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Sergeant Crawford settled down in the darkness, his back leaning against his bedroll. The night sky was unclouded and there was moonlight. Absently he tapped the handle of his holstered revolver, the only gun he had left.
He was five miles below the shack, near a meandering stream. Taking another drink from his newly filled canteen, he said, "Now what's the smartest thing to do?"
From inside his tunic, he drew out the pouch he'd taken from Morisson. He loosened the drawstrings and shook a few nuggets into his palm. They glowed faintly blue in the light of the moon. "I can live pretty well with these to help me," he thought. "There's got to be five thousand dollars' worth of gold here." He chuckled. "Christ, that's fifteen or twenty years of retirement pay."
He upended the leather bag, allowing all the nuggets to come cascading into his hand. "Thing is, what should I do about Morisson and Robinson? I could settle for this gold, go on back to the fort, and say I couldn't find either of them. More than likely nobody'd ever know any different. I'd probably be safe on that account."
He shifted his position, bracing his elbow on the bedroll. "But the two of them, that stupid giant and the hill. Maybe they'll talk sometime. Not that anybody'll believe 'em, but still.....I wouldn't like word floating around that I stole this gold."
The sergeant stood up, brushing pine needles off his trouser leg. "I'm afraid the safest thing," he told himself, "is to make sure they're dead. That way I'll know I'm away clear. No way around it, I gotta go back up there and kill 'em."
He paced to the stream and stood by its edge. "For all I know, Morisson's dead already. I hit him with the rifle, I'm fairly sure." He shook his head, spitting toward the water. "Christ, I wish there was some way I could collect that reward, too. Even dead that hill's worth five thousand. Think what I could do with that, and the money from this gold."
Crawford turned his head slowly to the right. He tilted his head to let the nuggets tumble back into the pouch. Then he very slowly drew his gun.
He spun to face the trees.
"Whoa, parnder! Watch where y' point tha' thing!"
"Come on out in the open."
The trapper, Kennedy, his grizzled stubble even thicker, emerged from the shadowy fir trees. "I wuz 'juz 'bout t' come on down 'n give ya a friendly hello."
"How long you been watching me?"
Shifting his grip on his breech-loading rifle, Kennedy said, "Oh, no so v'ry long." He waved closer. "But plenny long 'nuff, sarge, t' git a good look at tha' sack full o' gold."263Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkrLsp9hwJ2
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"Here'bouts somewheres?" asked Kennedy. He was squatting near the seated Crawford.
"They're fairly close, yes," answered the sergeant.
The trapper scratched his prickly chin. "Well, doggies, I'd calc'late as how that's jus' 'bout perfect."
Crawford said, "I have my doubts, Kennedy."
He pointed at the bulge under the sergeant's jacket which was the pouch of gold. "Any more o' tha' stuff t' be 'ad up there?"
"For somebody willing to work the claim."
"Tha' might not be such a bad idee-er," said the trapper, "for some time up 'head. Ri' now, though, we gotta concentrate on catchin' them two varmints...."
"I told you before, Kennedy, that..."
"Yup, before, sarge. Tha' wuz 'fore y' borried tha' there gol' from Morisson. Seems like a man whut kin do t hat....why, he shouldna ob-ject t' lyin' a lil' bit 'bout who caught them two desperados," Kennedy said. "'Sides, I'm a'gonna hep ya catch 'em."
Crawford didn't answer him for a moment. "Things have changed a little bit," he said at last. "I don't want them alive."
"Figgered as much," Kennedy had a chesty laugh. It shook him like an illness when he laughed. "Wouldna want Morrison blabbin' 'bout who them chunks o' gol' really b'long ta. Nope, nor that soft-talkin' hill givin' yer major th' true story. Yer abso-loot-lee right, sarge, dead's best."
Crawford stood. "If you help me, you'll have to do exactly what you're told when."
"Ya got a habit o' orderin' folks 'round. I kin see how twenty years o' army kin do that." He gave another body-shaking laugh. "Good ole' Kennedy's amiable, sarge. Y' jus' tell 'im whut y' need done 'n he'll do it."
"It's possible," Crawford said, "that Morisson's already dead. Or at least wounded."
"If he be daid, th' hill ain't a'gonna t' be waitin' 'round fer us."
"He'll stay long enough to bury Morisson. That's his way," explained the sergeant. "We've got to move in on them quiet, make dang sure what the setup is. Whatever you do, don't let Robinson get close to you."
"Don't hafta tell me about 'im. I done run into 'im once't aw-ready," the trapper said. He rose to his feet, rifle tucked under his arm. "Now where'bouts is this here shack? Ya ain't as tol' me yet."
Crawford pointed "'Bout five miles straight up that way. Little clearing, two-room shack, big mound of rock and dirt from the digging."
"I cain't miss it, I reckon." Kennedy laughed once again. He brought the rifle up and fired at the sergeant.
Crawford seemed to be reaching for the dark tree branches high above him. His arms snapped up, fingers pronging. He swayed back away from the trapper. He coughed out one word, "Why?" and the rest was blood.
"Y'think I'm stupid?" said Kennedy. "Good ol' Kennedy don't see no reason t' share tha' reward wi' ya, sarge. Nossir, I figger now t' 'ave it all fer m'self. An' the gol' t'boot."
He knelt next to the dying sergeant and struck a hand into his uniform. The pouch was smeared with blood.
Kennedy stood, and thrust the pouch in his pocket without wiping it off.263Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡoOp9OHhBAT
