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man's face. With
his curly hair and whisker-free face, he resembled a choirboy more
than a gunman, but Patrick knew his looks were deceptive. He
couldn't really say why, but there was something about the sheriff
he just didn't like. "What brings you out this way so early?"
    "Mrs. Hurley. She seems to have lost Arless
again."
    Patrick smiled, despite himself. Lena Hurley was a
bear of woman with a voice to match her stature. Her husband,
Arless, periodically took respite from her constant bellowing by up
and disappearing. Not content to let her husband roam around on his
own, Lena usually waited a few days and then sent for the sheriff.
"You think he's up there somewhere?" Patrick nodded toward the
peaks behind him.
    Amos fingered the brim of his hat. "Well, he's been
known to use that line shack of yours. Thought it was worth a look
see."
    "Any luck?"
    "Nah, he ain't there. Ran into Pete, though. He told
me about Michael. Thought maybe you could use some help."
    Patrick felt the moment of lightness slip away. He
had more important things to think about than Mrs. Hurley's runaway
husband. "Much obliged. I've searched the gulches west of Shallow
Creek and Pete is covering the area north of here."
    "Fine, I'll head east. There's a couple of places a
man could shelter up in Grenard Gulch. First thing I'd do if I were
shot is head for shelter, and Grenard is the closest canyon to the
road."
    Patrick glanced sharply at Amos. "What makes you
think Michael was shot?"
    Amos frowned, studying the reins in his hand. "Don't
know really. Pete said you boys found blood on Roscoe's saddle. I
just figured most likely thing out here to draw blood is a gunshot.
'Sides, you know as well as I do, we've been having trouble with
road agents."
    Patrick pushed his hat back, his gaze leveled on the
sheriff. "Yeah, but most of that's been up towards Antelope
Springs."
    Amos grinned, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners.
"Well now, never did know an outlaw who was much interested in
boundaries."
    "True enough." Patrick swallowed his sense of
uneasiness. "Guess we'd best get to it. Right now, the most
important thing is to find my brother."
    "Right. I'll signal with this," Amos patted his
Winchester, "if I find him."
    "Same here. I'll meet you at the turn off to Clune in
a couple of hours."
    Amos nodded and wheeled his horse around. Patrick
watched as they galloped away, a slow moving cloud of dust
spreading in their wake. With a sigh, Patrick turned the stallion,
easing him into a smooth canter, heading for the slopes to the
south, his eyes scanning the terrain for some sign of his
brother.
     
    *****
     
    "I tell you, Loralee, I heard you last night
and I know he said something about silver."
    Loralee grabbed the wad of soggy linen and rubbed it
vigorously against a rock in the creek behind the cribs. Corabeth
always had her nose in everyone else's business, but, besides being
a busy body, she'd been a good friend, and in her line of work,
true friends were a rare thing.
    "Loralee, you're not listening to me. I want to know
if Duncan really did hit it big."
    She turned to look at the girl sitting on the rock,
shading her eyes against the early morning sun. Corabeth was a tiny
thing, her head crowned with a swirl of henna dyed curls. At the
moment, like Loralee, she was clad in little more than bloomers and
a wrapper. Not much sense in getting dressed. The cribs weren't one
of those elegant parlor houses where the customers behaved like
gentlemen and the whores acted like fancy ladies. No sir, the cribs
were the poor man's version and the niceties were few and far
between.
    "I don't know, Corabeth. Honestly. Duncan wasn't
making a lot of sense last night. He'd been hitting the whiskey
pretty hard, and you know as well as I do that he's always bragging
about striking it big, but it never amounts to anything." She wrung
the water out of the chemise she'd been scrubbing and dropped it
into a basket.
    "Well, I don't understand why you let the old