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CHAPTER 19

      BEFORE HE went to bed, Frank Nugent spent two hours rigging strings from the front and back steps so if anybody stepped on them, the strings would pull a bell off a shelf in the sitting room, or pull a bunch of pie pans off the counter in the kitchen.

      Although he was asleep when the bell clanged, he was out of bed instantly, his shotgun in his hands, running down the stairs in his nightshirt while Luna was still stumbling out of sleep.

      By the time he got downstairs somebody was pounding on the door. It was McClamus, calling out plaintively, "I got a delivery for you, Mr. Nugent."

      Nugent lit a lamp and opened the door. McClamus stood aside and pointed to the body draped over the burro's back. Nugent walked down the steps in his bare feet and gingerly turned the corpse's head so he could be sure it was Watson. He grunted and stepped back. Then he saw the note pinned on Watson's back, tore it off and held it close to the lamp. Written in Amhearst's big looping letters were the words: "If it's war you want, it's war you've got."

      "Where shall I dump him?" McClamus asked, eager to get back to his warm straw bed.

      "Put him in the horsebarn someplace out of the way. You set Mr. Watson down gently, hear. He was a friend of mine."

      "Yes sir," McClamus said.

      "Wait a minute," Nugent said. He went back into the house and took a bottle of whiskey from the sideboard, checked to see that it was more than half full, and then took a big swallow of it himself, and gave the bottle to a grateful McClamus.

      Nugent shook his head and started back into the house. His feet were freezing and he felt as though he had a big lump of ice inside his chest. He thought suddenly that Clay might remember what he'd said before about shooting anybody who came in and he ran into the horsebarn as Clay was waking up and reaching for the gun.

      "It's all right, Clay," he called cheerily. Don't shoot Mr. McClamus. He's just delivering something.

      Clay, sleepy-eyed and only half awake holstered the Colt.

      "Come see me when Mr. McClamus is finished with his work. Bring your blanket and gun," Nugent said to Clay.

      He went back into the house, glad he had remembered in time. There was going to be enough bloodshed.

      A few minutes later, there was the rattle of pie pans as the back door alarm went off. It was Clay, looking a little round-eyed. He came in with his blankets and stood bewildered in the kitchen, his hair frizzed up like a bad wig.

      "Know who that dead man was, Clay?" Nugent asked him.

      Clay nodded. "Mr. Watson."

      "Did that old man lay him down gently?"

      "Yes, but he was all frozen over so he couldn't get straightened out."

      "Tomorrow you'll dig a grave for him and we'll get him into it," Nugent said. "If we wait too long the ground will be too frozen to dig."

      Clay stood there, not relishing the prospect.

      "I know your gun is clean and in good condition, Clay. Can you shoot it and hit your target?"

      "Yessir. I'm a good shot."

      "Good. I'm going to show you how my bell and tin cup alarm system works. Then you're going to sleep in the kitchen for a few days, and I want you to shoot anybody who tries to come in, except the Chinaman, me and my wife, and my friend Mr. Gaines. Anybody else you just shoot. Understand?

      Clay smiled and nodded.

      Shooting people. It was something he wanted to do ever since he was a little boy, playing Indians.

      Hopper and Gaines mounted up and started down the road leading to the footbridge. Ellie stood at the door holding her rifle on Gaines, and didn't take it off him until he was out of sight in the darkness. She couldn't understand how two men could appear so friendly when each knew the other wanted to kill him. But she was glad Euclid was the one with the guns.

      Gaines rode a few feet ahead of Hopper, a shovel tied on behind his saddle, his horse at a walk. Hopper held his rifle in his hand. The two men rode along in silence for a time, then Hopper said, "You better not be just leading me on, Gaines."

      "There's treasure all right, else I wouldn't have said it. Besides, we're friends, Hopper. And you're like me — a chickenheart . . . you wouldn't kill me." And he laughed.

      Hopper laughed too, because he knew that treasure or not, Gaines was going to say goodbye to this world before morning. He'd made his mind up to that.

      They came to the bridge and rode over it. Below them the water was frozen except for a thin stream that threaded its way through the rocks. Hopper guessed the temperature was about five or ten degrees, and would have been colder if it weren't for the heavy cloud cover. The breaths of the men and horses were snatched away from them by the wind. The few houses and stores they passed were mostly dark, but there were still lamps burning in the Rose, which continued to do a brisk business although by now it was probably around midnight — time normal people were warm under the covers, he thought.

      "Good business at the Rose tonight," Hopper said.

      "Always good business at my saloon. C'mon in and I'll buy you a drink right now."

      "What? And miss out on all that treasure?"

      They rode on past the Rose, and a ways further. Gaines didn't turn in at the road that led up the hill to Nugent's house. Instead he led Hopper around behind the hill so as to come up the back way.

      "Why are we going this way?" Hopper asked.

      "If you want to go knock on his front door, that's fine with me," Gaines said. "It isn't me he's mad at, you know."

      "I guess that's right," Hopper said.

