Trigger Gospel by Harry Sinclair Drago Page B

minutes.
    In single file they headed north. Save for Latch and Cherokee they were a sober-faced lot. It was a journey such as none of the others had ever set out on. The crashing climax it was to reach, with their lives hostage to its success or failure, was still miles and days away, but as they left the springs behind their thoughts ran ahead of them. The possibilities of that brief half an hour or less that must elapse between the time they rode into some town and dashed out, clutched at them. Their minds held in a vise, they lived over every second of it.
    It left them tight-lipped, short of speech and sharp tempered. If they came to a rise or a stretch of open country, one rode ahead and the rest held back until they knew the way was clear. They saw no one, but their trained eyes warned them that they often crossed trails that were less than a day old.
    Toward sunset they reached a tiny creek. Even Latch knew of no name for it. They watered their horses and drank their fill. Maverick had nothing better to offer them than a meager helping of beans and a cold flapjack apiece. They did not risk a fire.
    It had been necessary to help Cherokee out of his saddle again. He had not complained during the long ride.
    â€œHow are you makin’ it?” Little Bill asked, as he sat down beside him.
    â€œOh, I’ll make it all right,” the Kid answered. “You don’t have to hold back on my account.”
    For all his words, his face had a drawn look that said plainly enough that he was racked with pain.
    Little Bill had been watching him furtively for the last two or three miles, for he had sensed an undue alertness in Cherokee. Now that they were out of the saddle and had had a bite to eat, the others had stretched out comfortably on the ground. But not the Kid. He sat up stiffly and his black eyes were seldom still. It called for an explanation.
    Bill began to ask himself questions. His eyes narrowed unconsciously as an answer flashed in his brain.
    â€œIt can’t be nothin’ else,” he told himself. “I’ll have to run a bluff to prove it, but I’m goin’ to risk it.”
    He turned to Cherokee.
    â€œBe cooler this evenin’,” he said; “that’ll brace yuh up a little. It might ease yuh some if yuh got your boot off while we’re restin’ here. Just stretch your leg out a little and I’ll get it off.”
    His tone was solicitous, but he was not concerned about the Kid’s leg. As he would have grabbed the boot, Cherokee drew his leg away.
    â€œNo!” he jerked out sharply. “This ain’t no place to be takin’ off your boots! If you know where you are you know that’s a fact.”
    Little Bill dissembled his satisfaction.
    â€œWell, I don’t know the name of this creek, but I know where I am, all right,” he laughed. He was stretching the truth considerably. He proceeded to an even wilder surmise. “We ought to be a few miles east of the Black Grocery.”
    â€œYou’re within less than three miles of it!” Cherokee came back. “That’s too damn close for a man with only one laig under him!”
    The others were listening intently now, their attention riveted on the Kid. Most of them had heard vague, unsubstantiated rumors to the effect that, when in the Strip, the Sontags never strayed far from Black Grocery—a two-story frame building, with a barn across the way, set down out in the open on what had once been a cut-off for the old La Junta trail, winding up from New Mexico. Until Cherokee had spoken, not one of them, save Latch Shively, had any reason to believe that they were within forty miles of the place.
    Only the creaking of saddle leather and the swishing of the horses’ tails as they fought the flies broke the silence that had fallen like a blanket on Link, Luther and the others.
    â€œWell, I ain’t gettin’ excited about that,” Little Bill declared, still