Only 03 - Only You

horses threw up their heads when they spotted him, then returned to their restless grazing when they recognized his scent.
    Quickly Reno came to the place where the valley narrowed and the stream became a white cascade shooting between pincers of black rock. A game trail wound along one side of the cascade. Above the trail was a stand of squat, wind-blown spruce. Below it, at the end of the cascade, was a tiny, marshy meadow, another cascade, and then another, much larger valley with a rock-ribbed lake at one end.
    Reno eased among the spruce trees and waited, motionless, until the birds and small animals returnedto their normal patterns of movement. A fitful wind blew up the mountainside. The smell of smoke rode the wind.
    So did the sound of men’s voices.
    Reno settled more deeply into cover and waited. A short time later, two men appeared along the middle cascade. Their horses were gaunt, stringy, and tough as a boot. The riders were the same. They watched the ground and the surrounding countryside by turns. Each man wore a six-gun and had a rifle in a saddle scabbard.
    One of the men was familiar to Reno. The last time he had seen Short Dog, it had been over the barrel of a six-gun at Jed Slater’s camp high in the San Juans, where Willow had been held prisoner. Short Dog had lifted his rifle, Reno had shot first, and Short Dog had fallen. But when the time came to bury bodies, Short Dog hadn’t been among them.
    The other man was known to Reno only by reputation. Bandanna MIke was a stage robber and small-time gunnie who thought he was God’s personal gift to womanhood. His trademark was a black and red silk bandanna that was big enough to use as a picnic cloth. At the moment, the bandanna was lying at ease around his dirty neck.
    Conversation came with the wind, phrases and bits that Reno had to piece together.
    “Nobody been here…days,” Bandanna Mike said. “Why in hell…”
    “Eat beans up here, eat beans down…” Short Dog said. “Same beans.”
    There was silence punctuated by the occasional sound of a pebble rolling as the horses scrambled up a rocky piece of trail just below the spruces.
    Reno was afraid the Comancheros’ horses would scent him if they kept climbing until Reno wasupwind of them, but the men dismounted at the far end of the grove, perhaps thirty feet away. Unless the wind shifted, the horses wouldn’t catch Reno’s scent.
    “No point to settin’ up here on a rock when we could be layin’ back there in grass,” Bandanna Mike grumbled. “They cain’t git out without walkin’ plumb through our camp, and even a skunk-drunk mestizo couldn’t miss ’em then.”
    “Talk Slater,” Short Dog said.
    “Might as well shoot myself and git it over with as talk to him,” grumbled Bandanna Mike.
    “Shoot and Slater come hell-running you bet,” Short Dog said. “End same Walleye Jack.”
    “Jericho had no call to shoot old Walleye. He was just funnin’ with that snake.”
    “All same, Walleye Jack dead meat you bet. Snake same.”
    “Jericho is a mean ’un,” Bandanna Mike agreed.
    It was quiet for a few minutes. Then came the sound of a cork being pulled from a bottle. The satisfied gasping and coughing sounds that followed told Reno that it wasn’t water or coffee being passed around.
    “What do you think happened to Crooked Bear?” Bandanna Mike asked.
    Short Dog belched. “Dead or gone see squaw. Same thing.”
    “Damn, but the thought of gold gets a feller to itchin’,” Bandanna Mike said after a moment. “Think they got it yet?”
    “No leave yet. No gold yet,” Short Dog said succinctly.
    For a time there was only silence and the sound of the restless wind. A horse snorted and stamped its foot.
    Reno waited, motionless.
    “You think that there Reno feller is as good with a six-gun as they say?”
    “Goddamn straight fast hell-shooter you bet,” Short Dog said emphatically.
    Silently Reno wished that he had shot just a bit straighter when he had had Short Dog in his sights. It would have meant one less Comanchero to deal with now.
    On the other hand, there was never any lack of lazy, greedy, or cruel men to fatten the ranks of gangs led by men like Jericho Slater.
    “What about thet gal? Did you see her? Is she a pretty ’un?”
    “Squaw all same. Hell bad you bet.”
    Bandanna Mike laughed. “Hell bad is goin’ without. Hope I’m one of the first. Ain’t no fun if’n there ain’t no vinegar left in a gal.”
    There was another silence,