That peace was shattered when he heard a loud guffawing from somewhere ahead. Cooley dropped to the ground, flat on his belly, and slithered like a snake to hide behind a fallen log. Heart pounding, he screwed his eyes shut. That had to be Jensen laughing. Who else was he likely to find in the forest but the gunfighter?
The laughter faded to the point at which Cooley strained to hear it. He jumped when the mirth was replaced with chanting. He came up to his knees, gun drawn. That wasn’t Jensen. It was an Indian performing some strange ceremony—he could tell by the exuberant chanting.
Stepping over the log, he made his way forward. His gun swung to and fro until he saw the brave through the trees. Covered in dirt, the Indian danced around a guttering campfire. Cooley had no idea what ceremony he was witnessing or why only a single Indian was dancing. He hunkered down to watch. There had to be more Indians lurking. Having a pack of them after his scalp was a blunder to be avoided at all costs.
He trained his sights on the lone Indian, then sank back when the dance stopped. The Indian dropped to his knees and looked as if he prayed. Many of them had been sent back East to parochial schools. Cooley wondered if this one had adopted American ways. Watching the erratic behavior got him nowhere. He skirted the camp and started through the forest to get to the path going back to his cabin.
“Who?”
Cooley jerked around, his six-shooter coming up at the question. The brave stood behind him, hand on a sheathed knife.
“I don’t want any trouble. You get on back to your dancing or whatever you were doing.”
“You have food for No Shadow?”
“No Shadow? That’s your name?” Cooley let his partner deal with the roving bands of Indians throughout the hills. “Do you know England Dan Rutledge? Him and me are partners back at a mine.” He kept the six-shooter leveled but gestured vaguely with his left hand.
“England Dan? A good man. He gives me whiskey.”
This surprised Cooley. Giving firewater to the braves got you in big trouble if the law found out. The cavalry had tossed more than one trader into the hoosegow for dealing with Indians, swapping whiskey and guns for fresh meat and buckskin clothes.
“You still have any of the whiskey? I need to wet my whistle something fierce.”
No Shadow motioned for Cooley to follow him. He didn’t walk back to his camp but instead danced. Cooley found himself mimicking the moves, then cursed himself for such folly. When he got to the campsite, No Shadow crouched beside a large beaded leather pouch. He rummaged about inside it and pulled out a small pint bottle.
“What’s in it?” Cooley had expected amber fluid. The bottle held a clear liquid. He took it when No Shadow held it out to him. He pulled out the cork and sniffed. No smell. A quick sampling made him want to spit it out. “That’s water. You gave me a bottle of warm water.”
“Drank whiskey already,” the brave said. He took the bottle and tilted it back. A single long draft emptied it. With a grand gesture, he wiped his lips, then held the empty bottle in both hands over his head as if making an offering of it.
“What’re you doing? Making an offering to the Great Spirit?”
“Not Great Spirit. Big Owl. Stay away, Big Owl!”
Cooley looked around, but the trees were empty of birds, owls or any other kind.
“Owls don’t fly around hunting in the daylight. We had a pygmy owl roosting in our mine for a spell. But they aren’t big. Not like a great horned owl. Is that what you mean by a big owl? They are big birds.” Cooley frowned.
The brave glared at him as if he had said something dumb. “Big Owl screeches death. You will hear him.”
“I don’t believe in omens, especially one caused by a varmint-eating bird.”
“You will die!” No Shadow jumped to his feet and brandished his knife. The blade flashed silver as it swung in wide circles. No Shadow came toward Cooley.
Cooley didn’t even realize he had his six-gun out again. When the brave raised the knife high over his head, Cooley fired. The bullet tore through the attacking man’s chest. Rather than stop him, it infuriated No Shadow. He lunged. The blade slashed down, barely missing Cooley’s shoulder. A second bullet fired at close range hit the Indian in the chest. This slug killed him outright.
The man’s weight forced Cooley back. He fell with No Shadow stretched on top of him, the knife driven into the ground next to his ear. Panic set in. He cried out and shoved. The brave refused to budge. Scrambling harder, Cooley rolled No Shadow off him and got to his feet, six-gun pointed at the motionless body.
