The Fire of Greed by Bill Yenne Page B

stay long in one place.
    â€œGuess you didn’t like your supper,” Cole’s hostess said, clearing his nearly spotless plate and interrupting his thoughts. “If you were lookin’ for the Dutchman, you don’t need to be waitin’ no more.”
    She nodded toward a place in the corner of the room, and his eyes followed her as she delivered a glass of whiskey to the table.
    The Dutchman was a stocky, powerfully built man with close-cropped gray hair and a large gray mustache cut short on the two sides. He had sharp eyes, which instantly picked up on Cole’s looking at him.
    Cole tossed several coins on the bar and stood. The Dutchman watched as the bounty hunter approached his table.
    â€œEvening, sir,” Cole said politely. “I hear that you’re the man they call the Dutchman.”
    â€œ
Ist Deutsch
, not ‘
Dutch
,’ but most people call me the ‘Dutchman.’ Ist my nickname, as it were,” he said without smiling.
    â€œI’m Bladen Cole,” he said, extending a hand.
    â€œOtto Geier,” the German said, taking Cole’s extended hand in his firm grip. “Please sit.”
    â€œThanks. I’m told you may have seen a couple of men I’m looking for.”
    â€œYou are a bounty hunter,” the Dutchman asserted. “You have that look.”
    â€œWhat look?”
    â€œThe look of a bounty hunter. What men are you seeking?”
    â€œTwo men with a pair of pack mules,” Cole explained. “They’re riding with a couple of others they met over in Santa Rita yesterday.”
    â€œWhat are they wanted for?” Geier asked. Screened through the sieve of a thick German accent, his English words were precise and clearly articulated.
    â€œRobbery . . . and murder,” Cole said, deliberately not mentioning the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe.
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œUp toward Santa Fe.”
    â€œNot a few of those who come to Luera are escaping such deeds,” the Dutchman said, shaking his head.
    â€œHave you seen ’em?”
    â€œ
Ja
. The men you describe were here today. They asked about the Dearing Diggings. They were not the first, and they will not be the last.”
    â€œWhat did you tell them?”
    â€œI told them where to look.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œIn the Mogollons,” he said, nodding his head toward the southwest. “Across the mountains, into the Sierra Blanca, in the headwaters of the Gila River. Are you looking for the men or the gold? You seek the men to fulfill your contract, but your imagination ist tempted by the lure of treasure.”
    â€œI’d be a liar to deny it,” Cole admitted. He knew that his expression betrayed the desire that engulfs all men when they are offered stories of nuggets the size of turkey eggs.
    The Dutchman smiled the wry smile of someone who knows more than he tells.
    â€œIs it real?” Cole asked. “Do the Dearing Diggings exist?”
    â€œJa
.
”
    â€œYou’re sure?”
    â€œI have with my own eyes seen this gold.”
    â€œWhy haven’t
you . . . ?
    â€œOnly two kinds of men imagine that they will come back from the Dearing as rich men . . . dead men and fools.”
    â€œApaches?”
    â€œApaches and terrain,” the Dutchman said soberly. “
Und wolves . . .
angry packs of wolves which will tear a man apart. I barely escaped with my life. I will not go back.”
    â€œDid you explain this to the four men?”
    â€œNaturlich.”
    â€œGuess it didn’t stop them.”
    â€œThey believe that there ist safety in numbers.”
    â€œWell, I guess that I’ll be needing to ask you for the same directions,” Cole said. “I believe I’ll take a chance on catching up before they get to the part of the trail that’s patrolled by wolves.”
    â€œWho was it that was murdered?” Geier asked.
    â€œJust a