Myra returns to the scene of the crime: once with Paul and once with the members of her old gang,

Revised 011223

The Treasure of Eerie -- Chapter 4
By Christopher Leeson and Ellie Dauber

December 16, 1871, Continued

Myra was riding beside Paul on what he understood to be Thorn's outlaw bay. He still wasn't sure what to make of the new serum girl. Bandits couldn't be trusted, he knew, but the Judge had put her under orders and that should mean that she couldn't cause him much trouble while they were out together.

Myra rode silently beside the lawman, giving only short answers to whatever question he put to her. He knew enough about potion girls to feel some sympathy. There would be anger, mortification, and resentment inside her. That had been true about the Hanks gang, too, but they eventually got passed it. He was supposing that within a few weeks her disposition should be taking a turn for the better.

Almost before the deputy realized it, he and Myra had reached the steepening grade that led up into Stagecoach Gap. In a few minutes, they were riding between low cliffs. “Where's this Secret Canyon?” Grant asked his glum companion.

Unsmiling, Myra pointed. “In there.”

She was indicating a rock-wall cleft about ten feet wide. Paul had ridden though the Gap often enough, but without paying much attention to its unimportant details.

“We'll leave the horses here,” the deputy said. He and the girl both dismounted, though the latter did so without much enthusiasm. After their mounts had been tied to a couple of scrawny mesquites, Paul made for the arroyo, saying, “We'd better start searching. Daylight won't last much longer.”

Myra followed him the deep ravine that she knew so well. “You know this place,” Grant remarked over his shoulder. “Where's the best place to hide a strongbox?”

The girl thought it best to tell the lawman only those things that he could already see for himself or that he directly commanded her to tell. She decided to tell him the truth, even if it really hadn't been possible to actually do it.

“The box might not even be in the canyon.” She made a sweeping gesture toward the skyline of the cliffs. “If I were them, I'd have taken it up over the rim and hide it where no one goes.”

Paul shook his head. “I doubt it they'd go up there. They'd have a hard enough time climbing those sheer rocks, even without a heavy chest.” He spent a quiet moment surveying the canyon floor. “And they'd have know that they didn’t have much time to work before the stage would be sending back word about the robbery. No, the gang would have buried the loot quick-like and gotten the hell away just as soon as they could.”

Myra shook her head. “Look at the ground. It's rock and rubble. And they didn't even have a shovel.”

The man scratched his chin. “I'd guess that in a place like this, they'd have found a low spot and then piled rocks on top of it.”

“If you say so,” the auburn lass replied. She sure as hell wasn't going to tell him that his opinion was right no the mark.

Grant stepped ahead, checking around for any suspicious-looking rock mounds. Myra sat down on a flat-topped boulder, trying not to glance toward the spot where she had actually hidden the chest. She tried to think of some ruse that would allow her to keep the loot, but her mind was a blank. If he failed to find it now, he'd only go back and bring in more men to aid in the search. Without that gold, what did she have to look forward to? Chores and boredom?

“I think I've got it!” Grant yelled.

Myra felt a jolt as she looked and saw Paul moving rocks at exactly the right spot. It had happened! He was going to take away the wherewithal she depended on for a good life. What had all the discomfort and danger of the last several months been for? ‘Compared to her prospects now, she would have been better off punching cows as Myron for a miserable twenty-five dollars a month. Hell, she'd even prefer to be a farm boy instead of a farm girl!’

Myra got up, drifting toward Grant until she stood behind him, trying to look surprised and curious. On impulse, she used both her hands to pick up a stone to bust the deputy's skull. But though she lifted it as high as her head, Myra found herself unable to strike. The voices inside her head were yelling "No!" and they had her paralyzed. The stone fell out of her trembling grasp and the sound of it made Paul look over his shoulder and send her a quizzical expression. The girl looked away. It was sinking into her mind that she wasn't able to hurt anyone, not even to grab that huge haul of gold for herself.

“Well, this has turned out easier than I expected,” Paul Grant was saying. “We'll head back. I'll leave you off at the farm and I'll go get some help and a wagon. I'm going to need help transporting this thing.”

“Wait a minute,” Myra blurted. “You'd just leave it out in the open? Somebody might come along and poke his head into this canyon after we're gone.”

