Free Golden Riders by Ralph Cotton

a one-legged Confederate war veteran named Virgil Piney.
    There they spent a week lying in the cool water of a shallow creek and eating anything Piney and his old Mexican man-servant Jeto would kill, chop and roast for them.
    Being the only one fully armed and carrying money, Prew bought two of Virgil Piney’s spare guns, a long-barreled muzzle-loader shotgun and a battered—but still vicious—nine-shot LeMat revolver. The big French-made horse pistol hosted a twenty-gauge shotgun barrel beneath its long .42 caliber pistol barrel. The shotgun he gave to his brother Tillman, the LeMat to Jake Cleary who had carried one like it when he’d ridden with a band of Alabama guerillas in the great civil conflict.
    When the men had finished their week’s stay and prepared their horses for the trail, Foz saw Cleary check the big LeMat and shove it down into its worn saddle rig hanging beside his knee.
    â€œWhat about me, Prew? Hadn’t I ought to get a gun?” Foz asked his brother.
    Prew studied his brother’s eyes for a moment, scrutinizing him closely.
    â€œHow you feeling now?” he asked.
    â€œWhat do you mean
how do I feel
?” said Foz, a little taken aback.
    â€œI mean have you gotten your senses back yet?” Prew said bluntly.
    â€œHell yes, I’ve got them back,” said Foz, sitting upright in his saddle. “What are you saying, that you don’t trust me holding a gun?”
    â€œLast night you said you were seeing things, things that had you shaking and carrying on,” said Prew. “How’s that going now?”
    Foz jerked angrily on his roan’s reins as the animal began getting restless beneath him.
    â€œLast night I
was
seeing things,” he said. “Today I’m
not
seeing them. Do I look shaky to you?”
    Prew just stared at his brother’s hairless, browless smudged face.
    â€œNext guns we come upon, you get first pick,” he said, placating Foz. “Does that suit you?”
    â€œThat’ll suit me,” Foz said. He looked all around at the other faces as he spoke. “I’m warning everybody here and now, if I keep hearing you whispering and laughing about me behind my back, somebody’s going to die, gun or no gun.”
    The men, except for Tillman, sat staring blackly at him. Tillman sat looking off into the distance with a dreamy wistful look on his face.
    â€œTake it easy, Foz,” Prew said quietly, seeing his brother getting agitated.
    But Foz would have none of it.
    â€œDon’t deny it,” he said, ignoring Prew. “You’ve all been doing it, haven’t you?” His eyes stopped on the Bluebird who upon seeing Foz’s lips move, nodded hishead, agreeing with the delusional outlaw although he hadn’t heard a word he’d said.
    â€œJesus . . . ,” Prew said under his breath. He turned his horse to the trail. “Come on, Foz, you and Tillman ride beside me a while. I want to hear more about what to expect from this jug of mescal I’ve got here.” He gestured toward his saddlebags. “Tell me what you all were seeing last night.” He took Tillman’s inattentive horse by its bridle and pulled it alongside him until Tillman seemed to snap out of a trancelike state and collect himself.
    Bonsell and Jake Cleary gave each other a guarded look and slowed their horses to fall behind the three Garlets.
    â€œThis is worrisome, the way they’re acting,” Cleary said under his breath.
    â€œI hear you, Jake,” said Bonsell. He nudged his horse forward, following the Garlets. He stared forward at the jug bulging in Prew’s saddlebags. “This keeps on I’m going to start getting curious about that stuff myself.”
    The Bluebird rode beside the two, staring ahead at the endless Mexican hill country. And they rode on.
    By that afternoon they had made a camp on a hillside in the shelter of tall pines and rock. The next