The Last Days of Wolf Garnett (16 page)

Torgason lay exactly as he had the last time Gault had seen him. "No sign of the rifleman," Gault told him. "There's some tracks down by the cottonwood—three horses, maybe a mule. And these." He dug the cigarette stubs out of his pocket and showed them to Torgason.

The stock detective studied them with a weak grin. "I know what you're thinkin', but it's loco. Wolf Garnett's back at the New Boston graveyard."

"Somebody's back there. Identified as Wolf Garnett by Wolf's sister and two old pals. But I'd still like to see the man who smoked these cigarettes and bunked on Esther Garnett's sleepin' porch." He hesitated a moment, then asked, "Can you help me, Torgason?"

Torgason laughed silently. "I didn't think you came back all this way just to help a busted-up range detective. You and Wompler have got a sickness, Gault. But I'll make a bargain with you. Fix up my leg best you can, leave me a full canteen and promise to send me some help first chance you get—and I'll tell you what I know. It ain't much."

Gault nodded. "It's a bargain. Is the body in New Boston Wolf Garnett?"

"Far as I know. But I can't prove it." He closed his eyes and let his thoughts move through curtains of pain. "… Still, there's somethin' queer goin' on. It ain't like Esther Garnett to just pick up and quit that farm. She'd have to have good reason to do a thing like that."

"The gold?"

Torgason bared his teeth in what might have been a grim smile. "The longer I lay here, the less I think there's any gold. It was a fever in our brains—mine and Wompler's anyhow." He sighed to himself and tried to move his shattered leg.

Gault showed his disappointment. "Is that all you've got to tell me?"

"One more thing. When that farm wagon went into the river and Shorty Pike got his head busted, it was no accident. Oh, Shorty was pitched off the wagon seat, all right, and was throwed into the water. But he never hit no rock. That wasn't what caved in his head."

Gault squinted. "What did?"

"A piece of one of the bows that was holdin' up the wagon sheet. I found it wedged under the wagon box when I found the body. One end of the bow was bloody and it just fit the dent in Shorty's head."

"In the fall he could have been thrown against the bow; it could still have been an accident."

Torgason was shaking his head. "That broken piece of bow had been pulled out of the bracket, held by the busted end and swung with considerable strength."

Gault quietly considered the story and, for the moment, accepted it. "Why didn't you mention this at the time?"

"I work for the Association, and anything I find out is Association business. Anyhow, at the time I was still thinkin' about the gold. I figgered Esther Garnett seen her chance to get a bigger part for herself, so she yanked out that oak bow and smashed Shorty's head while he was in the water. It looked like she was doin' all of us a favor by gettin' Shorty out of the way… But since that time I've been layin' here thinkin'."

"Thinkin' what?"

"I've decided she didn't do it."

Gault stared at him.

"That
she
didn't do it," Torgason repeated. "The sheet was up; we don't know who was in the wagon besides her and Shorty." He watched the look of understanding come over Gault's face. "You've got me doin' it now," the detective said dryly. "Everywhere I look I'm beginnin' to see Wolf Garnett. Of course," he added quickly, "that's not the only way it could of happened."

Woodenfaced, Gault waited.

"It might just be that Wompler's suspicions about the sheriff are right. He could have caught up with the wagon as it went into the river and finished Shorty off hisself."

"Why would Olsen kill his posseman?"

"Maybe he was makin' it one less way to divide up the gold. You'd have to ask the sheriff about that."

It was late that afternoon when Gault overtook Wompler on the upper reaches of Cashe Creek. The former deputy's eyes were glittering with excitement, "I picked up their tracks almost an hour ago. They're up there somewheres…" He pointed toward the heavy timber that bordered the creek. "I've been figgerin' it out while you was away. The place where the gold escort was robbed ain't more than half a day from here. They must of hid the gold here along the creek somewheres, figgerin' to come back for it when some of the excitement wore off. That's what they're doin' now—goin' after that gold!"

Never a question about Torgason. Wompler's one thought was of the gold.

They were dismounted, leading their horses through the heavy underbrush, when the attack came. It hit with a fury that for a moment left them stunned. Within the close confines of the creekbottom the roaring of rifles was almost deafening. Bullets ripped through the weeds and brush like a slashing rain. One lead slug snatched the hat from Wompler's head and hurled it over the bank into the water. Another bullet nicked Gault's buckskin; the animal reared in panic, jerked its rein free and disappeared into the brush. But not before Gault had hauled his Winchester out of the saddle boot.

