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  “Pardner,” said Wes, “I have a dog that’s hungry as we are, and I’ll pay for his grub, if he’s welcome.”

  “The dog’s welcome and he won’t have to pay,” the genial cook said. “With this storm, business has been so bad I’d feed a tribe of hostile Utes. If I wasn’t roomin’ at the hotel, I’d be closed up and gone.”

  “We’re glad you’re staying at the hotel, then,” said Wes. “We’ll be here until this storm blows itself out, and we’ll need a place to eat.”

  “I got plenty of bacon, beans, steak, spuds, onions, dried apple pie, and coffee,” the cook said. “Sourdough biscuits, if you want ‘em.”

  “No corn bread,” El Lobo said with a shudder.

  “I reckon you’d better bring us some of all that,” said Wes. “We may sleep right on through supper.”

  “Comin’ up,” the cook said. “That’s a right unusual dog you got. Never seen but one like him in these parts. A gent was in here maybe two years ago ...”

  “He’s a blue tick hound,” Wes said. “He’s name’s Empty, and he lives up to it.”

  The meal was a memorable one, and they spent a pleasant hour in the café. Finished, they left the café as four riders reined up at the livery across the street. There was Olson, Baker, Kincer, and Quince. Seeming not to notice Wes and El Lobo, they led their horses into the livery. Wes and El Lobo went on to their room, and when they had entered and closed the door, Wes spoke.

  “I reckon there’s nothin’ wrong with ‘em coming here, this being the nearest town, but I have my doubts about Baker and Olson.”

  “Sí, ” El Lobo said. “They know us.”

  “And we know who hired them to kill us,” said Wes. “Besides what they’ve been paid, I don’t doubt there’s a price on our heads. Silver warned us of that.”

  “Per‘ap we kill them first,” El Lobo said.

  “It’s a tempting thought,” said Wes, “but they seemed to have given up on us, before Judge Hawk took them captive. I reckon we’ll have to wait and see what their intentions are. At least there’s only two of them, and that’s better odds than we had when we left the train in Colorado.”

  The storm roared on through the night, showing no sign of ceasing, and when Wes and El Lobo went to breakfast, there were waist-high drifts against some of the nearby buildings. Already, the path someone had shoveled from the hotel entrance to the café had begun to fill with new-fallen snow. When they entered the café, the cook nodded to Wes and El Lobo. Empty trotted to the kitchen, where he had been fed the day before. Four men were eating. Quince and Kincer sat at one table, while Baker and Olson sat at another.

  “I got eggs,” said the cook. “How many?”

  “Scramble us a dozen,” Wes said, “with plenty of potatoes, biscuits, bacon, and coffee.”

  Wes and El Lobo took a table next to Quince and Kincer, who nodded at them. Olson and Baker continued eating, appearing not to notice. They finished first, and only when they left the café did Quince speak.

  “Kincer and me each took a thousand in gold. Them scruffy varmints took the rest.”

  “I reckoned they would,” said Wes. “Did you see anything of Hawk’s outlaws?”

  “No,” Quince said. “We took your advice and was careful not to stir up any of ‘em that wasn’t on the raid. We got our horses and rode out without seein’ a soul. Sometimes, them that’s on a raid is gone a week or more. Judge Hawk warned ’em to leave Santa Fe alone. It’s too close to Hawktown.”

  “So we’re not likely to have any trouble with ‘em here,” said Wes.

  “Likely not,” Quince said. “They’re holed up somewhere, waitin’ out the storm, but we best keep cur eyes open. We can’t count on ‘em not ridin’ through here, on their way to Hawktown.”

  “Yeah,” said Kincer with a shudder. “If they see any of us, they’ll know there’s been trouble at Hawktown. They might forget Judge Hawk’s warning not to stir up anything in Santa Fe.”

  “When the storm’s done,” Wes said, “where do you aim to go from here?”

  “Kincer and me are goin’ to Texas,” said Quince.

  “Have you heard Baker and Olson say what they intend to do?” Wes asked.

  “No,” said Quince. “From Hawktown to here, they didn’t say nothing to us, and little or nothin’ to one another. I don’t know what they was, before fallin’ into Hawk’s trap, but now they got the look of killers.”

  “I think you’re right,” Wes said, “and soon as the storm lets up enough, I think you and Kincer should head for Texas.”

