Lost Banshee Mine

by Jackson Lowry

  “Come on out. You got what I want. There’s no reason to get yourself all shot up over it.”

  “The map,” Cooley whispered to himself. The outlaw wanted the map. To make the gunman go away he would have gladly tossed it down, only England Dan had it. Cooley pressed himself flatter and tried to make himself entirely invisible. He had heard Dan talk about lizards that faded into the background by changing the way they looked. He tried to become a chameleon.

  He flinched when Jensen fired a shot into the mine. The bullet spanged off a wall and drove deep into the ground.

  “It’ll get worse. Come on out, and I promise not to shoot any more.”

  Jensen stood with his six-shooter aimed into the mine. If Cooley had actually been inside and tried to surrender, he would have died on the spot. As it was, he forced himself to keep from crying out as another bullet echoed inside the mine.

  “My patience is all used up.” Jensen edged forward, moving so light from behind him lit the mine shaft. He cursed and entered.

  As he vanished from sight, Cooley slid down the hill, tiptoed to the trail leading down to the cabin, then ran hell-for-leather. His boots pounded hard on the ground. The sound might as well have been thunderclaps. They sounded louder to him. He skidded to a halt and looked into the cabin.

  “Mandy!”

  No answer. He reached around and grabbed his six-gun from the peg where it hung. Cooley strapped it on, then considered his options. Laying an ambush for Jensen was about the stupidest thing possible. The man was a killer. He had probably done that to dozens of men and knew all the tricks.

  Cooley ran for the shed, where Mabel should have been peacefully chewing away at her fodder. He went cold inside. The mule was gone. Mandy must have ridden off when Jensen came into the camp, no thought to warning her lover of the danger. He swung around, hand on the butt of his pistol. Shooting it out with the outlaw meant somebody would die.

  It didn’t take a genius to figure out what the scene would be when the last of the gun smoke cleared. Cooley had never killed anybody in his life. He’d never even shot at another man. Looking along the trail Mandy must have taken, he began a stumbling run. If he caught up, the two of them could make better time astride Mabel. And if he didn’t, Jensen would have an easier time following mule tracks but he wouldn’t ever find a man on foot.

  John Cooley put his head down and ran even faster.

  CHAPTER NINE

  COOLEY,” JENSEN SAID softly, repeating the name over and over as he rode up the steep hillside. He drew rein when he came to a poorly lettered sign proclaiming the area ahead of him to be the Trafalgar Mine, owned by Rutledge and Cooley. A smile came easily now. He had found the man who’d bought the map off the cowboy in the Thirsty Camel Saloon.

  He drew his six-gun and checked to be sure it was loaded. His brother had always ridden him hard about that, ever since they were kids and had gotten into a shootout with a marshal in San Angelo. Poke had saved him that day. The lawman had had the drop on him. From the expression on the man’s face, he had been going to pull the trigger and save the county the trouble of hanging a horse thief. Poke had snuck up behind and tapped the lawman on the shoulder. As he turned, his brother had shoved his gun into the marshal’s belly and fired until his six-shooter came up empty.

  That had been the first man Jensen had seen die. If Poke hadn’t acted when he had, Jensen knew he’d have been moldering in a potter’s field now. The lesson had been well learned. While he wasn’t sure of the exact number, he thought seven, maybe eight men had eaten lead from his six-shooter since then. He pondered the matter a moment, going over the body count, then shook off coming up with a definite number. The one in question had slumped over the saddle and ridden off after a shootout near Eagle Pass. He hadn’t bothered tracking him down to be sure he was dead because the man with his lead in his had crossed over into Mexico.

  His victim wasn’t a deer, after all. Not going after a wounded animal was cruel. A man could take care of himself.

  Jensen slid his pistol back into his holster and urged his horse up the slope. The path was rocky. He wondered how Cooley and his partner ever got gold back to Oasis along such a poorly maintained trail. By the time he got to the top, he decided the mine wasn’t producing enough to make that a problem. The pile of dross still trickled a few rocks down the side.

