The lanky, mustached man leaned back against the soft contour of the diamond-white dune and lit his cigar with the ember from their mesquite fire. Stony Harte said nothing, nor did Cameron Black. ‘You see,’ Hogan went on, with all the confidence a man who has the upper hand and knows it shows, ‘I have the gold now – there’s quite a pile missing by the way, Stony. You must pay your help well. But,’ Hogan said, flicking the barrel of ash from the end of his cheroot, ‘there’s a reward for both of you men, dead or alive. You see, I have to weigh the benefits. ‘First, I’ve had a long and fruitful relationship with Warden Traylor and Sheriff Yount. I’ve been paid well. But then,’ he shrugged. And his face and eyes still showed the terrible marks of the Dutchman’s beating, ‘I’d have to share the gold if I took you in, wouldn’t I? ‘On the other hand,’ Hogan said, as if he were lecturing them patiently, ‘I could take you both back in dead rather than alive.