  “We aim to,” said Kincer.

  When Baker and Olson returned to the hotel, Olson spoke to the desk clerk.

  “Where’s the telegraph office?”

  “Two blocks west of the livery, on the same side of the street,” the clerk said, “and it won’t be easy gettin’ there, through the drifts.”

  Despite the deepening snow, Baker and Olson made their way to the telegraph office, where they sent a telegram to Elkins, at the High Plains Hotel, in Boulder, Colorado.

  “Twenty thousand split two ways is a fair piece of money,” Olson said as they left the telegraph office.

  “Yeah,” said Baker, “but then we got to tote them two dead bodies all the way back to Boulder. You think that ain’t gonna get some attention from the law?”

  “For that kind of money, I’ll risk it,” Olson replied, “and if you ain’t got the sand, I’ll do it by myself.”

  “Ah, hell,” said Baker, “I’ll do it. With that kind of money, we can ride to Sonora and never lift a hand at nothin‘, from now on.”

  A day’s ride south of Santa Fe, following a successful raid, twenty-four renegades prepared to ride north, bound for Hawktown.

  “Nance and me is layin’ over a night in Santa Fe,” Whitmire announced. “Hawk said we wasn’t to rob the town. He didn’t say we couldn’t stop for grub and a few drinks.”

  Boulder, Colorado. December 18, 1884.

  Quickly, Elkins prepared a response to the telegram he had received from Santa Fe:

  “Deliver what you promise and reward will increase five thousand.”

  He then sent coded telegrams to Kansas City, San Francisco, and Carson City, Nevada. If the quarry successfully escaped from Santa Fe, preparations would be made to greet them in Nevada and California. Elkins smiled grimly to himself, for it had been an eventful day. His superiors could ill afford to overlook what he had accomplished.

  Santa Fe, New Mexico. December 21, 1884.

  With the exception of Whitmire and Nance, Hawktown’s renegades bypassed Santa Fe. While the storm had ceased, snow was still drifted deep, making travel difficult.

  “Hell,” said Whitmire, “Hawk can’t say nothin’ if we have a few drinks, good grub, and a night in a warm bed. It’ll be easier travelin’ tomorrow.”

  Wes and El Lobo had been about to leave the hotel for the café when they saw Nance and Whitmire leave the livery.

  “Back to the room,” Wes said quietly. “We have a score to settle with that pair of varmints.”

  Wes cracked the door just enough to see into the hall. Once Nance and Whitmire had passed their door, Wes and El Lobo stepped out behind them, cocking their Colts. In the quiet of the hall, it was a deadly sound. Nance and Whitmire froze.

  “Just keep walking,” Wes ordered. “Out the back door and into the alley.”

  Nance and Whitmire stepped into the alley, where drifted snow was still almost waist-deep. Wes and El Lobo followed, Wes carefully closing the door behind them.

  “What do you aim to do with us?” Nance demanded.

  “What do you expect?” said Wes. “Shuck your gunbelts and throw ‘em over yonder in the snow, near the back door.” Wes then removed his own gunbelt, and getting the idea, so did El Lobo.

  “So that’s it,” Whitmire said with a snarl.

  “That’s it,” said Wes. “Let’s see what you can do in a fair fight, without a whip in your hand.”

  In silent understanding,
El Lobo went after Nance, leaving Whitmire to Wes. Wading in, Wes smashed a right and then a left into Whitmire’s face. Nance didn’t wait for El Lobo, but flung himself at the Indian. But the snow was deep and Nance slipped. El Lobo brought up his knee, slamming the outlaw under the chin. Dropping facedown in the snow, Nance didn’t move. Whitmire drove his fists at Wes, but they seemed to have no effect. Seizing the front of the outlaw’s coat in his left hand, Wes repeatedly drove his right fist into Whitmire’s face.

  “Damn you,” Wes gritted, “this is part for me and part for Macklin.”

  But Whitmire was unconscious, a dead weight, and after a final, brutal blow, Wes flung the outlaw into a snowbank.

  “I should kill him,” said Wes, breathing hard.

  “Sí,” El Lobo said. “Nance dead.”

  Nance lay facedown where he had fallen, his neck twisted at an odd angle.

  “My God,” said Wes. “We’d better grab our guns and go.”

  “Leave hotel,” El Lobo said.

