He freed himself from the plunging horse, but his head struck hard against the gnarled trunk of a juniper and, half stunned, his body slid over the edge and dropped.
Chuckling and mouthing, rubbing his hands together, Banker slunk from his ambush. He retrieved his wire and then looked at the horse kicking on the ground.
“No use lettin’ him go back to the ranch,” he 216 said, slyly. Then he drew his six-shooter and shot the animal.
Leading his own horse he climbed carefully down the slope and worked his way to where the body must have fallen. But it took him some time to find it, as Sucatash had rolled far after striking the slope.
He came upon it at last wedged against a clump of greasewood. There was blood on the head and the sightless eyes stared up to the gray sky. Snowflakes fell steadily and melted against the white cheeks. The body lay awkwardly twisted.
“Dead!” chuckled Banker. “All of ’em die! Old Jim don’t die, though! Old Jim’ll find it! He’ll find the gold. French Pete hid it; Panamint hid it; this here Frog lady is hidin’ it. But old Jim’ll find it. Old Jim’ll find it after all of ’em’s dead. Dead! Dead! Dead!”
He burst out into shrill laughter, and his horse snorted and tried to pull away. He instantly broke off laughing to curse foully, mouthing obscenities and oaths as he jerked cruelly at the spade bit. The trembling horse squatted back and then stood with wildly rolling eyes.
Muttering, Jim stamped heavily down the hill, dragging the horse with him and leaving the still form to the mercies of the snow. The falling flakes were already filling up the trail that he left. In an hour or two there would be no sign of his presence. 217