Lost Banshee Mine

by Jackson Lowry

Jensen sighted along the barrel, smiled and said, “Howdy. Me and you got things to talk about, missy.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  ENGLAND DAN RUTLEDGE wanted nothing more than to sit beside a fast-running brook and soak his aching feet. Walking back from Oasis had tuckered him out. More than anything, he missed riding Mabel. The mule never complained and kept moving at a steady gait whether it was downslope or uphill all the way back to the Trafalgar Mine.

  He trudged to the split in the trail. The right fork led to his cabin. The uphill path to the mine mocked him. So much work getting to the mine that refused to yield more than a few specks of gold a day. He touched the pocket where he carried Cooley’s treasure map. The Irish Lord Mine had become legendary for the gold pulled from it. And the reason it was legendary was that nobody knew where it was. England Dan had the gut feeling it might not even exist, except in the gold fever–infected minds of prospectors and cowboys telling tall tales around a campfire.

  A quick turn to the right and he started toward the cabin. He slowed and stopped. His hand went to his Webley. A hoofprint in the dirt was too large for a mule’s shoe. A few feet farther away, a pile of horse manure drew flies. Fresh and far too much for Mabel to have dumped. A horse meant trouble. He started to yell to see if Cooley was all right, then clamped his mouth shut.

  If Lars Jensen had tracked Cooley and the woman here, England Dan might be walking into an ambush.

  He thumbed back the hammer to ready his six-shooter for a fight. Walking softly, alert in spite of being dog-tired, he slipped to the side of the cabin. He pressed his ear against the wall. No sound from inside. Edging along the wall, he got to the door. The squeak as he pushed it open would have awakened the dead. A quick look inside confirmed what he suspected. Cooley and Mandy were gone. Somebody had bashed in part of the back wall.

  Searching the cabin didn’t show any blood. Cooley and Mandy hadn’t been killed inside, unless Jensen had strangled them. From what England Dan had seen of the outlaw, he’d use his pistol or a knife rather than his bare hands. Cooley might not have put up a struggle, but from what he had seen of the whore, she’d fight until her last fingernail was ripped out.

  “His gun,” England Dan muttered. “It’s gone. Cooley hightailed it.”

  That thought burning in his brain, he hurried to the shed, where they stabled the mule. Mabel was missing. A quick look showed the tracks in the trail leading around the mountainside. Both Mabel and the horse had gone in that direction.

  England Dan wiped his lips as he considered what to do. Alberto Gonzales ought to be alerted if the man on horseback was Lars Jensen. But convincing the federal deputy of the rider’s identity was a problem since England Dan couldn’t say for certain who was chasing after his partner. Without realizing what he was doing, he started along the trail. A boot print in the dirt stopped him dead in his tracks.

  He dropped to his knees and examined the outline. While he wasn’t the best tracker who ever lived, he read these signs easily enough. Cooley had made the boot print. England Dan recognized the worn heel and the hole in the sole from following the tracks they made up to the mine, day after day.

  Curiously, the tracks led off the trail and down the side of the mountain. Why Cooley hadn’t stuck with the trail was a poser. All he could figure was that Mandy rode the mule and Cooley had tried to decoy Jensen away. That surprised him a mite. Cooley wasn’t the kind to risk his own hide, but he had been smitten with the girl. That changed a man, even John Cooley.

  England Dan slipped and slid a ways down the slope and found a rocky ledge that ran parallel to the trail twenty feet above him. He dropped to all fours and pushed his face low, trying to catch a small shadow off raised tracks in the dust. Finding nothing in either direction, he swung around and sat, thinking hard. Where Cooley had gone and how coming down here had helped Mandy get away were mysteries that needed to be solved.

  England Dan looked back up. From here Cooley would have had no shot at Jensen, even if the man rode tall on his horse. He would have been better served to go upslope and shoot down if he wanted to ambush the outlaw. England Dan got to his feet and trooped along the narrow ledge, heading in the same direction as the mule and Jensen. Checking now and again for signs, he finally gave up. If Cooley had come this way, he had walked like an Indian and left no tracks. More likely, he had gone the opposite way to get away from any trouble.