“It'll be dark soon,” said Paul.

“Darkness won't stop the bandits.” And she was telling the truth. If she couldn't have the loot, the stage company might as well get their shipment back. She didn't want Ike and the Freelys to start living high on the hog after cutting her out of her share. The very idea of her having to wear gingham, milk cows, and cut hay under the hot sun, while those three spent themselves silly in fancy hotels, saloons, and cat houses was too much to bear.

“Why do you care so much about saving the gold if you can't have it, Missy?” asked Paul.

She ignored the demeaning term “Missy;” it wasn't like she could beat him down and make him apologize. “I don't care who gets the gold if it isn't going to be me. But I'll get better treatment if I help out, won't I?”

“Who's treating you badly? You aren't a prisoner.”

“I mean I want my aunt to think better of me,” she lied. “I'm of a mind that you do something wrong, you ought to try and fix it. It's in the Good Book.”

“So, what are you suggesting?”

“That we hide the chest somewhere else. That'll flummox the outlaws.”

Paul thought that that made sense, but the two of them couldn't haul the box far. Even if they actually got it out of the canyon, they didn't have tools for burying it. Frowning, he removed more rocks to ascertain how the chest was made. It was well-made and reinforced with iron bands. The heavyweight handle on either end was wide enough for a man to grip with two hands; it would take hours to carry it to someplace outside the canyon. Then he got an idea.

“Help me get this chest unburied,” he said.

They set to work scattering the pile of rock fragments until the box was laid bare. The lawman tested its heft. Damn! It must have weighed more than a hundred pounds. He paused to think.

Finally, Paul brought up his horse, Ash, and tied the lasso around the two handles, and also around the body of the box. That way, all the stress wouldn't break the hand grips when the box was dragged. He quickly fixed the rope about the beast's chest, forming a breast collar.

“I'm going to put my back to it,” the deputy told the girl, “While you lead Ash along. If he balks, smack him with your hand.”

When Ash began drawing, every rock along the way snagged the chest by a corner or an edge, but with some muscle work every now and then they kept going. Dragging the chest, instead of carrying it, made it a bad idea to take it out of the canyon, Paul could tell. The sand and soil outside the canyon would show telltale skid marks. Hell, even some rocks could by scratched by the iron fixings. Instead, he chose a new hiding place within a few yards of the ravine's mouth -- a long depression, probably produced by centuries of rain flow. The two of them pushed their burden into it, and then covered it over with rocks, in a way similar to what the gang had originally done.

Because the light would be failing soon, Paul intended to be back with some helpers at dawn. In the meantime, to mark the spot, he placed two white quartz rocks to serve as a sighting line aimed at the point of concealment.

By that juncture, both were panting. “Whew,” the lawman sighed. “That turned into a chore. I hope it was worth doing.”

“Y-Yeah... ” replied his breathless companion.

As he got his wind back, Grant again sized up his unwilling companion. He knew it must be sticking in her craw to be saying goodbye to so much gold.

“You had a close shave, from what I hear, gal,” he remarked. “Most high-line riders don't last long, and you almost got cut short three days ago. If an outlaw's own gang don't back-shoot a feller, the court might string him up. The lucky ones can't hope for much better than a decade or so of cracking rocks inside some hog sty of a prison. The way things turned out, you'll have the chance to live free until you're about ninety.”

“I'd rather swing tomorrow than be an old woman!” she declared.

Paul sighed. This was a sour young lady, for sure. He decided to go mum. There was no sense provoking a yelling match with some hot-headed kid feeling sorry for herself.

After a little rest, the pair hid their traces of having been there as best they could. After they went by the farm, where Deputy Grant left Myra before pressing on toward town. The frustrated and dejected girl was left behind staring in the direction of the Gap and spitting mad that the gold that she had depended on to give herself a decent life was slipping away.

#

Supper consisted of cornmeal pudding, hoe cake, cooked cabbage, and chicken, which Myra ate in silence. In better spirits, she might have appreciated such a meal.

So far, the girl had been ignoring most of Mrs. Fanning's questions. Irene made one more attempt to have a conversation. “You haven't said what you and the deputy did with the treasure you found.”

