A tremor took him from head to toe, and with an agonized sigh, he lay limp.
“He might be fakin’,” Stick growled, walking over and sighting the rifle down at Music’s chest. “Get up!” the gunman shouted. “I’ll shoot first, then search you!”
Music didn’t move.
Stick nudged him with the toe of a boot. Then the gunman stepped back and set aside his rifle and the horse trainer’s gun-belt. He removed his own guns, came back and kneeled beside the seemingly unconscious Music Stevens.
Stick’s bony hands slid under Music’s shirt and unfastened a money-belt.
“Only twenty-three bucks!” the bushwhacker exclaimed angrily. “Must have that thousand dollars hid somewheres else.”
After going through Music’s pockets, Stick Wiley turned to the horse trainer’s high-heeled boots. There was no caution in the outlaw. He evidently believed he could cope with an unarmed and wounded man easily in a rough-and-tumble fight. Stick jerked off Music’s right boot. The puncher didn’t move or cry out.
Settling back on his haunches, Stick peered into the boot with greedy eyes. And that was the bushwhacker’s one big mistake. For Music’s eyes opened, and as quick as dynamite, the horse trainer’s left leg flexed backward, then shot straight out. The heel of Music’s left boot caught Stick on the point of the chin and sent him floundering backwards.
Instantly Music was rolling over and over toward the six-guns that the outlaw had left not far away on the ground. Before Music got there, Stick Wiley was springing to his feet, dazed but alarmed. Music got a hand on his own bolstered weapon. He was jerking it free of the leather when Stick’s mind snapped into action. The bushwhacker’s hand darted into his red silk shirt.
Before Music could thumb back the hammer of his Colt, the outlaw’s hand reappeared with a deadly derringer. Flame blossomed from the derringer’s muzzle even as Music let his thumb go on the hammer of his own six-gun.
Stick’s bullet whistled past Music’s ear. The outlaw’s aim must have been thrown out by the kick on the chin. But Music’s bullet smashed the bushwhacker in the middle of the chest and hurled him backward with a death scream. The man fell hard, eyes never closing, boot toes curled. Music lay back to rest, a dark frown on his brow.
“It was his life or mine,” the horse trainer told himself. “He would have murdered me in the end. No doubt about it. First, he wanted the cash I put in the Saltville bank. Mebbe he figured I hid it on the trail. He sure had all the information about me except that bank account. But why did he want a bill of sale for the four buckskins? Did he plan to sell ’em in War Cry?”
Then Music remembered the dead man’s partner, Keno Strudder. A shiver of alarm went through the horse trainer. Where was Keno? What was he up to? Surely Stick and Keno had not parted company for good. They were the kind who worked hand-and-glove in crime.
“Is Keno guidin’ the nester wagons?” Music asked himself. “If he is, he’ll be along in a couple of days.”
As he lay resting, he tried to figure it all out. He put himself in the place of the outlaws and imagined what would be the best procedure to steal the buckskins and rob the Conestoga wagons. It was his sudden thirst for water that solved the puzzle. The emigrants would soon need water. Keno might send the men searching for nonexistent springs. That would leave the outlaw alone with the women. It would be an easy matter for him to loot the strong-boxes.
Music didn’t want to put his weight on his wounded leg, nor was it advisable to ride a bronc. He inched his way to his buckskin mount and, with the aid of a stirrup, pulled himself upward to stand on his good left leg. Unsaddling the mount, he spread his equipment in the shade of a cottonwood.
Slowly and painfully, Music worked all afternoon, fashioning an Indian travois out of saplings growing near the spring. The rig was nothing more than two long poles, the ends of which were to be attached to a saddle on his mount’s back, while the other ends dragged over the earth. Crosspieces were thonged to the saplings behind the bronc, so that Music would have a place to ride.
It was not until the next morning, however, that he was able to put the travois to good use. Then he transported Stick’s body to a crevice on the rocky butte behind the spring and buried the killer. Returning to camp, Music cleansed his wound and let the sun treat it as he took a nap. In addition to his own grub, he had acquired a large allotment from Stick Wiley, who had apparently made provision for two—Stick and Keno.
* * * *
That night, Music slept without fear of danger. All the next day he rested for his trip. He was figuring that the emigrants would travel about twenty-five miles per day, which now would put them about ten miles from the spring.
As the sun began to set, Music tried his weight on his wounded leg and found it not too painful. But walking any distance was out of the question. So was riding in the saddle.
Hiding his gear, he left his four buckskins and Stick’s mount to graze about the oasis. He took to the travois, dragged by his saddle cayuse. It was not difficult to guide his pony by lariat reins. Compass in hand, he started slowly eastward in the direction of Saltville. Soon the North Star gave him guidance from the magnetic section.
After five miles of travel, he sought a ridge of rock, and there he halted, peering into the eastern night. He was searching for firelight and found it. Not many miles distance there was the reflection of a campfire against a cone of land. Music watched it for long, making certain. Then he started toward the fire in his dragging rig.
It was getting on toward midnight when he halted and unfastened the poles of the travois. Laboriously he climbed into the saddle. Walking the bronc up a knoll, he looked across a half-mile of desert to the light of a campfire shining against the canvas of three Conestoga wagons.
“All right, Keno,” Music muttered. “I’m callin’ your gun hand.”
As Music drew close to the emigrant camp, a hound bayed in the night. Then other dogs took up the alarm. His bronc halted, and Music drew a six-gun.
He could see several women climbing out of the wagons. Their calls echoed. There were no men. Most likely, as he had figured, the men of the train had gone off searching for water. Now the women were expecting their return. The men would have been guided by the firelight.
The women quieted the dogs.
Slowly, gun in hand, Music came through the shadows to the edge of the camp.
“It’s a rider!” a girl called out, and Music recognized the voice of Marian Ellis.
Music halted, worried. He had expected to see Keno, but there was no sign of the man. But he didn’t doubt that the gunman was somewhere about. He might be waiting for Stick Wiley.
Keno certainly would not have gone off with the wagon men.
A cold grin flitted across Music’s lips, and he dismounted from his bronc.
“Who is it?” Marian’s voice called again. Music pursed his lips and began to whistle in a low sweet tone. It was his favorite violin piece—“Suwanee River.”
He saw Marian throw up her head like a wild colt. She hesitated, listening, then suddenly started running toward the shadow of a lone mesquite where he stood.
“Music!” she called.
“Marian!” he whispered. “Where’s Keno Strudder?”
“Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come, Music?” she exclaimed. “We’ve lost all our water and the men have gone looking for a spring. Keno is sick in the main wagon. Our compass is broken. We don’t know where we are!”
“Shh!” Music cautioned, earing back the hammer of his six-gun to cock. “Keno is not sick. He’s plannin’ to loot the strongbox.”
Then suddenly through the night came the yell of a small