  That disappointed England Dan since it meant his partner hadn’t changed one whit. He had looked out for himself and let Mandy fend for herself.

  The ledge suddenly dropped off, leaving a four-foot gap between one side of the trail and the other. Jumping posed a problem since England Dan needed a running start. The ledge curled around the mountain and prevented him from getting much traction. Since the trail had petered out, he climbed back up to the higher track. When he pulled himself over the edge, he saw a steamy pile of horse dung. He was on the right course again. Lengthening his stride so he devoured the distance, he set a better pace than if he rode Mabel.

  He tired himself out more than if he rode the mule, but he felt he was getting somewhere now. As fast as he walked, he stopped suddenly when he heard gunshots ahead. A quick touch on the butt of his six-shooter assured him he was ready for whatever went on ahead. Whatever it was, he doubted Cooley had any part in it. The first shots were from a rifle. Answering the long gun came sharp, loud reports that sounded nothing like Cooley’s handgun.

  Whoever shot it out had meant it. Volley after volley came. Then silence. That meant someone had given up—or had taken enough lead to die. England Dan’s stomach turned over. If Jensen survived, England Dan would be walking right into danger. He plowed ahead, running now to reach the meadow. Ahead he saw a man drop down from his horse and kneel.

  He was checking to see if his opponent was dead. The man stood, took off his hat and wiped sweat from his forehead. The shock of blond hair identified him. Jensen was the victor in this fight. England Dan raised his pistol, but the range was too great. Jensen stepped back up into the saddle and holstered his pistol. As he sat upright, he presented a perfect target—if England Dan had carried a rifle. Firing now only alerted the outlaw that he had another man to kill.

  Jensen trotted off, never looking back. England Dan ran forward and vaulted over a ridge of rocks that the outlaw’s victim had used for shelter. As he feared, he saw Alberto Gonzales sprawled flat on his back. A wound in his chest had spread, and blood soaked the lawman’s shirt. That slug might have stolen his life, but more likely, from the way his face was entirely hidden by caked blood, a shot to the head had killed him.

  Shooing away flies, England Dan knelt beside the deputy. His pockets had been turned out when Jensen searched the body. A discarded pistol and an empty gun belt showed what Jensen sought. England Dan took some grim pleasure that the owlhoot had run short of ammunition. How much, if any, he had taken off the deputy gave only a few more shots.

  He reached over Gonzales to pick up the man’s sombrero. Staring at the dead man’s bloodied face unnerved him. Even leading his command in India, he had never gotten used to such wounds. He recoiled and sat heavily when he dropped the hat over the deputy’s face, and the man batted it away and moaned.

  “You’re alive?” His voice came out in a hoarse whisper. “How can you be alive?”

  One dark eye opened and fixed on him. Alberto Gonzales reached up and grabbed him by the lapel and pulled him down.

  “Get him,” the lawman croaked out. “Gun him down. He’s a mad-dog killer. For me, shoot him.”

  “You need medical help.” England Dan knew how lame that sounded. They were a day’s travel away from Oasis. And finding a doctor there was harder than finding a sober man in the Thirsty Camel Saloon.

  “Get him.” Gonzales gripped even harder and pulled England Dan down so his bloody lips were inches from his ear. “I can make it, if I know you plugged him. For me. Reward. Get him.” />
  Alberto Gonzales released the grip, and England Dan rocked back. He stared at the deputy, thinking he had died. But he hadn’t. The man was as tough as nails. His chest rose a bit and fell fast as he gasped for breath. The few options he had became jumbled in England Dan’s head. Without proper attention, the deputy was a goner. He had at least one lead slug in him that had to come out. But taking him anywhere was out of the question. They were in the middle of a mountain meadow, and England Dan wasn’t up to dragging the deputy, even if he put together a travois.

  He craned his neck. Jensen was disappearing at the far side of the meadow, riding into a thick stand of pines. England Dan stood and turned slowly in a full circle. Salvation lay in the opposite direction. The deputy’s powerful black stallion edged toward them, smelling blood and likely still skittish from the gunfight. With the horse to carry the lawman, returning to the mine cabin would be far easier. There he could tend to the man’s bullet wounds out of the hot sun. Better yet, in the cabin there wouldn’t be the constant swarm of insects waiting to dine on almost-dead flesh.