  “Yes,” said Wes, “and the sooner the better. When Whitmire comes to, he’ll either be gunning for us, or he’ll run like a scared coyote. The sneaking varmint might even go to the law. Us bein’ here, he’ll know hell’s busted loose at Hawktown, so he can’t go there.”

  Quickly Wes and El Lobo returned to their room, and with Empty following, made their way to the lobby. Having paid their bill, they crossed the street to the livery just as Baker and Olson were returning from the telegraph office. Appearing not to notice, the pair went on into the hotel. Pausing in the lobby, they watched Wes and El Lobo ride out.

  “Damn,” said Olson, “there goes twenty-five thousand. Come on.”

  Without bothering to check out of the hotel, they hurried to the livery. Saddling their horses, they followed Wes and El Lobo. There was still enough snow to make traveling difficult and few had ventured out, so the trail was plain enough.

  “We ought to just keep riding west,” Wes said, “but in those mountains drifts will be neck-deep to a man on a horse. We’ll have to find a place to hole up for a few more days.”

  To the west of town, with a view of the forbidding mountains, they found a hacienda with rooms to rent. Owned by a Mexican couple who spoke only Spanish, meals could be included, and there was a makeshift stable behind the house. Empty was readily accepted, and Wes paid for three nights. Quickly they stabled their horses, feeding them a measure of grain and forking down some hay.

  “They don’t aim to ride out for a while,” said Olson as he and Baker watched from a distance. “There’ll be some godawful drifts in them mountains.”

  “There’ll be some prime places for an ambush,” Baker said. “Since we got to tote the dead bodies back to Boulder, we can’t risk a shootin’ close enough to town to involve the law. Why in tarnation did they leave the other hotel in a hurry, just to come here?”

  “Who knows?” said Olson. “They won’t be leavin’ here for a couple of days, so we don’t have to watch the place. Even if they ride out ahead of us, there’ll be a trail. There can’t be much travel across them mountains this time of year.”

  By the time Baker and Olson returned to the hotel, a battered and beaten Whitmire was stretched out in the lobby, a doctor working over him. Half a dozen men, including the desk clerk and a deputy sheriff, stood in a silent group. Olson looked at Baker. Now they knew why Wes and El Lobo had left the hotel.

  “What happened?” Baker asked the deputy.

  “We don’t really know,” said the lawman. “Him and his partner wasn’t checked in more than an hour, and the other man’s dead. Somebody purely beat hell out of them. I aim to talk to this one, when he’s able.”

  “He won’t be able,” the doctor said, getting to his feet. “He’s dead.”

  The deputy sighed. “I’ll have him taken to the funeral parlor, with the other one. Nobody leaves this hotel until I’ve had a chance to talk to them.”

  “Two checked out and left, maybe an hour and a half ago,” said the desk clerk.

  “You have no idea where they were going, I reckon,” the deputy said.

  “No,” said the desk clerk.

  “Did you see any cuts or bruises?” the deputy asked.

  “No,” said the desk clerk. “They wore heavy coats and gloves. Wasn’t nothin’ showin’ but their faces.”

  Olson and Baker went on to their room, closing and locking the door behind them.

  “Whitmire and Nance wasn’t no shorthorns,” Baker said. “How in tarnation did they get caught up in that?”

  “They been used to havin’ the high hand in old Judge Hawk’s mine,” said Olson. “They got careless, and without a whip or gun, they wasn’t so tough. They damn well got what they deserved.”

  “I reckon,” Baker said. “A shame we can’t use the law to get our hands on them that done it. One word from us ...”

  “One word from us to that deputy,” said Olson, “and we’d be out twenty-five thousand dollars. We never seen that pair of dead varmints in our lives. We got no idea who cashed ‘em in, or why.”

  “We’d better stay out of sight as much as we can,” Baker said with a shudder. “Nance and Whitmire might not be the only ones from Hawk’s raiders. The rest of ‘em may be around somewhere, and they won’t know Hawk’s out of business.”

  “No matter,” said Olson. “Most of the others never saw us. We was shuffled off to old Hawk’s mine. The only ones that might recognize us was Whitmire and Nance. All we got to do is gun down Stone and the Indian, and we’ll be set for life.”