“It's still up there.” Her tone was testy, sneering.

“Well, that's for the best, Myra. Stolen gold is dead man's gold. No good ever comes out of thievery. If you pray and repent, you can put this whole terrible year of being an outlaw behind you.”

“I prayed plenty for Ma and Pa when they got sick. Prayer doesn't do them any good.”

“Don't be so sure. Maybe the Lord let us save your life so He can put you on a whole new track to something better.”

She sniffed. “I never thought my life could get worse, but I was wrong. The miserable life I'm left with is a hundred times worse.”

“At least you're not alone anymore. I can look out for you.”

“I have to look out for myself because no one else will.”

Irene was incredulous. “That's not how things are.”

“Who says?”

“The Good Book.”

“Humphh!”

Mrs. Fanning sighed. “I do care about you, Myra. That's what family is all about. Maybe, deep inside, you care about me, too.”

The girl's expression remained bitter. “Did you do what you did to me because you cared so much?”

The woman nodded slowly. “Yes, that's exactly right. Did you want me to let you die instead?”

“It seems to me that I did die.”

Irene shook her head. “The only real treasure on Earth is a healthy life. If you have that, everything else is still possible. Maybe you only have to watch and listen to figure out what the Almighty's plan for you really is. It chills my blood how close you came to going to the Final Judgment without the chance to repent.”

“Nothing good has ever come my way. There's no reason to think anything ever will.”

Irene regarded her niece patiently. “Sometimes new opportunities come along. We just have to keep alert and grab at them before they pass us by.”

A knock sounded on the door. Myra, on guard, looked up. Irene lurched in startlement.

“Who can that be?” the latter said. “Mr. Grant shouldn't be back until morning.”

The farm woman went to the door and drew it open. A strong hand came out of the darkness and shoved her away. She staggered bck against a chair but managed not to fall.

Myra stared, as if the Devil himself had barged into the room. There, in the flicker of a draft-swept lantern, stood Ike Bartram.

#

The girl looked around for a weapon; there was nothing within arm's reach.

“Both of you sit down, and you won't get hurt,” the young outlaw said. Ike stood six-one, and was about twenty. His face could coax smiles from saloon women, but Myra remembered times when that same face had turned so cougar-mean that it could set even formidable men back on their heels.

And he wasn't alone. Two saddle tramps had pushed in behind him. The Freely brothers. Jeb, the younger, had a look that gave him a fighting chance to be elected village idiot, but Myra knew that he was actually a little smarter than his larger brother, Horace -- and not quite so nasty. Most people called the latter Freely “Horse.”

“What are..?” Myra began. But she clammed up fast. She couldn't let these good-for-nothings realize that she knew them.

“Are you here to rob us?” Irene asked.

Ike shrugged. “We can use those horses you got.”

“Well... that's all we have,” the farm woman protested. “There's hardly any money.”

The Freelys decided to move in closer, now that money had been mentioned.

“Where’s Thorn Cadwell?” the gang leader asked, not loudly, but his voice was rough and intimidating.

Irene blinked. “He's... He's not here. He... He hasn't been here since last winter.”

“Why do I think otherwise?” asked the badman. “Maybe it's because we recognize that horse and saddle of his in your corral.”

Myra spoke up; she knew how to lie better than her aunt did. “We never saw Thorn. Somebody came into town and told the sheriff about the robbery. They said that he was shot. Nobody's seen him since the robbery. The horse just wandered in.”

Ike snorted. “That polecat was fit enough to give us the slip. It seems to me that he'd go down to see his auntie, with that piece of lead in him, I mean.”

“What do you want with Thorn?” Irene blurted.

“We just need to ask him a few questions. Like, what did he tell the Law?” The desperado looked hard into Myra's eyes. “I don't buy it that he didn't come home. You gonna tell us the truth, Sweet Face?”

Myra hardly dared to offer any more clumsy lies to such a man. She decided that it would be safer to deal out half-truths. “Okay, you got it right. Thorn rode in three days ago, hurt bad... ”

The outlaw cut her off. “Hey! I know you! You're that Yuma saloon gal. Gilana. Thorn was sweet on you. I get it! You came out here to meet him and divvy up the gold.”