  He considered this and looked up at the mine itself. An ore cart had dumped a load. Jensen frowned. If somebody was working the mine right now, the rock had to have just been dumped. From the look of the pile, it wasn’t all that stable, and a vagrant breeze had disturbed it. Either way, checking the cabin off to his right made more sense than seeing if anyone was wandering about the mine shaft. He didn’t want somebody sneaking up behind him when he was intent on finding the miner at work.

  He started for the cabin, then spun, bringing up his six-gun when the ore cart fell back down and rolled out of sight.

  “Take the high ground,” he muttered, reversing course and starting uphill. Anyone in the mine could not only draw a bead on him; he could drop rocks on his head.

  He slipped and slid on the poorly kept path, finally reaching the top, gasping for breath. When he and Poke had been kids, they had walked everywhere. As soon as they got the idea of stealing horses, they’d ridden. The longest he remembered walking after that revelation was from his horse to the door of a saloon.

  A quick look around didn’t show any hiding place near the mouth of the mine. He strode over and aimed his gun into the mine.

  “Come on out. You got what I want. There’s no reason to get yourself all shot up over it.”

  He waited a few seconds. Sounds came from deep in the mine. Maybe. He fired a round. The lead whined off a wall and finally fell silent far down the shaft.

  “It’ll get worse. Come on out, and I promise not to shoot any more.” He tried to pick up any noise, but the report had partially deafened him. Canting his head to the side did nothing to help him hear if his threat had worked.

  “My patience is all used up.” He approached the mine slowly, wary of a trap. Hearing and seeing nothing, he cursed. Then he turned a little to let the light from behind him show the way. Poke would have skinned him alive the way he silhouetted himself. Always know where the light is, his brother had said—but then he said a lot of things.

  Shooting off his mouth had landed him in Yuma Penitentiary for six months. So far, even though he had forgetten to check his pistol before a fight and ignored how he outlined himself against the sky, Jensen had avoided jail. This was Poke’s second stint behind bars.

  He pressed against the rough mine shaft wall and worked his way deeper until the light was too dim for him to see. Waiting a spell didn’t flush out the miner. Jensen fired again and saw nothing but the long spark as the lead dragged itself along the hard wall. Backing out he stepped into the sunlight again and looked around. He heard feet hammering against hard ground. After rushing to the end of the ore cart’s track, he thought he saw a flash of somebody heading for the cabin.

  Slipping and sliding down the rocky path, he turned cautious at the bottom. Cooley had to be around somewhere. If he and the Rutledge mentioned as a co-owner were both in the cabin, they had him outgunned. Being careful kept him alive. He got off the trail and approached the cabin from a crazy angle by which he had to kick his way through half-dead, parched underbrush. With a final rush, he pressed against the splintery wall and found a knothole to peer through. The field of vision was too narrow. Somebody might have been waiting just inside the door, ready to gun him down.

  Jensen reared back and slammed hard into the wall. It shattered, dumping him into the cabin. He landed on his belly, both hands on his six-gun. He looked around for something to shoot. The single-room cabin was empty.

  Cursing, he got to his feet and brushed off splinters sticking in his shoulder and arm. He flung open the door and looked down the path towa
rd a shed. An animal had been kept here. Dropping to his knee, he studied the tracks.

  “A mule. They’re trying to escape on a mule!”

  He laughed all the way back to his horse. Even with the rugged trail, his horse would outpace a short-legged mule. Unless the trail turned rocky and worked its way around a mountain on a narrow ledge, he’d overtake Cooley in jig time. Jensen reloaded his pistol as he rode along; then he checked his Winchester to be sure he was ready for any fight.

  Occasional glances down proved enough to assure him he was on the trail. Still-fresh mule scat told him he was getting closer, but he tugged on the reins and halted. Something caused the back of his neck to itch, a sure sign somebody was watching him. Carefully looking around, he saw nothing to warn of a trap. The sensation refused to go away even when he swiveled about in the saddle, whipped out his six-shooter and pointed it upslope into a tumble of rocks. Nothing moved there, and he hadn’t seen or heard anything. If anyone had hidden in what was the best spot for an ambush, he would have flushed them out. All he heard was the soft whistle of wind through pines higher up on the mountainside.