  Wes and El Lobo spent a comfortable night in their room, returning there immediately after breakfast. Their host and hostess—Miguel and Maria Espanosa—fed their guests well and seemed to delight in watching Empty wolf down his food. The second day, when Wes and El Lobo went to supper, Miguel was reading a newspaper.

  “Malo,” said Miguel, shaking his head.

  “Quien es?” Wes said.

  Miguel handed him the paper, and for El Lobo’s benefit Wes read aloud an account of two men who were beaten to death behind a hotel. The deputy who had investigated had no motive and no suspects. Having read enough, Wes returned the newspaper to Miguel. But the newspaper was published three times a week, and in the next edition there was a great deal more information. Wes read it, and when they returned to their room, he told El Lobo what the law had discovered.

  “The law’s decided there may have been a falling out among thieves,” said Wes. “Nance and Whitmire had a great deal of stolen jewelry in their saddlebags. Jewelry that had been taken in a raid somewhere south of here. The law’s decided that Nance and Whitmire were outlaws, and that whoever cashed them in may have done the territory a favor.”

  “Sí,” El Lobo said, “but we no mean to kill them.”

  “No,” said Wes, “but we would have had one hell of a time convincing a judge or jury of that. Now all we have to concern us is what Olson and Baker had on their minds. I’m not convinced they don’t aim to come after us, once we leave Santa Fe.”

  “We ambush them,” El Lobo said.

  “Yes,” said Wes, “but there’s a telegraph office here. They may have contacted the varmint that sent that bunch of paid killers from Boulder. If he knows we’re here, he’ll see that all of Golden Dragon knows. They’ll be waiting for us in Nevada and California.”

  Santa Fe, New Mexico. December 24, 1884.

  “They’ll be ridin’ out any day now,” Olson said. “We’d best find us a place to watch that hacienda where they’re holed up. We can track ‘em easy enough, but we don’t want them gettin’ too far ahead. I don’t aim to get too deep into them mountains, not knowin’ when there’ll be another storm.”

  “My God, no,” said Baker. “I don’t like this snow country. Boulder and Denver was bad enough, but gettin‘ snowed in up yonder in the mountains could be the death of us.”

  “No use for both of us settin’ out here watchin’ that house,” Olson said. “It ain’t likely they’ll ride out after
dark, so if you’ll keep watch until noon, I’ll watch for the rest of the day. Important thing is that we don’t attract attention or let ‘em know we’re watching.”

  Baker nodded, and Olson rode back to the hotel. When he returned at noon, Baker had nothing to report. Olson spent an equally uneventful afternoon, returning to the hotel after sundown. There were sounds of merriment around the town, for it was Christmas Eve. Wes and El Lobo enjoyed roast turkey for supper.

  “We ride at dawn,” said Wes. “There’ll still be snow in the mountains, but if we wait too long, there’ll be another storm.”

  “Sí,” El Lobo said. “We find shelter.”

  “Maybe we’ll reach a settlement in southern Utah,” said Wes. “We must make it across the Colorado River before another storm blows in. I’ve heard there’s nothing much in the northern part of Arizona except hostile Indians and lobo wolves.”

  Santa Fe, New Mexico. December 25, 1884.

  “It don’t seem right, hunkered down keepin’ watch on Christmas Day,” Baker grumbled.

  “You ain’t a kid no more,” said Olson. “Christmas comes for us when we salt down them hombres and claim the reward. Now get over yonder and watch that house. I’ll come and relieve you at noon.”

  Baker reached his point of observation just in time to see Wes and El Lobo ride out, heading west.

  “By God,” said Baker to himself, “Olson was right.” Kicking his horse into a gallop, he rode back to the hotel for his companion.

  Wes and El Lobo rode northwest, following the Rio Chama River. Empty loped ahead, seeking a path that avoided the worst of the snowdrifts. Wes reined up occasionally, his eyes on their back trail. Both men hunched deeper into their heavy coats, for it had grown colder the farther west they rode. Their hands were protected by sheepskin-lined leather gloves, while woolen scarves beneath their Stetsons and tied under their chins kept their ears from becoming frostbitten. A pale sun had crept out, only to hide its face behind a bank of forbidding gray clouds. There was still enough snow to slow their progress, and it became necessary to rest their horses often. There was no graze. They would have to rely on the sacks of grain they carried behind their saddles. After more than four hours on the trail, while resting their horses Wes and El Lobo chewed on jerked beef taken from their saddlebags.