Myra's mind raced. This sudden twist wasn't necessarily a bad one. If Ike thought that she was Gilana, let him.

“You're... you're right again,” she responded haltingly. “Thorn said he was going to split off from your gang once he got his share. He asked me to meet him at his aunt's farm, and then we'd head out East. Did you really think that he'd rather hang with you sidewinders instead of me?”

The girl's admission seemed to make Ike think. “That god-damned fool! He was actually dumb enough to tell a woman about our plans.”

“I'd never betray him,” Myra said. “He showed up Wednesday afternoon, a bullet in his gut. He didn't have any gold with him.”

“I know he didn't leave with the gold! But he must have told somebody in town, and they went after it!” the outlaw shouted. “I'd also like to know how much he told the wrong people about his friends. Is that bastard still alive?”

Myra's mouth tensed grimly. “No. Irene and me put him into the buckboard and went into town for the doc to work on. He died on the operating table.” She tried to look sad.

“So who’d he tell about the gold? It was you, wasn't it?”

Irene raised her chin. “He talked to the sheriff, not with us.”

Ike drew his Colt up level with Myra's breast. “Is that right, Gila Monster?”

The maiden frowned. That was the disrespectful name which Ike had starting calling Gilana, once he'd figured out it was Thorn that she liked, not him. “All right,” the potion girl said, “I'll tell you what really happened.”

“About time,” rumbled Ike.

With a deep breath, Myra began weaving a story on the fly: “The sheriff came to the doc's place. He was a mean cuss and made Thorn tell where the strongbox was. The sheriff organized a posse to chase you varmints down, but he left the recovery of the chest to his deputy. It was the deputy who went up to get the gold. He had somebody along to help him. They found the strongbox real quick, because it was hardly hidden at all, they said. They took it back to town.”

“Oh, no they didn't,” Ike challenged. “We was watching with field glasses. We saw a girl and some cowpoke come out of the Gap empty-handed. Why’d they be there if the gold was already gone? That girl, by the way, was you.”

Hell! Who would ever have suspected that the gang would have been up there spying on them? “Well, you're too late!” she exclaimed. “The deputy should be back out this way any minute with a wagon and a bunch of men.”

“Not likely,” sneered Ike. “If he's a lawman, he' aint paid half enough to make him want to work on a cold night. He'll probably wait for morning. We've got time enough to take the gold out and get on the trail before then. Where’d you two stash that strongbox? I say it's still in the canyon.”

Ike was damned clever; he always had been. Myra chose her next words carefully. “It was too heavy for us to take far. We moved it just a little closer to the canyon mouth, and hid it under some rocks.”

“So you say. Maybe you're sending us on a wild goose chase to give the Law time enough to sweep back this way. You'll have to come along with us, Gila Monster. If you're not shooting square, you won't like your comeuppance!”

“Don't take her!” Irene exclaimed. “Take me!”

Ike scowled. “Did you see the gold hidden?”

“Y-Yes!”

“Don't listen to her!” Myra yelled, surprising herself. “She never left the farm. I'll go.”

Ike took Myra by the arm and yanked her to her feet. She tried to shake off his grip, but it was like iron.

The outlaw looked back over his shoulder. “We got no time to waste. Jeb, Horse, tie auntie here up. She'll keep until the law comes to let her loose.”

“Come on,” Ike told the potion girl, dragging her after him. But when Myra neared the open door, she started fighting back. Those damned voices in her head were telling her – yelling at her – that she couldn’t leave.

“What's the matter with you?” demanded the outlaw.

“I can't go very far from the house after dark. It's a rule.”

Ike laughed incredulously. “How did that potato-digging woman get you so buffaloed? Listen, Pretty Face, you'll go or... ” He glanced toward Irene. “I'll cut off the tip of your auntie's nose. It would be a shame.”

“A-au... Ma'am?” gasped Myra. “W-Would it be all right if I went out to the Gap with these... gentlemen?”

Irene looked perplexed, but then she realized what the problem was. “Yes, you can go. But come home as soon as you can do so safely.”

Myra nodded. These words of permission sounded like a gate opening in front of her.