“You tried to kill me. You . . . you . . .” Cooley’s gun hand shook so hard, he had to grab his right wrist with his left hand to control himself. He stared at the body and then the gun. He seldom fired his gun. He had never shot at another man. Now he had gone and killed an Indian.
Nobody would care. This was just a wandering Indian. Cooley couldn’t even figure out what tribe claimed No Shadow from the paint on his face and body.
Keeping his left hand on his wrist, he pulled back and shoved his pistol into his holster. He nudged No Shadow with his toe, hoping to see some signs of life. The full weight of what he had done finally hit him. Cooley stepped back and sat heavily on the ground, staring at the body. Conflicting thoughts crowded into his head. He ought to bury the man, but was saying a prayer over the grave wrong? No Shadow looked as if he had been praying to a god, but which one? Cooley wasn’t much on churchgoing, but he knew he had committed a sin shooting a man.
“Wasn’t a crime. Not a sin,” he muttered. “He came for me with that knife.” The hilt poked up from where it had been sheathed in the earth. That was proof he had only defended himself. It wasn’t like he’d shot the Indian in the back. “I tried to avoid him. That counts for something. It has to.”
Even if he had wanted to report the death, there wasn’t anybody who’d care. Oasis didn’t have a marshal. The sheriff had his office over in Bisbee. But there was Alberto Gonzales. He was a deputy marshal, but there wasn’t any reason for him to care about a single death when he was busy chasing down Lars Jensen. This was a ways from his office, if he had one over in Mesilla.
The sound of horses caused Cooley to snap out of his funk. He jumped to his feet and looked around in fright. Movement showed several riders coming slowly through the forest from the direction of the meadow.
Cut off from where he had been headed, Cooley retreated the way he had come. He dived headlong and skidded on his belly as the riders came fully into sight. Twisting around, he saw four mounted Indians. All had the same color paint on their face as the one he had shot down.
“Self-defense. I killed him because he came at me with the knife.” He drew up his knees and circled them with his arms. Shakes racked him again as he watched the Indians ride about the campsite before dismounting and approaching No Shadow’s body.
When one of them pointed in the direction where Cooley had been headed, he breathed a sigh of relief. Then he tensed. Two others found his trail back into the woods. From the way they stood almost chin to chin and argued, he knew they had found how he had escaped after shooting No Shadow. The entire band looked in his direction, but the one he focused on wore fancier buckskins. The beads shimmered in the sunlight, with some silver worked among the colored beads. That had to be the chief, and what he said carried weight.
He stared straight at Cooley. It was doubtful his gaze penetrated the brush between Cooley and the hunters, but it caused new shakes to torment the hiding man. He clutched his pistol and knew he was a goner if the Indians came for him. He had four shots left. Or perhaps it was three. He hadn’t counted the rounds already in the cylinder when he grabbed the six-shooter back at the cabin.
Edging away slowly, trying not to rustle the leaves, he put more distance between himself and what was likely his death. The Indians wouldn’t understand why he’d had to kill No Shadow. All they knew was
that one of their tribe had been shot. Cooley kept moving like a crab until he got to his feet, found the game trail and lit out running. He gasped for breath before he got too far, but fear kept him stumbling along longer than his endurance would have otherwise permitted. Finally close to collapse, he threw his arms around a tree and supported himself.
Legs wobbly and his lungs filled with liquid fire, he tried to listen for pursuit. His hammering pulse turned his ears into kettledrums. If he kept to the trail, the Indians would overtake him in jig time. They rode their ponies. He depended on shank’s mare.
Cooley pushed away from the tree and left the trail, hopping and jumping along like he had been given a hotfoot. This added distance between his boot prints. He began choosing rocks to land on, green carpets of pine needles that wouldn’t betray his actual course, anything to hide his tracks. He jumped, grabbed an oak tree limb and began inching along until he leaped across to another. Leaves fluttered to the ground, but the Indians wouldn’t follow such a trail. Leaves fell all the time on their own.
He hoped they weren’t good enough trackers.