Wompler was shouting something, but the sense of what he was saying did not penetrate Gault's consciousness. He threw himself to the ground, scrambled to a thicket of sumac and fired at puffs of gunsmoke on the upper bank. He ducked again into the thicket and crawled upstream on his hands and knees. There was no sign of Wompler, but he saw the black gelding racing ahead of them and disappearing in the timber.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the firing stopped. Gault lay in what he hoped was a covered position, listening to the almost silent rustle of new leaves and, from some unseen place nearby, the furious cursing of Harry Wompler.

After a moment Gault called quietly, "Wompler, are you all right?"

"Fine and dandy," Wompler said in a cold rage. "There's a bullet hole in my leg, I lost my hat, and my horse ran off with my rifle."

"How bad are you hurt?"

"I'm still alive, but maybe not for long." Then, grudgingly, "Not bad, I guess."

It was hard to believe that either of them was still alive. Apparently, the rifleman on the upper bank had decided that they were dead, or at least out of action. From beyond a gaudy thicket of redbud, Gault heard someone say, "They're done for. Nobody could of lived through a crossfire like that."

Gault recognized the voice immediately; it belonged to young Deputy Finley. Then, from some unseen position to the right of the redbud, Sheriff Grady Olsen said flatly, "The horses lived through it." After a meaningful pause, he added, "We'll work our way down toward the water. Shoot anything that moves."

The sheriff of Standard County had declared himself. He was a murderer. He had sent an ambush, the single aim being to kill Wompler and Gault. It was not easy for Gault to believe—but it was a fact, harsh and ugly, and it was not likely to go away.

Slowly, like a bull buffalo rising up in a mud wallow, Grady Olsen rose up in a stand of pale green weeds. His rifle was to his shoulder, the muzzle moving snakelike, back and forth, searching the creekbottom for the enemy. Until now Gault had not thought of himself as the sheriff's enemy. Antagonist, perhaps. Or opponent, in this dangerous game that they were playing. But it was no game now.

Not any more. Gault, gazing fixedly up through a curtain of underbrush, could see that rifle muzzle, like one-eyed Death, searching the creekbottom for
him
.

Moving with great care, Gault began actuating the lever of the Winchester and then realized that the hammer was already cocked and a cartridge in the barrel. Cautiously, planning the move inch by inch in advance, he brought the weapon to his shoulder.

From his hiding place, Wompler spoke anxiously, "Do you see him, Gault?"

"Yes." Not much more than a whisper.

"He's out of short-gun range. Have you got your rifle?"

"Yes. Be quiet now."

Apparently Olsen had not seen Gault's gunsmoke. Or, if he had seen it, he didn't know whether it was Gault or Wompler. For that matter, there was no reason for the sheriff to know that Torgason was out of action, unless he had been watching their backtrail. A dead horse didn't necessarily mean a dead rider.

"Gault." It was Wompler again.

"Be quiet."

"Over to the right of the redbud. I think it's Finley."

Gault turned his gaze to the right of the redbud but could see no sign of the deputy. There were a few moments of silence. Olsen was still scanning the creekbottom.

Then Wompler exploded again with suppressed anger. "What're you waitin' on? Kill him! With Olsen out of the way, Finley'll lose interest in the sport soon enough!"

"Shut up!" Gault said through clinched teeth.

Olsen's head came up, his eyes slitted. He made a slight movement with his right hand and then, completely unexpectedly, he ducked into the brush again and disappeared. Gault could hear Wompler cursing disgustedly, and this time he couldn't blame him. He had had Olsen dead in his sights. A slight pressure on the trigger would have removed the threat. And killed a man.

That was the trouble, Gault thought grimly. He was a cowman, not a killer.

Wompler was hissing again between his teeth. "Gault! Do you see him?"

Gault was instantly alert. He scanned the area on both sides of the redbud and saw the movement—a very slight one—where Wompler had seen the deputy. "Yes," he said. "All right. Just see if you can be quiet a while."

He could feel himself sweating. The ground was damp and cold, the air was fresh with springtime, with still an aftertaste of winter in it—but he was sweating. Olsen and the deputy were moving in closer with their crossfire pattern.