  Two fingers in his mouth, he let out a long, loud whistle. The black stallion reared, pawed at the air, then landed hard and turned its head to stare at England Dan. A second whistle brought it trotting over.

  “Good horse, good Whirlwind,” Alberto Gonzales grated out.

  Taking the reins, England Dan walked the horse around to let it get used to him. The smell of its master’s blood still spooked Whirlwind, but it settled down.

  As he got the feel of the animal, England Dan considered how best to sling Gonzales over the saddle to return to the cabin. His train of thought was derailed when the deputy called out in a surprisingly strong voice.

  “I’m all right. Track him down. Shoot him. Shoot him for me. I’ll see you get the reward.”

  England Dan hesitated. Leaving the lawman was dangerous. His wounds might do him in at any instant, but Mandy had a killer on her trail. Mabel was no match for the swift horse Lars Jensen rode. He balanced the two choices. Alberto Gonzales was likely to die. Mandy could be saved but at great risk.

  “Go,” Gonzales urged. “There’s a girl. Jensen is after her. Save her.”

  England Dan grumbled as he made the deputy as comfortable as he could; then he positioned the sombrero to keep the sun off the man’s face and chest.

  “This is the best I can do right now. I’ll save her. Don’t you go dying on me. I’ll be back as fast as I can.”

  Alberto Gonzales made a dismissive gesture and settled down, his chin on his chest. Again England Dan thought the man had died, but the labored breathing continued. He swung onto Whirlwind’s back and let the stallion have its head. The powerful beast shot like a rocket, headed directly for the spot where Jensen had entered the woods.

  Most horses England Dan had ridden were spirited, but none had the strength and speed of the deputy’s black stallion. He couldn’t help comparing this ride with being astride Mabel. That was hardly fair. The mule was surefooted, strong and usually uncomplaining. It performed chores Whirlwind would never do.

  And the wind tearing past England Dan’s face was something impossible to achieve riding Mabel. He slowed as the trees rose around him. The cool forest enveloped him and muffled sounds. He slowed to a walk and finally drew rein to better listen to the world around him.

  A distant horse neighing had to have been Jensen on his mount. England Dan rode Whirlwind in that direction for a few minutes, then dropped to the ground. The forest floor was carpeted with fresh pine needles. He saw a few crushed patches where a horse might have trod, but he wasn’t sure. The broken branches on some brush still oozed sap. He didn’t have to be an expert tracker to know he was on the right trail. Someone had ridden past here only a short while earlier. This, along with the sounds ahead, put him on guard.

  With an easy draw, he pulled his six-shooter and led Whirlwind deeper into the woods. He tethered the horse to an oak limb when he heard movement ahead. Riding up on Jensen was a surefire way to get himself filled with lead. Sneaking ahead, keeping as quiet as possible, brought him to the edge of a clearing. For a few seconds he thought his ears had deceived him. Then he saw movement in shadows twenty yards off.

  He drew a bead and slowly pulled back on the trigger. Common sense overrode his need to get even with Lars Jensen. Without knowing for sure whom he was about to shoot at, he could kill some stranger who was innocently riding through the woods. When his target stepped out into the sunlight, he jerked back on the trigger.

  Jensen!

  His reaction caused the bullet to sail high and harmless. Jensen reacted with the speed of a striking rattler. He swung around, six-shooter drawn. He homed in on England Dan like a bloodhound on the scent. Bullets ripped past the miner and drove him back. He squeezed off a couple rounds that did nothing to stop the outlaw’s attack.

  Taking refuge behind a tree, he heard Jensen’s bullets hammer into the wood only inches from his head. He broke open his pistol and ejected the spent brass. Fumbling, he reloaded and waited. Jensen had to reload soon. When he did, that would give the chance for a full-out frontal attack.