Ten minutes later, the party of four was riding through the late-season darkness of Riley Canyon Road. The gang had stolen both of the farm's horses, and they also had a third animal in tow, a sorry looking critter. Myra guessed that it must have been bought on the cheap; no self-respecting horse thief would have bothered with such a specimen.

Instead of letting her ride any of the designated pack horses, Ike had jerked Myra up into the saddle in front of him. His arms controlled her but were still able to grasp the reins. Occasionally, he would drop his left hand to grope her belly, her breasts, and her thighs. It infuriated the girl, but the outlaws were pressed too hard to allow Ike time enough to do anything worse.

“Horse thieving is a hanging offense,” Myra reminded the man behind her.

“Some things are worth the risk,” he said. “Gold is one of those, for sure. But there are a few other prizes worth the chance of the draw, too.” Ike pinched her breast again; this time she poked him with her elbow.

He laughed. “You're a feisty little heifer, now ain't you?”

#

The four riders rode up to the mouth of Secret Canyon, where they swung down from their saddles. Ike lifted Myra by the waist and set her to the ground. “Keep your hands off me!” she yelled, pulling away from him.

The bandit gave a scornful laugh. “We don't have time to waste, Gila Monster. Show us the gold.”

“Go to hell!”

Quick as a rattler, Ike backhanded her cheek, hard enough to send her staggering.

Myra glared, her eyes wet with anger. Her fists balled, ready to sock him back, but she stopped herself. That wasn't a move that could end well -- even if Old Lady O'Toole magic would let her hit him. Ike's weakness, she knew, wasn't in his biceps, but in his ego. It was smarter to come across like a coward, to make him think that things were going his way. If that happened, maybe she could take him by surprise later on, with something more than a little punch.

“S-Sorry,” the potion girl stammered, rubbing her cheek.

“Not half so sorry as you'll be if you've been lying... .” the outlaw threatened, his fist raised.

“Yeah, I get the idea.” She grimly started into the canyon. “This way.”

The outlaws tied their horses and followed. By now, the twilight's fade was almost complete. They caught up to the girl, who was just standing there, looking around. “I – I can't see any landmarks,” she said. “We need some light.”

“Damn you,” Ike growled. He took Myra's shoulders and spun her to face him, but he didn't slap her again. “Get some wood,” he told the Freelys. “We'll build us a fire.”

Getting that done took her about fifteen minutes.

The smoky blaze they'd managed to kindle didn't amount too much, but it was better than nothing. Myra pointed an outstretched arm, saying, “It's somewhere around there. The lawman set out a couple of white rocks to point to it, but I still can't make them out in this light.”

Ike grunted and picked up a firebrand. With this crude torch in his left hand, he gripped Myra's wrist with his right and jerked her after him. He let the flames illuminate the ground as they walked it; Myra glimpsed the quartz stones, but pretended not to notice them and continued on. Ike grew impatient.

“You're stalling!”

“I'm not... but I think we've gone too far,” the potion girl protested.

He dragged her back toward the exit. “There's one of them!” Myra said reluctantly, expecting trouble if she created any more delay.

A couple minutes later, she “discovered” the other white stone.

“You know,” the bandit leader said, “if you're a smart gal, maybe you can get a cut of the gold for yourself.”

Myra reacted with a scowl. It wasn't that gold didn't arouse her enthusiasm, but that the potion girl didn’t like the tone that Ike had used. “What do you mean?”

“I've had my eye on you. Some dancing gals have cute faces, and some have amazing legs. You got both. You were way too much woman for Thorn! I don't think you even miss him. It's gold that brought you this far out, ain't it? Fine, I understand that. You should care about gold; you really could go places if you had enough of it. You ever seen San Francisco? Big town. Pretty things in those ladies' shops.”

Myra didn't give a damn about ladies' shops, but she got the idea of what she'd have to do to earn a share. “No thanks,” she said. “I'm not that kind of girl.”

Ike looked askance. “Since when? You're dressed up like a nice little milk maid, right now, but you sure ain't one.” Then the Missourian's tone turned serious. "Be poor if you want to. There's plenty more where you came from.” He glared at her, his teeth showing like some wild dog. “Now where's the gold?”

With a sigh, Myra sighted an imaginary line through the two white rocks and pointed. “That there's the place.”

