horse and trotted up beside Thompson again. “I just thought I’d better tell you there’s a lot of road agents along this way. Maybe you oughta be on the lookout.”
    â€œThank you for your concern,” Thompson replied guardedly.
    In the next instant, a rifle shot rang out. Thompson sat straight up for a second before keeling over to the side and dropping to the ground with a bullet in his back.
    â€œDamn you, Dawson,” Snider railed, “you coulda missed and hit me!”
    Bob Dawson smirked as he and Curly caught up to them. Looking down at the body, he said, “Hell, I couldn’ta missed from that distance. I didn’t see no reason to pussyfoot around with him.”
    â€œYeah, well, next time wait till I give a signal before you go blastin’ away.” Eager to examine Thompson’s wallet, Snider dismounted and rifled through the dead man’s coat pockets until he found it. “Hot damn!” he exclaimed triumphantly. “It’s just as fat as Belle said it was.”
    â€œFellers, we’ve done hit the mother lode,” Curly sang out as he searched through the packs on the mule. “Whiskey! Enough to drown in!”
    The three outlaws rummaged through Thompson’s possessions, scattering clothes and camping gear about in an effort to see everything the man carried. “We’ll take the horse and the mule,” Snider said. “Throw the saddle over the bank there.”
    â€œThat’s a fine-lookin’ saddle,” Dawson said. “I might wanna trade.”
    â€œHell,” Curly immediately responded, “what makes you think you get the saddle?”
    â€œShut up, both of you,” Snider said. “We don’t keep things somebody might recognize, like saddles and boots. Throw it over the bank.”
    â€œWhat about the damn horse?” Dawson countered. “Somebody might recognize his horse, and we’re keepin’ that.”
    â€œIt ain’t got no brand on it. Who’s to say we didn’t find it runnin’ wild? Look at the saddle. It’s got his damn initials on it.” One of these days I’m gonna throw the both of you over the damn bank and be done with you, he thought.
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    Following the Yellowstone River, it took Cade and Luke two and a half days to reach its confluence with the Big Horn. They camped at the site of Fort Pease, about seven miles below the Big Horn. There was nothing left of the fort but charred timbers. The army had abandoned it two years before, and the Indians had promptly set fire to it. To this point, there had been no sighting of Indians, nor did they expect any—at least not in any great numbers. Sitting Bull and about three hundred Sioux had reportedly fled to Canada in early May the year before, and Crazy Horse’s band had supposedly surrendered. Still Cade and Luke kept a wary eye open for scattered groups