Over on Gault's right a clump of green mullein trembled. Was it a vagrant breeze mysteriously channeled across that particular part of the bottom, or was it a rifleman? Gault pushed his hat back and wiped his forehead on his sleeve.

"Gault," Wompler hissed. "Did you see that?"

"Be quiet."

For a time they lay like logs, and the creekbottom was silent. No breeze stirred the leaves on the trees or the weeds on the ground. It was an electric silence that set Gault's scalp to prickling. Then, in the midst of that silence, there was an eruption of sound. In Gault's startled ears it sounded as if a boulder had suddenly fallen out of the sky and was hurtling through the underbrush.

It had been a pebble, probably no larger than a man's thumb. Olsen, or possibly Finley, had thumped it into the brush to distract them. The ruse was as ancient as history's hunt—and it still worked.

It was Wompler, not Gault, who reacted first to the noise. He lurched up in the underbrush, swinging his .45 in a wild arc, firing shot after shot at the harmless undergrowth.

He died almost immediately. Olsen and his deputy fired at almost the same instant. For just a moment Wompler looked over at Gault, appalled to find himself at the center of that deadly pattern of fire. Then thunder rolled down through the bottom, and the former deputy fell back into a stand of weeds.

And that, Gault thought with an eerie bleakness is the end of Harry Wompler. And his frustrated ambitions. And dreams of riches.

This strange mood of disinterest had taken hold of him when he saw the bullets tearing into Wompler, and he was hardly conscious of firing the Winchester until he felt the stock leaping against his shoulder. As in a vaguely remembered dream, he saw the dead face of Deputy Dub Finley passing in front of his sights. Going down slowly, like a ship sinking. Or a tree falling. And that, Gault thought again—still in the grip of that eerie detachment—is the end of Deputy Finley. Pony hide vest, fancy pistols and all.

The numbness lasted only a moment. Wompler was dead and Finley was probably dead, but Olsen was still very much alive. Gault dived for the ground, and knives drove into his wounded side. He tried not to think of the pain. He brought up the picture of a stagecoach going off a mountain road—and the pain was tolerable. He could almost welcome it.

Olsen fired two well-spaced, thoughtful shots into the area where Gault had been, but by that time Gault had scrambled a dozen yards away through the undergrowth. There he crumpled to the damp ground, gasping for breath. He heard the bullets ripping through the weeds. One of the lead slugs struck a rock and went screaming off into the blue-gray afternoon.

For the moment he was helpless. The breath had been knocked out of him; he couldn't even raise his rifle to his shoulder. He did have his covering of tender green leaves, and Olsen still could not be sure whether he was alive or dead. After the two shots, Olsen had again ducked back into the lacy greenery out of sight. The echoing thunder of riflefire slowly died in the bottom. Again an expectant silence settled on the shady undergrowth.

Then Olsen spoke. One quiet, reasonable man speaking to another. "Gault, this is a lot of foolishness. And damn dangerous foolishness, at that. We can't do one another any good like this; what say we try to strike a bargain?"

Gault started to speak, then realized that that was just what Olsen wanted. It was no bargain that the sheriff wanted; he was hoping that Gault would give his position away. Gault inched his rifle to his shoulder.

"Gault," Olsen said threateningly, "you ain't got nothin' to gain by gettin' me sore. Just hold your rifle where I'll know you won't try to shoot me, and we can talk this thing out."

Gault smiled bitterly and gazed at the wall of weeds over the Winchester's sights. Where was the sheriff's voice coming from? On the upper bank somewhere, beyond the redbud. It was hard to tell, with both of them wrapped in blankets of greenery.

The long silence stretched into minutes. To Gault they seemed like hours. Then the sheriff spoke with a sigh, and for the last time. "Don't be a fool, Gault. What has happened has happened; there ain't no way you can change a thing."

Gault said nothing. He hardly dared to breathe. Then, after another long silence, he heard a quiet rustling in the weeds. Olsen was backing out of the creekbottom. He still couldn't be sure whether Gault was alive or dead; but he was pulling out just the same.

From somewhere in that pale green jungle there was the nervous stamping of a horse. After a moment the sound of hoofs faded away to the north. Soon there was no sound at all.