frozen where they stood on the trail.
Walt said, “You shot him.”
“He deserved it.” Lefty turned his mount and aimed the Colt at Walt. “And so will you if you lied to us about that money, boy.”
“He’s got it on him,” Walt said. “In his saddlebags. Saw my grandpa give it to him the night before we hired you boys.”
“Unbuckle your gun belt and drop it over the left side.” Lefty aimed the pistol at his head. “Do it real slow.”
Walt never took his eyes off his cousin’s body as he obeyed Lefty’s commands, then held his hands up high. “I don’t want no trouble, Lefty.”
Hanover didn’t think he did. “Now climb down and find them gold pieces on your cousin’s person.”
He kept the Colt trained on Walt as the younger Bowman stepped over his cousin’s body to where the horse had trotted off and searched the saddlebags. He held the purse aloft as he grabbed the horse’s bit. “Here it is, Lefty. Just like Uncle Matt said.”
“Fetch it over here, now. That gelding, too, while you’re at it.” His own horse was played out by the long, hard ride up from Texas, and he could use a fine mount like Bowman’s. The dead man wouldn’t have any further use for it anyway.
He watched Walt as the boy did as he was told. He thought about whether or not he should shoot him now or keep him around. The boy hadn’t done anything when Lefty had gunned down his cousin. There could be a dozen reasons why and all of them might prove useful as they ran down Trammel and the gambler. Even idiots had their purpose, as evidenced by Parrot’s continued and unexplainable existence.
He took the purse Walt handed up to him. Lefty knew by the heft of it that Bowman had been telling the truth, but life had told him it paid to be cautious. Keeping the Colt on Walt, Lefty pulled open the purse strings with his teeth and looked inside. Ten gleaming coins winked back at him. One thousand dollars. The most money John “Lefty” Hanover had ever seen in his life was now in the palm of his hand.
His joy was interrupted by three gunshots echoing from somewhere down the trail.
Lefty pulled the strings closed with his teeth and tucked the purse inside his filthy shirt. “Sounds like you’re the last man from the BF ranch standing.”
Walt tried to put on a brave face. “Could be the other way around. Our men can handle themselves.”
Lefty thumbed back the hammer on the Colt. “You really believe that, boy?”
“No. I guess I don’t. And I hope I won’t meet the same fate as them, Lefty. I’d like to join up with you if you’d be kind enough to have me.”
Lefty grinned. “You mean you’d turn on your own kin after everything we done?”
“My kin never thought much of me, and the feeling was mutual,” Walt said. “Guess I’ve got just as much right here as I’ve got waiting for me back at the BF. Maybe more. Hell, they were never going to let me run that ranch anyway.”
Lefty eased back on the hammer and tucked the Colt away. Yes, maybe young Walt Bowman could be useful after all.
Lefty turned when he heard a rider coming back from the north. It was Chico, and he was smiling. “You better ride up here and take a look at this, boss man. Looks like Trammel and his friend did some of our killing for us. Got two dead men at an old campsite up ahead.”
He looked down at Matt Bowman’s body on the trail. “What happened here?”
Lefty stepped down from his horse and took the reins from Walt. Yes, it was a good mount indeed. “What you see here is progress, Chico. Plain, old-fashioned progress.”
CHAPTER 11
After three days of good travel and harsh nights of bitter cold, Trammel and Hagen finally led their team of horses into Nebraska. Winter had already lost its grip on the land, but the air was much colder than Trammel would have liked it to be.
“So this is Nebraska,” Trammel said aloud as they rode along. The land was as flat as it was plain. “By God.”
“Kansas isn’t exactly a bustling metropolis, my friend,” Hagen said. “You’ll find our passage will be quieter here, as long as we keep our heads about us.”
“We been doing anything but that since we left Wichita?”
“I’m afraid more vigilance will be required of us in these parts, for there are many trials we may face on the trail to Ogallala.”
“Like what?”
“Renegade Indians are always a concern,” Hagen explained. “Hunters, too. Men of various ill repute and reputation are as common to these plains as the buffalo.”
Sometimes all the words Hagen used to describe one simple thing gave him a headache. “Did you always talk this way or did you learn it?”
Hagen smiled. “Why use three words when ten will do? I find language to be a poor enough form of communication, so I try to make the best of it whenever possible. Besides, it’s not like there’s a better way to pass the time, is there?”
Trammel saw something in the distance that made him bring his horse up short.
Hagen followed suit. “What’s wrong?”
Trammel pointed to the sky over the slight rise in front of them. “See for yourself.”
Both men saw a flock of buzzards circling high overhead in the near distance.
“Good eyes, Trammel,” Hagen said. “I hadn’t seen that.”
“Too busy talking, I suppose.”
“Shut up.”
Trammel looked around them to see if anyone might be hiding nearby or if there was any sign that might tell them what had attracted the buzzards to whatever was just over that rise. There were no obvious clues.
“Wonder what they’re circling,” Trammel asked.
“Something big to attract a flock that large,” Hagen explained. “Maybe a couple of buffalo carcasses left by skinners. No way of knowing until we see for ourselves. Let’s hobble the horses and make our approach on foot. Safer that way.”
Both men dismounted and hobbled their horses where they stood. They removed the Winchesters from their respective saddles and approached the rise at a crouch. When they got near the top, Hagen dropped to his belly and used his elbows to propel himself the rest of the way. Trammel did likewise, though far less gracefully than his companion.
When they saw what had attracted the buzzards, both men spoke at the same time.
“Good God.”
* * *
With the stocks of their Winchesters on their hips, Trammel and Hagen rode their horses into the charred remains of what had once been a wagon train.
By Trammel’s count, five wagons had been burned where they had formed a semicircle in an attempt to ward off some kind of an attack.
“Think it was Indians?” Trammel asked Hagen.
“Can’t tell as of yet.” Hagen dismounted and tied his mount off on a burned wagon wheel. “You stay mounted and keep watch. Everything’s still smoldering, so whoever did this might still be close by.”
Trammel figured Hagen was right. The smell of burnt wood was too strong to have been there for long.
Rather than stand stock-still in one place, he rode the horse around the wagons to get a better look at the surrounding area and the wagons themselves.
The outward sides of the charred buckboards were peppered with bullet holes. From atop his horse, Trammel could see the burnt bodies of men who had taken cover inside the wagons. Their dead hands were