the Key-Lock Man (1965) (12 page)

He was about to turn away when some suggestion of movement arrested his attention. It was no more than a shift in a shadow-an outline that had not seemed to be there before ... or was he imagining things?

Suddenly Kris was beside him, carrying his boots, his shirt and gun belt. "Watch that," he said, indicating the place, and he handed her the rifle.

Then he sat down swiftly and tugged on his boots. When he stood up she gave back his rifle.

"Nothing," she said.

But there had been something down there. He stared, looked away, then looked past the spot to put it in the outer limits of his gaze. Yes, there was something or somebody down there. He put down his rifle and calmly got into his shirt.

All right... so they were here. He had done what he could to avoid trouble, so if they came to him now they had to put their bullets on the line. From here on out, it was pay to play.

Then suddenly a man appeared in sight, and he was both young and a complete stranger.

He wore a battered hat, a cowhide vest, and a pair of tied-down guns. He carried a Henry rifle in his hands, and he seemed to be looking for something-some landmark, some object.

They stood silent, watching as the man came nearer to where they stood. He looked at the mesa opposite, then turned and looked up, straight toward them. They were back under the trees, fronted by brush, and there was scarcely a chance that they could be seen-and in fact the man did not see them.

"He isn't hunting tracks," Matt whispered, "so whatever he's looking for, it isn't us."

"What else would he be hunting?"

The Lost Wagons . . .

But surely not way up here! The Lost Wagons were south of here a good many miles . . . ten or fifteen, anyway. Or were they? Something in the stranger's manner implied knowledge, for he was not looking about at random. He was searching for some definite thing, or some particular place.

If he was looking for the Lost Wagons he should have been searching for wheels, or for some remnant of the wagons themselves, for the bolts or the hubs of the wheels, which were of hardwood and virtually indestructible in this desert country. But it seemed obvious that he was looking for some landmark, some sign on the mountains themselves.

And then Matt heard another sound, the faintest whisper of rough material against rock. It came from behind him. He turned swiftly, dropping to one knee, Winchester lifted for firing.

A man stood just inside the rim of brush, hands lifted. It was Gay Cooley.

Matt remained where he was, the rifle held steady. Gay came toward them, keeping his hands high. Behind him walked his horse, followed by a pack horse. When he was within twenty yards, Matt stopped him.

"Lost something?"

Gay grinned. "The Lost Wagons. You know me."

"I don't take kindly to folks who come up behind me."

"Don't blame you. But you'd better take to me, because I may be the only friend you've got."

"So?"

"After you left, Bill Chesney showed up.

Neill and Kimmel were with him. Short and McAlpin told them about you two, but Chesney wouldn't buy the Skull Valley story."

"We tried."

"Neerland is already up here with two other men."

Matt gestured toward the man below them. "That one of them?"

Gay Cooley stepped nearer, then leaned forward and peered. He swore softly. "Matt, that's Muley. That's the kid who was with the gold wagons."

Lost to his surroundings, Muley moved along the foot of the mesa near them. "Look at him!"

Cooley whispered hoarsely. "He knows where he is! He's found something!"

It did look that way, for Muley was moving along more rapidly, his excitement obvious. If he had not found a sign or landmark, he certainly believed he had.

At that moment there was a rattle of hoofs and a shout. "Muley! Damn it, man! Where you going?"

The rider was a stocky, barrel-chested stranger, who must be the other man with Neerland.

"You better hightail it back. He's sore as a galled mule, you traipsing off like that. What you huntin'?"

"Scoutin' tracks. Thought I seen something."

"All right, let's go back."

The newcomer turned his mount and for an instant his back was full on Muley. The Winchester lifted slowly, then halted.

Gay Cooley glanced over at Matt. "That gent will never come closer and not get killed," he said. "OP Muley was ready. You could see it in every line of him."

"That could be the man-The one who killed all those men," Matt said.

"Muley?" Gay Cooley's tone was not as incredulous as it might have been. Evidently the thought had occurred to him, too. "He was only a youngster."

"How old do you have to be?"
Keylock
inquired dryly. "I was fightin' Indians when I was twelve."

The two riders turned and rode away, and Gay Cooley slowly relaxed. Matt could see the beads of sweat on his forehead.

"You see what that means? Everybody's been wrong. Everybody believed it was south of here, and everybody has looked to the south. You can just bet Muley saw something he recognized, and whatever it was told him he was close to the Lost Wagons."

He looked at Kris, then back at Matt
Keylock
. "I'm goin' to be a rich man, you see that, don't you?"

"I see you aren't alone. Those boys out there are huntin' me, but if they get the smell of gold they'll forget all about me. You find that gold now, Gay, and you're chewin' on grief."

Gay Cooley was not listening. "Matt, look at it this way. That Muley boy, they left him tied when they went off to hide that gold. So what could he recognize? Either the place where he was tied up, or something he saw before or after." Cooley looked around, dazed with the shock of it. "Matt, I'd make a fancy bet that gold ain't a mile from us right this minute . . . and maybe closer!"

Matt was looking in the direction in which the two men had disappeared. If Muley was truly the boy who had been with the wagons, he would not want to leave the area, now that he was so close to the treasure. So what would he do? Would he lose himself and let them go on without him? Would he resort to murder again, as he seemed to have done before? In any case, Matt
Keylock
knew that the noose was slowly tightening about his own neck.