Panting from exertion, he clung to a limb to rest. His heart dropped when he heard the steady pace of a horse coming toward him once again. They had traced him in spite of his best efforts. Cooley closed his eyes and fought to keep from sobbing.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ALBERTO GONZALES JERKED, moaned and almost escaped the circle of England Dan Rutledge’s arms. The miner tensed and leaned back hard to keep the deputy from falling off the horse. The stallion tried to balk at the uneven weight, forcing England Dan to stop until the load was once more even. He looked past the lawman and let out a sigh of relief. It seemed he had been riding forever and getting nowhere. At last he saw the final bend in the trail before reaching his cabin.
“We’re almost there. Don’t up and die on me.”
“Won’t. Need to get Jensen. Get Jensen,” the deputy whispered hoarsely.
“That’s right,” England Dan said, giving the man a reason to keep breathing. “You’ll catch him for sure. Just think on that.”
The black stallion rounded the bend and headed straight for the shed, where the mule had been stabled. England Dan let the horse have its head. He ducked as Whirlwind went inside, then kicked free and let the deputy fall into his arms. The weight staggered him, but he kept from dropping the injured man. He swung Gonzales around to sit on a hay bale. When he was sure the man wouldn’t topple, he tended to the horse. By the time he finished, Alberto Gonzales fought to climb to his feet.
“Come on. We’ll get you bedded down, then see about the bullet in you.”
The deputy marshal muttered something incoherent. This spurred England Dan on to greater speed. He kicked open the door and heaved to get Gonzales onto the nearest bed. As exhausted as he was, England Dan had no time to rest. He started a fire and got a pan of water boiling. The few rags scattered around the cabin went into the water. Sterilizing them wasn’t going to be perfect, but the deputy wasn’t going to complain. From his drawn look, pinched expression and labored breathing, he wasn’t going to live much longer.
England Dan sterilized his knife blade in the Franklin stove, got his boiled rags and set to work cleaning the wound. After he wiped away the blood, he began digging around in the man’s chest to pry out the bullet. Gonzales turned paler, and England Dan sweat buckets, but the hunk of lead finally popped free. The excess blood was mopped up with the hot rags. Then England Dan wiped away the blood on the other man’s face.
As dangerous as that wound looked, it was minor. The bullet had creased the deputy’s forehead and left a shallow if bloody gash. England Dan had thought Alberto Gonzales was dead when he saw the head wound. Lars Jensen probably thought the same, or he would have finished him off with a final bullet.
“Take some water.” England Dan poured a little over the deputy’s lips.
Gonzales stirred. His eyelids fluttered, and then he focused with surprising strength. “You got it out?”
“Rest. You need to get to town, where someone can look after you.”
“Stop Jensen. Kill him for me. I’ll see you get a reward.” It seemed that was all Alberto Gonzales could focus on. He winced, then subsided, but he didn’t pass out.
England Dan marveled at how strong and determined the lawman was. He had been dancing on the edge of his grave and turned away. Business left unfinished had to be completed. The miner had to wonder if Gonzales would have shown so much fortitude if Jensen had been killed or caught. Job done, life over?
Somehow, he doubted it. There was always another owlhoot to bring to justice for a man like this.
Having the deputy’s stallion made the trip back to Oasis easier. If they both stayed upright in the saddle, it was a long day’s ride. England Dan was anxious to be rid of the responsibility so he could get to other things. He stood in the doorway and looked along the trail where Mabel had carried Mandy and Cooley. Or at least the woman. England Dan worried that his partner had lit out for parts unknown, but he wanted to be sure he wasn’t lying dead at the bottom of a ravine. John Cooley was his partner, and that meant something to him.
Noise from Gonzales’ bed made him look back. The lawman held a tin cup with both hands and drank a bit. Against all odds, he was strong enough to tend to himself. A little. This changed England Dan’s plans. Getting the lawman to Oasis was important, but finding Cooley ranked higher.
“If I leave food and water where you can reach it, will you be all right?” Asking a man wounded as severely as Alberto Gonzales had been if he could take care of himself was foolish. England Dan knew the answer before Gonzales grated it out.
