The Last Trail Drive by J. Roberts Page B

do.”
    â€œKeep it that way,” Clint said, “and we’ll all see the sun come up.

THIRTY-THREE
    Clint and Ryan were sitting on one side of the fire, with Dawkins on the other. The man had volunteered his name, but nothing else. Clint and Ryan were drinking coffee, and eating some beef jerky they’d found in Dawkins’s saddlebags.
    â€œHow about some of that for me?” Dawkins asked.
    â€œSure,” Clint said, “just answer some questions.”
    â€œI can’t.”
    â€œSure you can,” Clint said. “Tell me you work for Santiago Jones.”
    â€œI don’t—I don’t even know anybody named Jones,” Dawkins said.
    â€œNow that was a bad lie,” Clint said.
    Dawkins looked taken aback.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause everybody knows somebody named Jones,” Clint said. He looked at Ryan. “Don’t you know somebody named Jones?”
    â€œSure do.”
    â€œI do, too,” Clint said. He looked at Dawkins. “See what I mean?”
    â€œOkay, well, I meant I don’t know anybody named—whatsit? Saint Jones?”
    â€œForget it, Dawkins,” Clint said. “Your horse already gave you away. We know you work for Jones. What I want to know is, where’s Morgan?”
    â€œMorgan?”
    â€œIs he with Jones and the others?”
    â€œI don’t know no Morgan.”
    â€œYou’re making this harder on yourself than it has to be, Dawkins,” Clint said. To make his point he bit off a piece of beef jerky and washed it down with a swallow of coffee. “You know, you don’t make bad coffee.”
    Dawkins bit the knuckle of his thumb. Thinking wasn’t his strong suit.
    â€œCome on, man,” Clint said. “Talk or I’ll leave you out here on foot.”
    â€œYou can’t do that!” Dawkins said. “I’ll die.”
    â€œYeah, you will.”
    â€œYou wouldn’t do that.”
    â€œI would.”
    Dawkins took off his hat and put his head in his hands.
    â€œAsk me somethin’ I can answer,” he said, mournfully.
    â€œFine. Tell me you work for Santiago Jones.”
    Dawkins took his face out of his hands and looked at Clint.
    â€œIf I do you’ll kill me.”
    â€œNot for telling the truth, I won’t.”
    â€œThen he’ll kill me.”
    â€œWell, now we’re getting somewhere,” Clint said. “At least you admit to knowing him.”
    Dawkins looked like he’d been tricked.
    â€œI didn’t say—”
    â€œI tell you what,” Clint said. “Would he kill you for telling us something we already know?”
    Dawkins frowned.
    â€œI guess not.”
    â€œGood,” Clint said. “We know that Larry Morgan hired Jones and the rest of you to make sure Henry Flood’s herd never gets to Fort Laramie. How am I doing so far?”
    â€œUm, okay,” Dawkins said, “except that Morgan hired Jones, and Jones hired us.”
    â€œSee?” Clint said. “Now we’re really getting somewhere.”
    He poured out a cup of coffee and handed it and a piece of jerky to Dawkins, who took it slowly, as if he was waiting for Clint to pull it back.
    â€œNow,” Clint said, “next question.”

THIRTY-FOUR
    They tied Dawkins up for the night, took turns on watch. Ryan was feeling a bit better with some food and water in him. Clint took the second watch so he could let Ryan sleep a little longer. By the time he was ready to wake him he had anther pot of coffee going.
    â€œDrink it quick,” he said. “We’ve got to get moving.”
    Clint walked over and prodded Dawkins awake. The man hadn’t really told them much. They tried to find out why Jones was waiting, why he didn’t just attack now and stampede the herd, but Dawkins told him he honestly didn’t know.
    â€œTo tell you the truth, Mr. Adams,” Dawkins said, “we was all wonderin’ the