Free the Key-Lock Man (1965) by Louis L'amour

westward, passing Organ Rock, when the stallion emerged from a draw and scrambled up the bank. He stopped, head up, nostrils distended, not fifty yards away. Had they been out on a flat, or at least on good ground, Matt might have tried to make a catch right there. A quick run and a good cast of the rope and he might have him.
    On the other hand, the slope was soft sand and the ground bad for running. His horse might break a leg, and if he failed to make his catch, all the work leading up to this would be lost.
    The sheer magnificence of the stallion arrested him.
    At close range he was even more splendid than at a distance. He was the color of a bright gold coin with a splash of white across the hips, the white flecked with spots of gold. He had a white nose and three white anklets. His neck was arched, his head held proudly.
    He stood, ears up, looking at Matt and Kristina. His mares, following swiftly, came up out of the draw and drew up around him.
    For just an instant the tableau held. "Hello, boy," Matt said. "Want to make friends?"
    The horse tossed his head, and then with a snort, led the way by a devious path through the rocks and into the open again, the mares trailing close behind. Of the other horses following, several were young stallions, but whether mares or stallions, they were fine stock. The stallions, Matt noticed, trailed at a respectful distance.
    As they disappeared into the flatland below, Matt glanced at Kristina. "What do you think?" he said.
    "Is it worth it?"
    "It is," Kristina answered softly, "it really is! Oh, Matt, isn't he wonderful!"
    Together, they trailed along behind the horses, moving at a fast walk.
    "Kris," Matt said, "there's a story about some lost wagons in this country, and all the gold they are supposed to contain. Well, they can have it. All I want is that stallion and a couple of those mares."
    He drew up suddenly, sharply, swinging his horse to stop hers from moving further. Her eyes, already accustomed to looking for trail sign, followed his.
    In front of them, partly obliterated by the passage of the wild herd, were the tracks of three shod horses, and they were fresh tracks.
    "Made last night," he said. "Kris, we've got to get under cover."
    Wheeling his buckskin, he rode back along the trail made by the mustangs as they left the draw.
    He back trailed them swiftly, following the draw, with Kris and the pack mules close behind.
    They followed the trail back, then cut off and rode westward along the base of Hosk*i Mesa and into the mouth of Copper Canyon. Turning there, they looked back, but there was no dust, no evidence of movement in all the wide country that lay there in their view.
    "Three men," he said, "on freshly shod horses."
    "Are they looking for us?"
    He shrugged. "Maybe."
    For a long while they watched the plain, and then, riding up Copper Canyon, Matt cut off to the westward. By early afternoon they had made camp in Cattle Canyon under the towering rim of Piute Mesa.
    Over a small fire, in a sheltered place among the rocks and brush, Kristina broiled venison while he rubbed down their horses and scouted the country around them.
    "Matt, tell me about the Lost Wagons," she said when they were ready to eat.
    "All right." But what he said then was, "Kris, I think one of those men made the same tracks I saw in Marsh Pass. We've got to hole up somewhere and wait it out."
    "We haven't much to eat."
    "No . . . can you stick it?"
    She smiled. "Of course, Matt. As long as you can."
    When they had eaten they put out the fire and drew back into a thick nest of rocks to which there was no easy approach. In a hollow, they picketed their horses.
    "About Lost Wagons," he said when they had settled down. "It's an old story. The West is filled with buried treasure of one kind or another, and some of it has been found. In any country where there is danger, as from the Indians, or where folks have to travel light and fast, they are apt to bury gold or whatever they treasure. Sometimes