“Get on his trail. Go on. Leave more water, and I’ll ride with you—and him—back to town.”
“I need to find my partner first.” He saw how this upset Gonzales. The man was focused on one thing and one thing only: catching Lars Jensen. Anything else was blasphemy.
“Jensen. Him.” The deputy sank back and closed his eyes. His lips kept moving. Jensen. Jensen.
England Dan placed water and what food he thought was palatable for a wounded man on the table; then he slid it close to the bed. Gonzales had either fallen into a coma or a deep sleep. It was hard to tell which it was. Leaving him was a risk in either case.
“Cooley,” England Dan finally said. Other than sitting and holding the lawman’s hand, there wasn’t much more he could do. The bullet had been plucked out of Gonzales’ chest, so it wouldn’t poison him. He needed to rest and recover his strength. “I have to find if you’re still alive.”
He cleaned his Webley and made sure it carried a full load. Sorting through the larder for trail rations, he came to a decision. The Trafalgar Mine wasn’t much, but it belonged to the pair of them. Trying to claim all of it for himself without proof that Cooley had died would raise the hackles of the townspeople. Not that they admired or respected Cooley. It was a matter of law. Any number of citizens would send word to Bisbee to investigate.
Walking away from the Trafalgar was a possibility since there wasn’t much gold left in its veins. He patted his coat pocket where the map to the Irish Lord Mine rested. If that hidden mine was abandoned, he could claim it for his own. But who left a mine known for the richest strike along the Mogollon Rim? The map must be something else. He looked at Alberto Gonzales. The federal deputy marshal knew things like this for certain.
England Dan wished he had some, a few, even one solid fact to operate on. He sighed. Cooley might know.
He checked Gonzales one last time and stepped outside. Barely had he started toward the shed before he heard footfalls pounding along the trail. A glance to his left showed a decent place to lay down an ambush. He scrambled behind the rocks and drew a bead on a notch in the trail. Anyone coming through the narrow passage would be a sitting duck.
The running sounds came closer. He tensed. His finger drew back on the trigger; t
hen he sagged and put his head against the warm rock. England Dan sat up quickly and called, “I almost shot you!”
John Cooley spun around, eyes wide. His hand rested on the butt of his six-shooter. In his headlong rush, he had been oblivious to the ambush.
“Dan! There you are.”
England Dan slipped and slid back to the trail. He stuffed his Webley back into his holster and studied his partner. Cooley looked a fright. His clothing was ripped, and mud and dirt caked him so heavily that he left behind a small cloud of dust as he moved. Hardly realizing he did it, he glanced down at the trail. The boot imprint with the worn heel and hole in the sole was a perfect match for the boot print he had found what seemed an eternity ago. His tracking skills proved better than he had ever hoped, for all the good they had done him. He’d not found his partner; his partner had returned on his own.
“Where have you been? What happened to Mandy and our mule? Did she steal Mabel?”
“She rode out on Mabel, yeah.” Cooley nervously looked over his shoulder. “Let’s get into the cabin.”
“Who’s after you? Jensen?”
“Not him. I . . . I had a run-in with some Indians, and, well, there was some shooting.”
“Big Ear and a few braves are hunting east of here. You mixed it up with them?” England Dan went cold inside. Big Ear had never taken well to reservation life, and he often slipped away to hunt and more often to raid. Every time the cavalry ran him down caused a little more animosity.
“Is he kinda crazy? This Big Ear fellow?”
They walked back to the cabin. England Dan stopped Cooley from rushing inside. “Don’t make any noise inside. The deputy’s asleep.”
“Alberto Gonzales?” Cooley hopped from foot to foot. “That’s good. He can talk to the Indians and tell them it was all a mistake.”
“What have you done?”
Bit by bit England Dan wormed the story out of Cooley. If his partner had wanted to start a new fight between the white men in the mountains and the Mogollons, he couldn’t have planned it better. No Shadow might have been loco, but he was still valued by the tribe. Truth to tell, England Dan was a bit fond of No Shadow himself. Mostly, even if he had been touched in the head, he wasn’t dangerous.
Lost Banshee Mine Page 11