The three young men went to the spot and started pitching stones left and right. Myra stood back, hoping for some chance to dodge away when they weren't looking. The important thing was not to get herself shot by lighting out too soon.

About five minutes passed. “Hot damn!” shouted Jeb. “I think I touched it!”

They started clearing away the rocks at an even faster rate. Pretty soon, they had the strongbox laid bare.

“Bring the tools,” Ike barked. Horace and his brother took torches, and then hurried away to get the implements.

They came back minutes later with a long pry bar, a couple chisels, a mallet, and a railroad spike hammer. Myra supposed that these tools must have been stashed behind the rocks of the Gap before the gang had descended upon the farm.

The brothers dropped the hardware on the ground and then, without much in the way of a plan, sorted the pieces out and started prying at the box.

The transport chest was sturdily made, with a latch consisting of a heavy hinge secured by a thick padlock. The three tried different ways to overpower the mechanism, but hammering at the lock only made a lot of noise. They fared no better with the box's back hinges, which were mostly concealed by the mode of construction. As for the prying bar, they couldn't find any purchase for it.

Finally, Ike ordered the brothers to settle down while he rethought things. He soon came up with new plan of attack, and they commenced a determined assault on the hinge of the latch with a cold chisel driven home with the railroad hammer. After twenty minutes of listening to the gang's grunting and cursing, Myra heard something break.

“Have we got it?” asked Ike.

“W-We sure do!” wheezed a tuckered-out Freely brother.

The metal lid of the box was thrown back, but they could see almost nothing of what lay within. Ike stirred up the fire with a chisel to brighten it and added more wood. Then he selected the largest brand as a torch and held this over the chest. Myra had already moved up close. The shipment was fully packed. Memories of her childhood came back. She had often fantasized about finding conquistador loot or pirate treasure. The sight of ingots and pouches made her crazy. She was standing next to a dream come true. Or as it a nightmare? She knew that she didn't have a chance in hell of benefiting from it.

The men, on the other hand, looked jubilant. “Yay, doggie!” exclaimed Horace, holding a bag of loot against his thick chest, as if it were a precious pet.

“Cut out that noise-making!” snarled Ike, holding a fistful of bills. “We've got to move fast. Fill the saddlebags. We'll keep out the paper and coins for ready cash. The final count can wait till we're west of here; when we find a place to hide the main haul. Once there's no more posses to worry about, we can come back there and gather it all in.”

Ike turned Myra's way. “As for you, missy, we'll tie you up like we did your aunt. If the coyotes don't make a meal of you, you'll keep for the deputy in the morning."

#

While the desperadoes packed the horses, Myra was left sitting on a flat stone on the opposite side of the canyon mouth, bound and foot, feeling sorry for herself. The way she saw things, it would have been better to never have gone for the gold at all, rather than come so close only to lose it. Her thoughts were interrupted suddenly by the sound of furtive motion behind her. She gasped.

“Shhhh! Someone hissed. The girl glanced over her shoulder; it was too dark to see, but somebody was crouching there. She almost shouted to the bandits for help.

“Easy, it's me, Deputy Grant,” the voice said.

“They got the gold,” she whispered.

“I'm going to cut you loose, and then you need to head out that way,” Paul said, pointing down the road towards the farm. “Try to move quietly.”

“All right,” Myra replied breathily. Paul grasped her hands to steady them and then applied his knife to her rawhide bonds.

In a moment, her wrists were loose. “Move it,” said Paul. He led the girl away, into knee-deep sagebrush. “Myra, get behind these rocks and keep low,” he whispered. “I've got to stop these varmints from getting away.”

“Alone?”

“I'm not alone.”

Not alone?

She looked around. Under the feeble first-quarter moon, it was hard to make out much.

All at once, Grant let out an Apache war-whoop and started shooting into the air. Supporting fire came from somewhere nearby. Whoever was backing up the deputy was also bawling his own version of an Indian whoop.

“Injuns!” one of the unseen robbers yelled and the gang started firing wild shots. Myra realized that if the young owlhoots could be tricked into believing that an Indian war party was trying to corner them, they could be spooked into doing something stupid.

Then the gunfire died down on both sides.

“What's going on?” she whispered.

