Ralph Compton - Blood and Gold

Lila picked up her cup gingerly, holding it with her thumb and forefinger by the rim. “The farm has been my dream and Pa’s dream for months,” she said. “I can hardly believe it soon will come true.”

I tossed away my cold cigarette butt. “Best we get moving,” I said.

Thirty minutes later we took to the trail again, but this time I rode the black, scouting just ahead of the wagon.

The sun was straight above my head and the day was warm when the three riders came.

And there was no mistaking the huge, yellow-haired man who rode grimly at their head, a scoped rifle across the horn of his saddle.

It was Lafe Wingo.

Chapter 13

Wingo rode my paint, and he sat upright in the saddle, heavy-shouldered, his bold blue eyes taking in everything, missing nothing. He wore a soft, thigh-length buckskin shirt decorated with Cheyenne beadwork and gray pants tucked into expensive boots. The tooled gun belt around his waist carried a long barreled Colt with ivory handles and he affected the elegant mustache and Imperial worn by many Texas gunmen of the period. Wingo wore a silver necklace made of disks decorated with blue stones in the Navaho manner and his thick wrists were adorned with wide, hammered silver bracelets. A gold ring with a green gem glittered on the little finger of his left hand.

He looked well-nourished and sleek, a man used to the best bonded whiskey, fine cigars and beautiful women.

Cold-blooded murder paid well, though I could understand why a man with his expensive tastes would need the thirty thousand dollars he’d been so willing to kill to acquire.

Gold and blood. The two so often went together, all summed up in this one killer.

Lafe Wingo reined up when he was a few yards from me, looked me up and down, and I saw his lips curl as he mentally dismissed me as no danger.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked, the challenge in his voice unmistakable. “You’re way off your range, ain’t you, puncher?”

I wanted badly to kill this man, but he had moved the muzzle of his rifle so it was pointing right at my belly. I could shuck a gun fast, but all Wingo had to do was twitch his trigger finger and I was a dead man. The odds were against me and right now all I could do was bide my time.

Behind Wingo a tall man in a black shirt and cowhide vest sat bent over in the saddle. I couldn’t see his face but the bottom half of his shirt was dark with crusted blood and I heard him groan in pain.

Beside the wounded outlaw rode a tall, red-bearded man with thick, untamed eyebrows and penetrating black eyes. He carried a Colt in a cross-draw holster, and unlike Wingo, this man wasn’t underestimating me. His careful eyes watched me like a hawk on the prod and right there and then I decided this man could be even more dangerous than Wingo.

The blond gunman was waiting for my answer, so I swallowed my anger and jerked a thumb over my shoulder, playing the green puncher to the hilt. “Name’s Dusty Hannah and I’m escorting a wagon down to the Brazos country.”

Wingo was suddenly interested. “Wagon? What kind of wagon?”

I shrugged. “Four-wheeled farm wagon hauled by a team of oxen.”

Wingo nodded. “They call me Lafe Wingo.” He paused, shrewd eyes boring into mine. “Mean anything to you, boy?”

I shook my head at him. “No. Should it?”

The realization came to me then that Wingo, with the hired killer’s total disregard for his victims, didn’t recognize me. He had shot me at a distance, then up close had kicked me in the ribs, but to him I’d been another faceless, nameless nonentity who’d fallen to his gun.

“My name means much to many people in many places,” Wingo said, his gunman’s pride wounded. “I guess you’ve led a sheltered life.”

He nodded to the man slumped in the saddle. “This here is Hank Owens. He’s gut-shot and I don’t expect him to live.” He jutted his chin toward the bearded man. “That’s his brother Ezra. We had a run-in with Apaches last night and Hank was gut-shot and Charlie, another brother, was killed.”

Alone among Indians, Apaches usually chose not to fight at night, believing that a warrior unfortunate enough to get killed must wander for all eternity in darkness. But the Apache is notional, and he’ll fight in the dark if put to it, especially if he senses an advantage.

My life depended on me playing the part of the innocent young puncher, so I looked at Ezra and said: “I’m mighty sorry about your brother, mister.”

The man shrugged, his black eyes unreadable. “Charlie was all right. Had him a limp and he talked too much was all.”

Hank Owens groaned. He lifted his head and looked at Wingo. “Lafe, you got to get me to a doctor. My belly’s on fire.”

Wingo turned to the man and smiled. “We got a wagon for you to ride in, Hank. I reckon we can make you right comfortable.”

“Where are you headed?” I said, knowing what the answer would be as soon as I asked the question.

“Why, where you’re headed, boy. I guess the Brazos country is as good as anyplace else and we may need an extry rifle before we’re done,” Wingo answered. He smiled, his eyes mean. “That is, if you can hit anything with a rifle.”

“I do all right,” I said, refusing to be baited. My eyes slid to my saddlebags slung behind Wingo’s blanket roll and the man, missing nothing, demanded suspiciously: “You got something stuck in your craw, boy? If you do, spit it out.”

I shook my head at him. “No, I was just admiring your paint. Nice pony.”

Wingo’s suspicions were not laid to rest. “You mind your business, boy,” he said. “That is, if you want to keep on breathing.”

Lafe Wingo was a trouble-hunting man and right now he held all the aces, so I bit my tongue and said nothing.

Figuring he’d intimidated me enough, the gunman asked: “Where’s your wagon?”

“Back along the trail a ways,” I answered.

Wingo nodded. “Let’s go.”

With me leading the way, we rode up on the wagon a few minutes later.

Wingo’s eyes immediately moved to Ned Tryon and, with the skilled gunman’s sharp perception, saw him for what he was and dismissed him with a disdainful curl of his lip.

Not so with Lila.

She had removed her cloak and the shameless wind was busily molding her dress to her legs and the womanly curves of her slender body. Her hair was tied back in a pink ribbon and her large, expressive eyes, when she looked at Wingo, revealed an odd mix of alarm and fascination.

For his part, Wingo leaned forward in the saddle and grinned. “Well, well, what have we here?” He brushed his sweeping mustache with the back of his finger and asked, his voice silky: “What’s your name, pretty lady?”

Something akin to jealousy flared in me. I didn’t want Lila speaking to this man, so before she could answer, I said: “This is Lila Tryon and her pa over there is Ned.” Then without really knowing why, I added: “They’re farmers.”

Wingo reared back in the saddle and let out a loud guffaw, and even Ezra’s grim mouth stretched slightly in a grudging smile.

“An’ I’m the king o’ Prussia,” Wingo roared. He nodded toward Ned. “Him, just maybe.” His hot, eager eyes moved to Lila. “But little lady, a fine-looking gal like you was never meant to walk a furrow behind a mule’s butt.”

The blond gunman’s insolent, experienced gaze slowly took in Lila from the top of her head to her shoes. I could tell he was undressing her in his mind as he went, stripping her naked garment by garment, anticipating.

And Lila felt it.

Her cheeks flushed and she snapped: “Nevertheless, my father and I are farmers and we can think of nothing we’d rather do than plow our own land.”