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entrance for an hour, waiting for Holzer to emerge out of the dust. When Holzer failed to appear, he went into a narrow canyon where they had left their horses. His roan was still there, but edgy and showing the whites of its eyes. Probably the roar of falling rock next door had set it on edge. Where Holzer’s horse had been tied there was only six inches of rein still tied to a stump.
    â€œSon of a bitch!” Kiley snarled. “In such a damn hurry he didn’t even take time to untie his hoss!”
    Holzer had run off with the two thousand dollars Farrell had paid them, after disposing of Lassiter.
    Kiley, a man more brawn than brain and given to impetuous decisions, started at a hard run for Bluegate. Every mile or so he halted long enough to take a pull at his bottle.
    He half killed his mount on the pounding run back. Luckily, at this time of day he could usually find Farrell in a low-stakes poker game. The high stakes came at Dixie’s Saloon after midnight.
    Farrell was playing with two drummers and one of his friends, Rip Tolliver. A few hangers-on were watching the game. The cadaverous Dixie was at one end of his bar reading a newspaper. A fat bartender served customers.
    Kiley edged up to the table. “Got news for you, Mr. Farrell.” He mouthed a word:
Lassiter!
    Farrell’s green eyes lighted up. He allowed one of the drummers to win the pot then stepped out to an alley with Kiley, who quickly told his version of what had happened. It was he, not Holzer, who brought Lassiter down.
    â€œSo you got the bastard.” Farrell was elated. “Where is he? I want to look at him!”
    It hadn’t been Kiley’s purpose to make the long ride to town just to backtrack so Farrell could take a look at the body. Kiley had crept back in himself and verified the fact that Lassiter was dead, crushed under a chunk of ceiling rock.
    â€œTell you why I come in, Mr. Farrell. Dutch, he was holdin’ the two thousand dollars you was givin’ us for nailin’ Lassiter. An’ . . . an’ he never did split the money, even when I kept askin’ him for my half. . . .”
    â€œYou think Holzer ran off with your share?”
    â€œI sure do, Mr. Farrell. He’s gone an’ so is his hoss.”
    â€œBut you did get Lassiter. You’re sure of that.”
    â€œHe put up a helluva fight, but I got him. Put a bullet in his back, then. . . .”
    â€œ
You
got him, not Holzer?” Farrell arched a dark red brow.
    â€œSure it was me.” Kiley dug a boot toe into the alley dust and said awkwardly, “Was wonderin’ if you could pay me a little somethin’ till I git my hands on Dutch.”
    Farrell studied the man. Kiley’s eyes were reddened and his gait none too steady when he had left the saloon. He smelled as if he’d bathed in a whiskey vat.
    â€œYou nipped on a bottle all the way back to town,” Farrell said, not accusingly but just stating a fact.
    â€œDutch runnin’ out on me was some upsettin’, Mr. Farrell.”
    â€œDescribe the place where I can see Lassiter’s body.”
    â€œIt’s where we sunk the gal’s wagon in the mud.” He described the mine tunnel.
    â€œI remember it. We’ll ride up and have a look.”
    Kiley groaned, then when Farrell frowned, he laid it on his hand wound. “That goddamn Lassiter done it to me afore I got him.”
    â€œWhen we get back have Doc Overmeyer fix it up. I’ll pay the bill. Now forget about Dutch. You’re a good man and I need you. I’ll give you the thousand you say Dutch got away with. I’ll have Sheriff Dancur keep an eye open for him. He’ll turn up.”
    Farrell rode out of town with Kiley and one of the men who had been in the poker game. Rip Tolliver was tall, angular, in his mid-twenties, with sly brown eyes. A shock of dark brown hair was always tumbling over his forehead.
    There was no way Farrell could quell