“Can't tell! They must have run back into the ravine. Follow me; keep your head down.” He led her farther on through the cold-blighted brush, behind a row of standing rocks where someone else was hiding. She couldn't make out much beyond an outline, except that the man looked big.

“How many shooters do you have, Deputy?” Myra asked.

“Just Tor Johannson, here,” Paul answered. “We stopped at your place and found your aunt tied up, so I sent his brother Knute back to town for more help.”

“A gunfight with outlaws is more tan I bargained for,” broke in a Swedish-accented voice. “You Fru Fanning's niece?”

Myra didn't like the question and didn't respond. “Yes, she is,” Grant answered for her.

“Did tey hurt you?” Tor asked.

“Not much.”

“Did tey find the gold?”

“They got it,” Myra replied icily. “You came for the strongbox, not me, didn't you?”

“For both you and the loot,” replied the deputy. “Your aunt would be feeling right bad if we lost you.”

“Vhat do we do now, Paul?” asked Tor.

The deputy drew a deep breath. “Well, I figure them polecats'll fight like fiends, as long as they still think they can get away with the gold. When they figure out that we aren't really Apaches, and that we've only got a couple guns between us, they'll make a rush for the horses. It'll be hard to pick them off in this dark.”

“We can have three guns!” exclaimed Myra.

“What?” asked Grant.

“I can handle a rifle or a six-shooter.”

The lawman stood quiet for a couple seconds and then said, “And I'm supposed to trust you with a gun?”

“What's wrong, Paul?” Tor asked. “She is a bad one?”

“It's a long story.”

“Aunt Irene ordered me to go back to the farm as soon as I could,” the girl spoke up. “If I shot you, what would that get me?”

“Well...” Paul considered. He knew how well Jessie Hanks could handle firearms. This gal probably learned what she needed to know about guns as a farm boy. He also knew how effective those orders given to a potion girl could be.

“Do you have my Winchester, Tor?”

“Yah. It is here!”

The lawman took the weapon from his volunteer and handed it to Myra. “You can earn a lot of respect with the town, if you play this square.”

She shrugged indifferently. “One question. If we catch 'em, will those bastards get the potion?”

“I don't know,” answered Paul. “It's up to the Judge.”

“I hope he'll give them a bellyful of it!”

“That business can wait. We got to move fast, 'cause those coyotes will be turning jackrabbit any minute. I need to drive off their horses. Then we need to keep them pinned down till the town posse shows up.”

“Vhat is the plan?” asked the Swede.

“I'll circle over to where the horses are tied. I aim to drive off the pack horses first, since the gold is worth more than any outlaw's hide. The mounts I'll cut loose second.”

“Just so none of the gang goes back to the farm,” Myra said.

“They won't do that,” Paul guessed. “You don't have any horses left to steal. They'll probably run up into the rocks and we'll have to hunt them down like skunk pigs. So, let's move. When you two hear my Apache yell, start shooting. The echoes ought to cover any sounds I'm making.”

“All right,” agreed Tor.

“Wait a minute,” Myra said. “How much ammo do we have?”

“Not much,” said Paul. “Take measured shots; it's too dark to see a target anyway. When you're out of shells, vamoose and lie low. They'll be more interested in hightailing it than looking for you two in the dark.”

Paul took off, moving as quickly as he could over unsure ground. Tor leaned against a boulder and assumed a firing position. Myra, familiar with the '66 Winchester, found a protected spot and levered a .44 Henry rimfire cartridge into the firing chamber. She then waited. There was nothing to see, but the potion girl could hear the tethered mounts shuffling, made uneasy by the earlier gunfire.

A moment later, Grant's whoop came; Tor started shooting, and Myra did likewise. She saw muzzle flashes and tried to fire at them, but something stopped her. She cursed. It was that damn order of Molly's not to hurt people! She decided to aim to one side, away from the horses, and found herself able to pull the trigger.

#

Paul Grant had crept in close to the outlaws' mounts before letting out his Indian yowl. These owlhoots were practically kids, he knew, but that didn't make the situation any less dangerous. Hot-headed pups with guns could come on wild and reckless, because they didn't know what in hell they were doing. Then, too, he didn't want to kill men so young. If there was a chance to take them alive, he'd prefer it.

