Feeling a fierce surge of relief, he rose to a crouch, rifle ready to fire, and squeezed off a shot in the direction of the gunfire. A burst of flame shone in the darkness some twenty yards away, just before a gout of earth kicked up to his left.
Jess had managed to climb to her knees. "Give me a gun!" she cried.
The Colt leapt into Devlin's hand in a smooth motion and he tossed it at her, not daring to see if she caught it.
A bullet ricocheted off the stones of the campfire, then a chunk of bark flew from the tree next to his head.
A nearby gun spoke, and Devlin knew it was Jess. Keeping to cover while she let loose another shot, he edged his way forward, toward the gunmen. There were two of them, from what he could tell. During a lull in the shooting, he stepped from behind the sheltering pines and fired three fast shots in succession.
He was answered by another rifle blast. Raising his Winchester, he took a sight on a shadow and fired.
A rough cry told him he'd hit something.
Another spurt of gunfire exploded into the night, before the shots slowed.
"Zeke?" a panicked voice came from the darkness. "You hit? Zeke!"
Devlin held his fire, his finger hugging the trigger. His fifteen-shot repeating rifle had six bullets left.
He wasn't given the chance to use them. A few seconds later, he heard the snort of a horse, then the scuffling sounds of a man mounting up. Whoever it was rode off at a gallop, as if the very devil were on his heels.
The echo of hoofbeats was followed by an ominous silence.
A long moment passed while Devlin stood there, blood pumping in his ears.
"Jess, are you all right?" he said finally.
"Yes." Her voice was shaky, but held the same determined note of courage she'd shown during the gunfight.
"Stay where you are." Cautiously, Devlin moved forward into the darkness. After a moment, he saw the body in the dim light of the campfire, lying facedown in the pine needles. With the toe of his boot, he rolled the man's body over.
Zeke McRoy. The livid scar above the right eye stood out clearly against a bloodless face.
Devlin went down on one knee to feel for a pulse, to check for a breath . . . praying for anything that would signify a sign of life. A full minute of fruitless searching put an end to his hope.
He swore softly, viciously.
"Is he dead?" he heard Jess ask in a small voice as she came up behind him.
"Yes."
He felt her shudder. Helpless anger and regret flooded him. Anger because Jessica's life had been endangered as well as his own. Regret because Zeke McRoy had been his only link to the outlaws who'd robbed his father's train.
He couldn't question McRoy about the robberies now, and without that, he was at a dead end. To continue the search would be futile. He had only a general description of the other outlaws, not enough to lead him to the gang's hideout. With nothing more definite to go on, he wouldn't know where to begin looking in this vast rocky maze of peaks and canyons. It was unlikely he would find any other promising leads, either. By now the stolen bars of bullion would probably have been melted down and stamped with a new serial number.
"The other one got clear," Jess said in a quiet voice.
"Did you get a look at him?" Devlin asked tonelessly.
"No. I'm sorry."
He bowed his head, squeezing his eyes shut. The enormity of his frustration felt like a lead weight in his gut.
He felt Jess's hand, tentative, protective, on his shoulder, offering comfort. He wanted to shrug it off, to strike out in his anger, and yet more powerful was the urge to take her hand and pull her down to him, to cover her lips with his and draw from her warmth, letting her drive away the hard chill that had seeped into him.
He set his jaw and did neither.
Eventually Jess drew her hand back. "What do we do now?"