  The pause in the attack spurred England Dan to action. He whirled around the tree. From the corner of his eye, he saw the splinters blown off the trunk. Concentrating on Jensen, he rushed forward, ready to kill. He swung around, trying to find the outlaw. Lars Jensen had vanished like fog in the bright Arizona sunlight.

  If there hadn’t been a faint cloud of gun smoke slowly dissipating, he wouldn’t have known anything had disturbed the forest’s solitude. Working his way to the edge of the clearing, he looked around for an ambush. Try as he might, he couldn’t find a trail to follow.

  England Dan wrestled with the problem. He had no trail to follow. Mabel was nowhere to be seen or heard. If Mandy still rode the mule, she was running away and knew to hide from anyone after her. Jensen deserved to be brought down, but England Dan wasn’t a lawman. Far from it. He felt an obligation to do as Alberto Gonzales had asked—to kill the outlaw. But he couldn’t help but think back to the deputy, who was still alive.

  For the moment.

  If he wasn’t tended to soon, a new grave would be necessary. Better to save him so he could recover and go after the desperadoes like Jensen. Even before he was back in the saddle, Gonzales had the authority to call in other federal agents who were all able to do more than England Dan ever could. He was a miner, not a marshal.

  He backed into the forest. Guilt gnawed at him. He had been cashiered from the British Army in India for cowardice. At the time he had thought it was better to save a village than to launch a suicidal attack. The same dilemma gripped him now. Go after a killer and maybe get killed? Or retreat and help the injured federal deputy marshal?

  “She’s your problem, Cooley,” he grumbled. “You’re the one who brought her to the mine.” He snorted derisively. All their problems had come from Cooley’s bad decisions. A quick pat on his coat pocket assured him that the map still rode there. Cooley had wasted what little gold they’d eked out of the Trafalgar Mine and set off a series of killings. Mandy’s sister and her customer, and likely a federal lawman.

  England Dan’s duty was once more clear. Save as many lives as possible rather than rush headlong into a fight he wasn’t fit to wage. He mounted Whirlwind and turned the horse’s face. Getting through the woods took forever, but the horse strained to return to its owner’s side.

  “You get the varmint?” Alberto Gonzales fixed England Dan with a fevered gaze.

  “Can you sit upright in the saddle, or do I have to sling you over it?”

  Gonzales protested weakly as England Dan boosted him up. He damned his savior for not bringing in the outlaw. His biting critique of England Dan’s heredity and personal habits became so feeble, they descended into mumbled whispers. Then he passed out.

  England Dan rode behind, his arms around the still breathing dep
uty. He had to save the man or again he would have made the wrong decision like the one that had brought his disgrace in the army.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  LARS JENSEN FELT good about killing the annoying lawman. Alberto Gonzales had become worse than a burr under the saddle blanket. Being forced to watch his back trail while trying to recover the map for his brother had made Jensen a tad anxious. He didn’t like the feeling. When he got the map and handed it over to Poke, the last of his collywobbles would be put to rest. It was always good when Poke wasn’t on the warpath, and that would only happen if Beeman’s map was recovered.

  He slowed when he reached the edge of the wooded area. The forest turned dense only a few yards in. The pine and the juniper grew close-packed, making riding more difficult. The occasional game trail gave the best chance for finding the fleeing woman. Her mule wasn’t inclined to pioneer a new path through the trees.

  Jensen hopped down and walked along, leading his horse. His sharp eyes failed to find any trace of the mule walking along the first game trail. He stopped and considered what a frightened girl would do. A quick left turn took him deeper into the forest. A smile curled his lips. A dead bush had been trampled into dust on the ground by a hoof. Dried branches were broken and scattered a ways along the trail. He was back after the woman.

  Hurrying along, he found increasing evidence that someone had come this way. It had to have been the woman riding the mule. Who else was out here? The deputy was dead, and the man who’d been with the whore hadn’t been evident anywhere along the trail. Still, Jensen wanted to be ready.

  The clearing gave him a quick look as the woman rode her mule into the forest on the far side. He swung into the saddle and urged his horse forward. He grinned as the whore looked back over her shoulder and spotted him. Her best bet was to keep going straight and not let him close the distance between them.