      Gaines was silent for a long time, thinking. He figured he would have to do the digging — counted on it, in fact, because a shovelful of dirt in the face would go a long way toward turning the tables, and he knew that Hopper wouldn't stop holding the gun on him — but he couldn't just pick a spot on the side of the frozen hill and hope to fool him into thinking there was treasure buried under it. Finally he hit on a plan.

      "Treasure's buried in a big box under a few inches of dirt in the horsebarn." Gaines said.

      That seemed plausible to Hopper. He had buried his own gold, several bags of dust and a dozen ingots, under where he parked the hearse in his shed. "What about Clay?" he asked.

      "That half-wit? I'll smack him on the head with the shovel and we won't have no trouble with him."

      "Sure," Hopper said, feeling better.

      They tied their horses about fifty yards below the Chinaman's house, and went up the rest of the way on foot, Gaines leading, carrying the shovel. Hopper wondered why Gaines had insisted on carrying it along if the treasure was in the horsebarn, where there was bound to be a shovel. And Hopper couldn't imagine Nugent coming down there, running Clay out for a few minutes, scraping away the dirt, opening up a big box, throwing some more gold into it, then covering it back up. Surely, he would have a trap door in his house, or a secret compartment. But as they got closer to the horsebarn, Hopper began wanting to believe that Gaines was telling the truth. It began to seem plausible that Nugent would have buried a box of gold in the barn. Suddenly Hopper was sure there was gold there.

      They got to the horsebarn and entered silently so as not to wake Clay. Then Gaines struck a match and found the lamp hanging from a beam, and lit it. Clay was nowhere to be seen, but Watson was slumped against a wall staring at them with frozen eyes. Both Gaines and Hopper saw the body at the same time and recoiled.

      "My God," Gaines said. "He was my friend. We were drinking together this very afternoon."

      Then seeing Hopper staring almost transfixed at Watson, Gaines made his play. He swung the shovel around like an ax, and smashed it down on Hopper's shoulder, driving him to his knees. He swung it again and hit Hopper's head. Hopper fell backwards, dazed, still holding the rifle.

      Gaines drew the shovel back, aimed the edge at Hopper's exposed throat and was about to bring it down when Hopper raised the rifle muzzle and squeezed the trigger. The bullet ripped through Gaines' heart and out his back. With a terrible sound, Gaines coughed up a great spout of blood and fell heavily on Hopper.

      Hopper, dazed and shaky from the blow, rolled Gaines off him and got to his feet. His chest was warm with Gaines' blood, and he thought at first that his collarbone was broken, but then he found our that he could move his arm so he guessed it wasn't. Now that he thought about it, it was ridiculous that Nugent would bury his gold in the barn. Hopper thought he should have killed Gaines back at the house. As he staggered down the hill toward where they had tied the horses, it occurred to him that Gaines was right. I guess I have turned into a chickenheart, Hopper thought.

      Nugent was awakened by the shot and rushed down and woke Clay. This time Nugent put on his heavy coat and boots before going outside. Both men, guns at the ready, ran to the barn. The horses were whinnying and stamping in their stalls, frightened by the sound of the shot and the smell of blood.

      Gaines lay about five feet away from where McClamus had propped up Watson.

      "Damn!" Nugent said, "At this rate I won't have any live friends left."

      When Hopper made it back to the house he saw Amhearst's horse tied outside. He found Amhearst drinking coffee in the kitchen while Ellie was sitting in a chair crying. When she saw Hopper covered with Gaines' blood she let out a piercing scream, but when she learned he was relatively unhurt, she threw herself into his arms and sobbed all the louder. He pushed her away and began taking off his shirt.

      "I came up to tell you that Watson tried to finish me off, but I got him instead." Amhearst said cheerily. "I figured I ought to warn you that Gaines might try the same thing on you — but it looks like you did all right."

      "Thanks for thinking of me," Hopper said. "I wish you'd come up a little sooner, though." He poured some water in the washbowl and washed Gaines' blood off his face and chest.

      "I also needed to tell you that I saw that Chinese cook of Nugent's, Che'en Po. And he was riding out of here toward Central City or Denver."

      "So what?"

      "He was riding one of Nugent's best horses — that good-looking chestnut."

      "Probably stole it."

      "Not him. He's got a wife and a daughter. He wouldn't steal Nugent's best horse and leave them behind."

      "Well?"

      Amhearst got some more coffee. "I think he sent the Chink to get help."

      "What kind of help?"

      "Gunman, Euclid. A little private army to put around his place, or maybe to attack us."

      "A Chinese army?" Hopper snickered, pulling on a clean shirt.

      "He can't send Clay to get him a simpleton army. He can't send Luna to get a female army. Besides, those Chinamen down in Denver did a pretty good job during the riots last year."

      "So what do we do?"

      Amhearst got up and put on his hat and coat. "I'm going to Denver to buy us an army of our own!"

      "What are you going to use for money, Tom?"

      "Weitnaur's got money. I'll wring it out of him."

      "Good idea!" Hopper said with admiration.

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