At the sound of firing, Paul dashed for the beasts. The first one he touched started to buck, alarmed by his smell, but he managed to grasp its reins. In a flash, he had sliced it free of its tether with his well-stropped Bowie knife. Then the deputy gave the critter a hard slap to start it running.

“The Injun's are after the horses!” an outlaw bellowed.

Paul groped for another saddleless horse and found one. The gang members were shooting again, but the bullets weren't coming anywhere close. They were trying to scare him off, but they didn't want to wound their own animals. He got the second pack horse loose. “Git!” He shouted, punching the animal. It whinnied and scurried away

Running boots. The outlaws were rushing in. The lawman ducked away, firing a couple of shots in the robbers' direction. The three braved the danger and got in among the animals. Paul sighted what looked like a bandit's outline and leaped for it. The fight was wild. Grant's boots kept slipping on loose gravel, but the outlaw seemed to have better footing. Each was swinging his pistol like a bludgeon. A hard shove made Paul slip. The tumble made him lose hold of his shooting iron.

The incoming fire from Myra and Tor had stopped, maybe from a lack of bullets. The deputy struggled to rise and managed to find his gun. He could hear the bandits tearing loose their mounts' reins from the mesquite branches. Paul lurched after the escaping men and blundered into someone. The outlaw skinned his scalp with what felt like a gun barrel. The lawman sprang away, but fell down again.

Someone on horseback yelled, “Gitty-yep!” In the bandits' haste to get away, their beasts almost trampled Paul, who was barely able to roll out of the way. He got to his feet once more, ready to shoot. But there was no target to see; the bandits were hard-riding away. His play hadn't paid off. Any additional firing would be bullets wasted. Frustrated, he shouted, “Tor! Myra!”

The Swede came up in the dark. “Is you hurt?” he asked urgently.

“Not badly, I think.”

Paul heard Myra's footsteps off to one side and remembered the Winchester in her hands. “Give me that rifle,” he told the girl.

“Still afraid I'll shoot you?” she replied with a sneer.

“Could you blame me?”

“It's out of bullets anyway,” the girl declared, shoving the weapon at Paul.

He took it and said, “No use chasing them before dawn. Let's see if their animals are still around. I drove off a couple of 'em,” he said.

But none of the horses could be found amidst the trees. “The gang’ll probably try to catch up with one of the pack horses,” the deputy conjectured. “The gold on any one of the animals would amount to a decent haul for those boys. If they give us the slip.”

“Ve need torches,” advised Tor.

They took sticks from the outlaws' fire and searched after the horses. It took a half hour, but the Swede and Grant were able to locate both laden beasts. They were the tame kind and hadn't run too far. “I think they're both mine,” she told her companions. “The gang got away with their own nag.” She also confirmed that the saddlebags were full of metal.

“We'll lead the animals back to town and unpack them there,” said Paul. “Myra, you'll be dropped off at the farm. Tor, let's bring up our own mounts and head out.” The pair vanished in the dark.

The girl grudgingly got up on her bay's back. The loot that it carried was all that she could think about. At that moment, Myra tried – and filed -- to flick the reins, to make a break for the desert, but the voices in her head screamed their disapproval. “All right, all right, she finally said in despair. “I’ll go back to the danged farm.” As her mount started back down the trail to the farm, she realized that this moment represented the closest that she'd ever come to a life of ease. And that it was over.

Just then, the men returned on horseback.

“Why don't we keep a little of this stuff for ourselves?” Myra asked out loud, one last attempt at the riches. “Don't we deserve it?”

“The world doesn't work that way,” Paul replied with a small laugh. “And just hope that you never get the full measure of what... a girl like you... really deserves.”

“You got a pretty woice, Flicka,” Tor addressed Myra. “You as pretty as you sound?”

“Stuff it!” she told him.

Tor smacked his lips. “Tat gal got spice!”

“That she does,” agreed the lawman. “One of these days, some rough, tough hombre's going to toss a lasso around that filly, and she'll be a real handful to tame.”

“Idiots!” the girl exclaimed as she started out for home, not waiting for her unwelcome escorts.

END OF CHAPTER 4, CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 5