He’d been telegramming back and forth with Pinkerton ever since bringing Otis in, and the agency had sent two lawmen up from Denver to help him transport Otis to Chicago, where he would be held in prison until his trial.

“Listen, Bliss.” Otis pushed himself up. “I can take you to another treasure down by Pueblo that Hance and I were going to after we located the one here.”

“No thanks.” Jericho stepped away from the wagon bed and reached for his horse, a trickle of perspiration making its way down his spine. The early morning sun was already hot and the air dry without a breath of wind. Except for a lone stagecoach rattling away, Main Street seemed as withered and lifeless as pale prairie grass.

“With the gold from Windy Peak along with the gold from the Pueblo hideout, you’ll have at least ten times what the bounty is.”

For a fellow who’d just spent three days in a shack, Otis still didn’t have the hardened, crusty look of a criminal. Jericho suspected that’s why he’d kept himself clean, asking for a change of garments every day along with water to wash up, so he could appear less threatening.

“In fact, the gold in Pueblo would be enough for a man to get a fresh start anywhere he wanted.”

The lawman driving the wagon had pivoted on the bench and was watching Otis with new interest. The second escort paused in the process of saddling his horse. Maybe Otis’s tactics would work—and had obviously worked in the past—on someone less principled, but the criminal wouldn’t be able to move Jericho. Not even a fraction of an inch.

“No one in their right mind can turn down the offer of gold.” Otis shifted his attention to the two lawmen, sizing up their interest. “Especially a large enough supply to keep a man from having to work another day in his life.”

No wonder Otis always managed to get loose. He knew how to read people well and play on their weaknesses. If he rattled on long enough, he’d convince one of the lawmen to believe him and cut him loose in the middle of the night or when Jericho had his back turned.

Jericho unsheathed his knife, returned to the wagon bed, and grabbed Otis. “You’re talking too much.”

Otis shrank back as though instinctively trying to protect himself. No doubt the man had developed the habit as a child in warding off his father’s blows. Whatever might have happened and no matter how horrible, that didn’t excuse anyone from learning to make better choices and moving forward with honorable intentions.