  Jensen remained motionless long enough to make anybody watching antsy. Nothing caused him to shoot. Not even a rabbit or a lizard stirred. He had seen a half-eaten marmot farther back along the trail. Scaring off a coyote seemed most likely, though why the scavenger hadn’t taken the entire animal when disturbed was something not worth thinking on too hard.

  He slipped his pistol back into his holster. Even a warning shot would have given his quarry a fright and lent more speed to the escape. A quick snap of the reins sent his horse trotting along. New hoofprints convinced him he was not only on the right path but within a few minutes of spotting the mule and its rider.

  The trail curled around the mountain and opened into a broad green meadow ringed with pines and scattered stands of aspens. Those trees formed a perfect frame for a mule with a rider slogging across the open space.

  He put his heels to the horse’s flanks and galloped. Barely had he begun to close the distance than he saw another rider coming across the meadow. That rider was not only closer, but also galloping to reach the mule. Jensen slowed to see what would happen when the two got together. At first he thought they were intending to rendezvous, but the mule with the rider—it looked like a woman—veered away, trying to elude the newcomer.

  She had no chance astride a mule. The rider caught up and grabbed the reins, halting the mule.

  For the first time, Jensen got a better look at the horse rider. He swore and instinctively reached for his pistol.

  “Gonzales. How’d you get here ahead of me?”

  The Mesilla deputy pushed back his broad-brimmed sombrero and spoke at length. Then they both began gesturing, the woman pointing ahead and the federal lawman back in the direction he had come.

  “Lady, you got more lives than a cat,” Jensen said softly. He got a good look at the woman. How she had escaped back at the Oasis brothel was a poser. She had been with the man he had mistaken for Cooley. Now she was out here arguing with Alberto Gonzales.

  The lowdown he’d had from the man back at the cathouse said this woman was with Cooley. That meant she could lead him to the map. Whether Cooley still had it or had given it to the woman for safekeeping, Jensen felt he was getting closer. And that was a good thing. Every day he wasted was one less day his brother spent in Yuma. When Poke showed up, and he would real soon, he’d want the map Barton Beeman had made to the stolen cavalry payroll. Over the years, Jensen had learned not to disappoint his brother. Ever.

  He slid the rifle from the saddle scabbard, cocked the Winchester and snugged it against his shoulder. Firing from horseback was tricky, but he had little to lose. The deputy wanted the woman. That much was obvious from the silent playacting between lawman and whore. Even if he missed, he wasn’t going to be much worse off than he was now.

  Jensen drew back on the trigger. The rifle bucked and sent its .44-40 slug straight and true. Alberto Gonzales jerked, threw up his hands and fell off his big black stallion. Frozen with fear, the woman looked at the fallen lawman.

  Rifle still pulled in to his shoulder, Jensen trotted forward. He tried to get a second shot at the fallen deputy. The woman knew things he needed to know. Gonzales was a thorn in his side. Jensen got off another shot, but it kicked up a tiny plume of grass and dirt, missing his target by a couple feet. Firing from a moving horse only wasted ammunition.

  As he rode, he slid the rifle back into its scabbard. His six-gun came easily to hand. Riding past the fallen deputy let him get off a few more shots. Gonzales jerked and rolled over into a grassy depression. Jensen started to go back, then saw that the woman astride her mule was making tracks out of the meadow.

  He turned to chase her down when a bullet whined past his head. A quick look back showed the deputy marshal had dragged himself around to rest his pistol on a rock. Another round made Jensen wince. It tore a few threads from his coat. The woman wasn’t going to get away, and killing the lawman eliminated a lot of trouble.

  He wheeled about and emptied his six-shooter at the deputy. Sparks flew off the rock where Alberto Gonzales rested his gun, but none of Jensen’s bullets came close to ending the miserable man’s life.