There was no place to go from here. To the north lay the canyon of the San Juan, only a few miles away. Towering cliffs were all about, and all travel was channeled by them. To the east lay the valley of the weird monuments, but miles of open country were all around them.

With a woman to think of, there was only one thing to do-stay where he was, make no tracks, and hope they would pass him by.

"I'm goin' down there," Gay Cooley said, and he was on his feet, rifle in hand.

But before he could take a step, Matt spoke up. "I can't let you go, Cooley. You've got to stay with us."

In his hand, Matt
Keylock
held a six-shooter.

SHOCKED, KRIS STARED at her husband.

Gay Cooley, his Winchester in his hand, measured the chances and did not like them. He would have to swing that gun up and grasp the trigger, cock and fire. No, he did not like the chances at all.

"What is this, Matt? You and me ... I figured we were friends."

"We are. You never had a friend better than me, Cooley, but you've the gold fever on you. If you go down there now they'll see you, or they'll find your sign, and they'll come hunting. When they do, they'll find Kris and me. I can't let you go down there, Gay."

Cooley relaxed. "Hell, man! You had me scared. I figured maybe you wanted that gold for yourself." His eyes probed Matt's. "You sure that ain't in your mind?"

"I'm after horses."

"All right, put that gun away. I'll stand by until they pull out, or until one of them finds that gold. If they do, all bets are off."

"Why, that's right enough, Cooley. You've hunted that gold long enough to lay claim to it, as far as I'm concerned. If it comes to that, you can go down there shootin', and Kris and me will take our chances.

Only let's not buy anything until it's offered us."

Gay Cooley sat down in the shade of a tree and placed his rifle beside him, butt on the ground.

He was too experienced a man to leave room for misunderstanding.

He looked at
Keylock
. "Matt, you surely forked that gun out of somewhere mighty fast. I didn't know you could handle a Colt like that."

Keylock
shrugged. "Gay, a man has it, or he hasn't. I mean, you can practice, you can better yourself, but if a man has the right coordination . . . well, it's a
come natural
thing, I say."

"You could put notches on that gun."

"That's a tinhorn's trick, an' well you know it."

Kris sat down, her legs trembling. She had been shocked and frightened. Now, despite the swift clearing of the air, she knew trouble was coming, and both men knew it also. Would there be trouble from Cooley?

Would he resent what had happened?

They waited while the hours went by. Bees buzzed under the trees ... it seemed almost peaceful.

From time to time the horses stamped, switched their tails at flies, or snorted a little. Nobody spoke, and the morning worked its way into afternoon.

"Do you think they have gone, Matt?" Kris asked.

"No."

"That Muley ain't gone-not far, anyway."

Cooley spoke with assurance. "Not with all that gold waiting."

He leaned back, put his hands behind his head, and stared at the cliffs. Now, where could that gold be?

Supposing there was little time, and that gold had to be taken where horses could go, and buried or hidden.

Wild as the country was, and broken up as it was, there were only a few directions in which a man could travel.

Now, if he knew how long they had been gone .

. . Muley surely knew that. They would scarcely have gone to the towering cliff opposite, the cliff of Piute Mesa. No, the gold must be behind them, or to the north or south. And he favored the Nakia Mesa, right behind them.

Despite himself, studying the country for signs of movement, Matt
Keylock
was thinking in the same way. He was also thinking about Gay Cooley.

Somewhere out there were Neerland, Muley, and that other rider. Somewhere out there, too, were Bill Chesney and those with him . . . there'd be five in that lot now, with Short and McAlpin joined up.

Nobody spoke of food, though all of them were hungry. The smoke of a fire might bring down the very trouble they sought to avoid.

Gay Cooley had recognized Muley. The thought came suddenly to Matt, and he scowled.

Cooley noticed the scowl and glanced away, but Matt turned the idea over in his mind. How could Cooley have known Muley?

He must have been one of the original group, or he had seen Muley in Santa Fe.

And Matt
Keylock
, with enemies all about, realized that here in his own camp there might be another.

Whatever happened, he must not forget about Gay Cooley.

"Matt ?"

He turned and followed Kris's pointing finger.

The horses were there, the wild bunch led by the golden stallion.

"Look, Gay." All else was forgotten. "You can have your gold. That's what I want."

The wild bunch were moving along a sunlit trail not fifty yards away. The wind was from them and toward the watchers, and the horses showed no awareness of the presence of men as they moved slowly but steadily along the valley floor. The stallion was magnificent, but scarcely more so than several of the mares.

"By the Lord Harry," Gay Cooley exclaimed reverently, "I don't blame you!"

Suddenly tense, he went on, "That there mare .

. . the one with the three white stockings and the scar on the shoulder . . . now that one's no youngster."

Matt
Keylock
shrugged. "She's old, no doubt about it, but there's plenty of young stuff in that bunch."

He was oblivious to everything but the horses; but Kris, watching Cooley, was struck by the man's sudden interest. Cooley was not looking at the stallion at all, but at the old, scarred mare that followed him.

"We'll wait," Matt said, "and let them get a lead on us. I want to trail along and see where they go."

BILL CHESNEY, RIDING north, drew rein when he saw the Indians. There were five of them, including a squaw and two children. Of the two men, the younger was known to Chesney as Cheap Jim from his habit of offering his services "cheap." He was a first-class rider, and had often worked for Chesney. A hard man in so many ways, Chesney demanded hard work from anyone employed by him. On the other hand, his table provided the best food in the country, and his chuck wagon never lacked for extras.

"Jim, you want a trackin' job?" Chesney asked now.