people. He stood for a moment, and glanced around. "You are fortunate," he said. "You have much here."
"We are poor people, senor."
"Poor? I would say you are richer than you know. You have a house, some cattle, you have food, and you have each other. It is a great deal more than I will have out there." He indicated the night outside. Then he went out, moving at once to the side of the door.
The younger Mexican spoke. "I have saddled a horse. He is a good one and will go far."
"Gracias, amigo."
The others came outside. He had been there only a short time, but there was something between them now. They stood there together. "Vaya con dios" the senora said, and he lifted a hand to them and rode away into the night.
Yet now he was uneasy. The warmth of their quiet house remained with him, but slowly a feeling crept over him that he was followed. There was something, someone out there in the night.
He had known so little of life - a few days only, days of doubt, apprehension, worry, and fear ... and what had there been before? If he was to believe what he had read, there had been a wife, a child, and then their murders. He did not know his age, but he guessed it to be somewhere in the thirties. He had founded his own company, and had been president of it while still in his twenties. And he had been a famous sportsman, a crack shot ... a hunter.
Well, he was still a hunter ... and hunted.
The horse he rode was a line-back dun, tough, quick, and eager for the trail - a horse that liked to travel, that liked the night. He followed the river for a time, and when he climbed up from it he saw the gleam of moonlight on the railroad tracks. There was no sound in the night except that of crickets, but twice, feeling uneasy, he drew up to listen, and once he thought he heard some unidentified sound not very far off.
If he was as dangerous as was implied, they would be wary, and they would try to trap him. If they did not try to kill him now, they must be sure of some better place ahead, some place where a trap would be easier, or where a trap had already been laid.
Did he dare try to escape? Did he dare try to ride out of the basin, turning at right angles to his course and heading for the mountains?
Ahead, he knew, there were villages, and beyond them Socorro. It was a small town but a very old one, a town with many good people and not a few outlaws. The Black Range lay off to his left, Apache-haunted, outlaw-infested, wild and beautiful ... or so he had heard.
Abruptly, he turned away from the river. He walked the dun, with frequent pauses to listen, but working his way through the undergrowth toward higher ground. The mountains were a ragged edge against the sky.
His mind would not leave his predicament, but worried over it as a dog worries a bone. The name Jonas Mandrin had come to him out of some store of memory beyond his conscious awareness. Whatever lay hidden there he did not know, but names and ideas seemed to spring into his mind from that past, where memory lurked.
In such a case, might he not, in time, recover the knowledge of where the Davidge money was hidden?
Or supposing he deliberately prodded that memory by sitting down with paper and pencil and writing a list of all the possible places he could think of where it might be? If he did this, might not the actual hiding place come to mind?
Judge Niland believed that Peg Cullane knew, or thought she knew, where the money was hidden. But why had she not gone after it? Was she afraid of him, or of Ben Janish? Did she hope to have all the money for herself? It took no weighing of motives to realize that whatever happened, Peg Cullane had not planned on sharing anything with anyone.
She was like the famous courtesans of history ... not a passionate woman, but one who succeeded in appearing so; one who, beneath a passionate facade, was cold and calculating. Peg Cullane was hard as nails ... he must never forget that. There was not an ounce of emotion in her, nor
"We are poor people, senor."
"Poor? I would say you are richer than you know. You have a house, some cattle, you have food, and you have each other. It is a great deal more than I will have out there." He indicated the night outside. Then he went out, moving at once to the side of the door.
The younger Mexican spoke. "I have saddled a horse. He is a good one and will go far."
"Gracias, amigo."
The others came outside. He had been there only a short time, but there was something between them now. They stood there together. "Vaya con dios" the senora said, and he lifted a hand to them and rode away into the night.
Yet now he was uneasy. The warmth of their quiet house remained with him, but slowly a feeling crept over him that he was followed. There was something, someone out there in the night.
He had known so little of life - a few days only, days of doubt, apprehension, worry, and fear ... and what had there been before? If he was to believe what he had read, there had been a wife, a child, and then their murders. He did not know his age, but he guessed it to be somewhere in the thirties. He had founded his own company, and had been president of it while still in his twenties. And he had been a famous sportsman, a crack shot ... a hunter.
Well, he was still a hunter ... and hunted.
The horse he rode was a line-back dun, tough, quick, and eager for the trail - a horse that liked to travel, that liked the night. He followed the river for a time, and when he climbed up from it he saw the gleam of moonlight on the railroad tracks. There was no sound in the night except that of crickets, but twice, feeling uneasy, he drew up to listen, and once he thought he heard some unidentified sound not very far off.
If he was as dangerous as was implied, they would be wary, and they would try to trap him. If they did not try to kill him now, they must be sure of some better place ahead, some place where a trap would be easier, or where a trap had already been laid.
Did he dare try to escape? Did he dare try to ride out of the basin, turning at right angles to his course and heading for the mountains?
Ahead, he knew, there were villages, and beyond them Socorro. It was a small town but a very old one, a town with many good people and not a few outlaws. The Black Range lay off to his left, Apache-haunted, outlaw-infested, wild and beautiful ... or so he had heard.
Abruptly, he turned away from the river. He walked the dun, with frequent pauses to listen, but working his way through the undergrowth toward higher ground. The mountains were a ragged edge against the sky.
His mind would not leave his predicament, but worried over it as a dog worries a bone. The name Jonas Mandrin had come to him out of some store of memory beyond his conscious awareness. Whatever lay hidden there he did not know, but names and ideas seemed to spring into his mind from that past, where memory lurked.
In such a case, might he not, in time, recover the knowledge of where the Davidge money was hidden?
Or supposing he deliberately prodded that memory by sitting down with paper and pencil and writing a list of all the possible places he could think of where it might be? If he did this, might not the actual hiding place come to mind?
Judge Niland believed that Peg Cullane knew, or thought she knew, where the money was hidden. But why had she not gone after it? Was she afraid of him, or of Ben Janish? Did she hope to have all the money for herself? It took no weighing of motives to realize that whatever happened, Peg Cullane had not planned on sharing anything with anyone.
She was like the famous courtesans of history ... not a passionate woman, but one who succeeded in appearing so; one who, beneath a passionate facade, was cold and calculating. Peg Cullane was hard as nails ... he must never forget that. There was not an ounce of emotion in her, nor
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