Chapter Ten
In the silhouette of an outcropping of tall rock, three men stood, engaged in hushed conversation.
Adam and Clem, tucked tightly against another rock, guns drawn, shared uneasy glances. The murmur of the discussion filled the still, night air. Adam and Clem moved closer, each step chosen with care. The voices became focused, the words clear.
"Fifty thousand," the voice Adam recognized as Dawson's said. "That's what Reid told Ben Cartwright."
"We're closer now than we've ever been," another man said. "Won't be long now. We'll have him right where we want him."
The third man nodded. "And the woman?"
Dawson spoke again. "Time will tell. And speaking of time, I'd best get back before Cartwright and that deputy notice I'm gone."
From the safety of their cover, Adam turned to Clem. He jerked his head to the side, and the two men hurried back to their camp.
"He can't be far behind us," Adam said softly, anger in his tone. When their site came into view, he pointed and hurried to his bedroll. "Lay down. Keep your gun."
"Ambush?" Clem asked.
"Nothing less."
Moments later, Dawson appeared in the distance. He sauntered innocently toward his bed, pulled his gun from his trouser waistband, placed it beneath his saddle, and settled himself for sleep.
Across the camp, Adam signaled Clem, and the two rolled and leaped to their feet, their guns drawn and leveled at the unsuspecting Dawson.
"Don't try it," Adam ordered as Dawson reached for his gun.
"What's this about?" Dawson asked. He started to stand.
Clem reached out, grasping Dawson's shoulder. "Stay down and stay quiet."
"Adam, what-"
Adam drew back, swung, and punched Dawson in the jaw, sending the man flat on his back.
Wincing, Dawson rolled to his side and spat blood onto the ground. He flipped to his back and glared up at Adam and Clem.
"You're going to tell us who those men are," Adam said, "and you're going to do it quietly."
Dawson huffed. He painstakingly rubbed his jaw.
"Stop stalling," Adam ordered. "Who are you and who are those men?"
"May I sit?" Dawson asked.
"All right. Sit."
Dawson pushed himself up, leaning his back against his saddle. "My name is Dawson McAllister. U.S. Marshal Dawson McAllister. And the men you obviously saw me speaking with are marshals as well."
"Go on," Adam said.
"We're trying to locate $50,000 that was stolen two years ago by Tom Burns and his brother-in-law, a man named Worth Silcott."
Moonlight revealed the anger on Adam's face. "You lied to me, and now I'm supposed to take your word? Believe you're a U.S. Marshal?"
"For all we know," Clem added, "you're the man who ransacked Ann Reid's room and left her that threatening note."
Dawson studied Clem's expression. "Saddlebag. The pouch inside the front flap. I have papers." He trained his stare on Adam. "In my vest, right pocket, there's a badge. My name's inscribed on the underside."
Clem nodded at Adam and started for Dawson's horse.
"My fellow marshals are out there, if you need further proof. They've been with me all along, With us, actually. You see, we-"
"No more talk," Adam said. "Not until I'm sure you're telling the truth."
Clem returned to Adam's side carrying an unfolded paper and a silver badge. He handed the paper to Adam and searching his own saddlebag for matches. Between the moonlight and the flickering flame, they were able to read the engraving on the underside of the badge.
"Dawson McAllister," Clem said aloud. He turned the badge in his fingertips, revealing the familiar styling of the U.S. Marshals.
Adam nodded at Dawson, and Clem raised his gun. This time, it was Adam who struck a match. He flattened the unfolded letter and read aloud.
"U.S. Marshal Service, Marshal Dawson McAllister, detached from the San Francisco branch in pursuit of Worth Silcott and members of the Burns-Silcott gang."
Clem still wasn't convinced. "There should be a date at the top," he said, "and a signature on the bottom, right side."
Adam glanced at Clem.
"I happen to know a new head marshal was sworn in recently."
Adam skimmed the paper. "The date is September 12th and the signature reads, Lucas Brock, Head Marshal."
Clem nodded. "Brock took over on September 9th."
"And he's doing a fine job, so far," Dawson said, noting the doubt lingering on Adam's face. "Licorice whips."
"What?" Adam asked.
Clem smiled and lowered his gun. "Lucas Brock has a passion for licorice whips. I should know. A few years back, I rode four posses with Lucas."
Adam's posture showed no change. He'd trusted a man, considered him a friend, and that trust had been earned under a cloud of lies.
"May I put my hands down?" Dawson asked. "And may I explain further?"
Adam nodded, and minutes later, he and Clem sat facing Dawson as he explained his part in the marshals' plan.
"My father died in a mining accident when I was three-years-old. My mother married again, and when I was seven, she had a child named Tom." Dawson paused, staring at the ground in front of him, and then he looked over at Adam. "Tom Burns was my half brother."
Adam's eyes widened.
"Ann Reid is right. You are the spitting image of my dead brother, right down to those famous Cartwright dimples."
Adam wasn't sure if he should offer condolences or reach for his gun. "The friend? The dead friend?
"Even as a child, Tom was no good. He was a bully and a thief. When he was fourteen, he met Worth Silcott, and the two of them got into more trouble than all the boys in town put together. It got so bad, my father told him to leave and never come back. Broke my mother's heart. She'd done everything she could to straighten Tom out. I was happy to see him go." Dawson gathered a handful of small stones in his hand, rolling them around and around in his closed palm.
"Tom was gone for about two months. Vanished. We had no idea where he was, and that suited me just fine. But one night, after my parents and I were asleep, Tom and Worth broke into our house. As quietly as they could, they tore the place apart. You see, my father had a hiding place for his cash, and he'd moved it when he threw Tom out.
"They didn't find the money, but they did kill my father."
"Killed him?" Clem asked.
Dawson nodded, staring at the stones in his hand. He threw them against a nearby rock. "My father woke up and went downstairs. He walked in on Tom and Worth ransacking the kitchen. Tom pulled a gun on him and they fought. The noise woke my mother and me and by the time we got down to the kitchen, Tom and Worth were gone and my father was on the floor, clutching his chest.
"He died that night. Doc said it was a heart attack."
"And Tom and Worth got away," Adam said softly.
Dawson nodded. "I promised my mother I'd find Tom and see to it he was tried and convicted. But . . . my mother . . . she told me to let it go, that Tom would be punished by God."
Adam was sure he knew what came next. After all, he'd pursued Tom Burns himself, but for far less important reasons.
"I became a marshal for one reason—so fewer people would have to wait for God to punish outlaws and killers. Tom is dead. Worth is not. And the money they stole from the banks, from hard working, law abiding people, has to be returned."
Adam stood and paced a yard or so and back again. "So, you've been looking for a way to avenge your father's death and find the stolen money by using Ann's connection to your brother?"
"Yes."
Adam paced again. "And you stood back and allowed Worth to follow Ann, search her things, threaten her, and possibly follow her to the Ponderosa?"
Dawson didn't flinch. "Yes."
Adam stiffened. "And you put my father and brothers in danger by allowing Ann to stay at the ranch."
Dawson got to his feet. "There was a marshal on the stage with Ann, and there are two more marshals standing guard on your family at the ranch. I was assigned to follow you, and I've been trailing you for the past three weeks."
"Three weeks?" Adam asked.
"That's right. I only introduced my self in Monoville because we got word that Ann had traveled to the Ponderosa, and that your father is planning on paying the $50,000 to protect you."
"And you couldn't have gone to my father with the truth? Told me the truth?"
Dawson considered his words carefully. "I am following orders, as are the other marshals."
"Damn your orders!" Adam kicked at the dirt, his fists balled. "We leave before first light, orders or no orders!"