  “Give up, Gonzales,” Jensen called. “Stop shooting. You’ve failed. Make me mad and this is where the buzzards will dine on your dead body!”

  For a few seconds he thought the deputy had given up. Then Gonzales reloaded and started firing again. One round whizzed so close that Jensen jerked to the side and lost his balance. He fell to the ground. The impact shook him up. His head buzzed, and his shoulder hurt so bad, he worried he had busted up something important. Jensen forced himself to sit up. The dizziness passed.

  “You had your chance, Gonzales. I’d’ve ridden off, but now I’m going to kill you. I’ll fill your worthless carcass full of lead and laugh while I’m doing it.”

  “You’re a lowlife, no-account coward, Jensen. Surrender and I won’t gun you down like a mad dog.” Alberto Gonzales punctuated his call for surrender with several more bullets.

  Jensen hadn’t been counting, but instinct told him the deputy had to reload. He got to his feet and steadied himself. He started walking toward the rock where Gonzales had taken refuge. Rather than shooting as he came, he aimed and waited. Every step took him closer.

  “You giving up, Jensen?”

  The deputy popped up to shout the question. When he did, Jensen fired. For an instant, Gonzales said nothing. Then he vanished from sight behind the rock. Jensen kept walking, reloading as he got ever closer. He stared down at the prostrate lawman.

  “Finally,” Jensen grumbled. “I finally got you off my trail.” He cocked his six-shooter and aimed to put another round into the helpless man. A curse escaped his lips. He lowered the hammer and rammed his six-gun back into its holster.

  Running out of ammunition was a real problem. He had a full six-gun and only three more rounds in the loops on his gun belt. Nine shots. As much joy as emptying his gun into the lawman would give him, he had to be practical. He hopped onto the rock and looked around. The woman had disappeared, but he didn’t worry about her too much. His largest obstacle lay dead on the ground.

  He jumped down and grabbed the deputy’s gun. Empty. Grunting, he rolled the body over. The gun belt was as empty of ammo as the discarded pistol. Jensen thought up some new pungent curses and stood. Even robbing the dead wasn’t paying off for him. He put his fingers to his lips and whistled. His horse trotted over and waited for him.

  Jensen swung into the saddle and used his spurs to get the horse galloping. It wasn’t possible for the woman to get away, but his patience had come to an end. Trailing her had been amusing. Killing Alberto Gonzales had changed his mood since that wasn’t as much fun as he expected. If anything, the lawman’s death had been a letdown for him. There wasn’t time to properly celebrate, and tr
uth to tell, he hadn’t enjoyed it the way he’d expected because Gonzales hadn’t suffered enough. For all the trouble the deputy had given Jensen over the past few weeks, he should have lingered long enough to reflect on his mistakes.

  As he rode, Jensen considered staking the deputy over an anthill. He’d heard the Apaches did that to their enemies. Or cut their eyelids off and force them to stare into the sun. All the stories excited Jensen, but he had never seen the Indians do any such thing. They’d all been shipped off to reservations and penned up. Maybe he should find a renegade who’d escaped and ask about their tortures. Or he needed only to wait for his brother. Poke had good stories. After his stay in Yuma, there might be new tortures to consider meting out to lawmen.

  He reached the edge of the meadow. The trees were sparse here, and the exposed ground gave up tracks easily. Jensen swerved from the trail and followed mule tracks deeper into the forest.

  Gauging the mule’s stride showed how it had slowed to a walk. The woman had been lucky getting to woods, but the mule had shown its own mind now and slowed down. Jensen sniffed the air and listened hard. The sound of a small stream came from ahead. The breeze sneaking through the trees brought moisture with it that felt good against his face. His horse turned eager, wanting water. He held it back until he saw the creek.

  Jensen kicked free and hit the ground. He let his horse rush ahead. He walked behind, alert. And he was glad he did. His horse drank greedily. The woman took this as her signal to rush forward. She held a small knife high overhead, ready to drive it into an exposed back.

  Only Jensen had turned the tables on her.

  The metallic click of his pistol cocking froze her. With the knife held high over her head, she turned and faced him.