Lost Banshee Mine

by Jackson Lowry

  “You weren’t tried for the robbery. All they charged you with was that arson up in Prescott last year.”

  “Beeman died with a bullet in him but passed the map to Rivera before he succumbed, but then Rivera upped and died out in the desert. I got a description of the drifter who found him from another prisoner who was locked up after me.”

  Lars Jensen saw the chance to lie, but his brother had an instinct that made him decide that wasn’t a good idea. Since they’d been little children, Poke had seen right through his lies. Better to fess up.

  “I shot the drifter outside this very saloon, but he didn’t have the map. Wait!” He held up his hand. “I figured out that a miner had it. He bought it for a few dollars because the drifter had no notion what the map showed. From what I gather, he—and the miner—thought it was a map to what the local folks call the Irish Lord Mine.”

  “How’d they come by that idea?” Poke Jensen stopped drinking and leaned forward, his elbows on the table. The way he thrust out his chin and a tiny tic under his left eye warned Lars Jensen that he was running out of time to explain. His brother exploded like a case of old dynamite when he got hot enough under the collar.

  After Poke had struggled with a dead horse and not enough water to get through the Sonoran Desert south of Yuma Penitentiary, the short fuse would burn fast.

  “I never saw the map, but Beeman must have hid the payroll in a mine shaft. It has to be an abandoned mine, right? Rumors have it the owner of the Irish Lord up and died and nobody works the mine. They don’t even know exactly where it is.”

  “It could be any mine. You don’t know that Beeman hid anything in this Irish Lord hole in the ground.”

  “What I’m saying, Poke, is that we don’t rightly need the map if that’s where he stashed the money. There has to be a deed filed somewhere telling the location of the mine.”

  “Where’s the map?” Ice water dripped from Poke’s every word.

  “This miner, Cooley by name, must still have it, but tracking him down’s proved real hard. I shot a whore and her john, thinking it was him. Turned out to be Cooley’s whore’s twin I shot. It was a natural mistake.”

  “Natural. Lars, you’re telling me you’ve been chasing around, trying to find this Cooley fellow, and he’s sidestepped you so many times you lost track of him?”

  “There’ve been other problems. Indians. And a federal deputy marshal from over in Mesilla. Don’t worry your head none about that, Poke. It was me he was after, not you. I took care of him. But all this gave Cooley the time to get away. He knows the country here better’n I ever could.”

  “You don’t have the map. You’ve concocted some cock-and-bull story about an abandoned mine, then tried to gussy it up with a dead lawman and Indians. Is all that about right?”

  Lars Jensen shifted uneasily in his chair. He moved so his hand came closer to his six-shooter. If his brother even twitched, he’d throw down on him. Poke was fast, but he’d been in a hellhole of a prison for six months. That might give enough time to clear leather and shoot him. Ever since they’d been teenagers, he’d wondered when the showdown would happen and the cause. If he’d asked, his brother would have dealt him into the cavalry-payroll theft, but avoiding robberies with Poke was the safest thing to do. Getting blamed—and shot—because a theft went wrong had always seemed inevitable.

  Poke wasn’t too good at taking the blame when things went south.

  “That’s a good telling of it. What I’m saying is that we probably don’t need the map. Mule Springs has to be the spot where Beeman drew the map. It’s where he got shot up by the soldiers on his tail.”

  “The Superstition Mountains are as big from the other side as they are on this side. You could hunt for the rest of your life and not find more than a stone in your boot.” Poke leaned back and fixed a deadly stare on his younger brother. Lars forced himself to meet that gaze without flinching. To show any fear now would set off a reaction in his brother that wouldn’t end until people—lots of them—died.

  “I’ve got some ideas about finding the map.”

  “Where’s Cooley’s mine? I know the hard-rock men. If there’s a flake of gold left, he’ll go back there. He can’t help himself.”

  “He’s got a partner,” Lars said, nodding. “Chances are good one or the other of them will be there. Let me ask around town about Cooley and meet you at that mine when I know more.”

  “Meet me there when you have the map.” Poke pushed to his feet, a little tipsy from drinking so much whiskey, one shot after another. “I’ve got other business to take care of.”

  Lars watched his brother carefully to be sure he didn’t go for his iron. Instead, he left. When Poke was at the door, Lars called out, “See you up in the hills. It’s the Trafalgar Mine you want.”

  The barkeep gasped at that. Lars Jensen shut him up with a hiss like a stepped-on rattler’s. It was almost enough to make him laugh when Hendrix found a stack of clean shot glasses that needed special polishing and he stared hard at every imagined speck. The satisfaction he felt at cowing the man faded. His brother had done the same thing with him. He touched the butt of his six-shooter, then left the saloon. Poke had already disappeared, whether on his way to Cooley’s mine or somewhere else didn’t matter. He had his own job, and it wasn’t going to be easy. Finding the map in a few hours when he had been hunting for weeks put pressure on him that rankled.

  Getting into any kind of pickle with Poke was wrong. And dangerous.

  He tugged his hat brim down to shield his eyes from the sun and set off for the brothel at the edge of town. The only thread he could tug on ran into the cathouse. Jensen started walking slowly, but his stride lengthened as he worried more about his brother’s patience running out. Poke meant what he said. Jensen considered how to approach the matter. The decision was made for him. The madam sat on the front porch, rocking and sipping at a glass filled with amber fluid. He doubted she drank the rotgut served at the Thirsty Camel. She had the money to buy good swill.

  “Come on up and set yourself down, mister.” Madam Morgan motioned to him. He settled into a chair beside her, wary of the vitriolic woman. If she was going to be halfway civil, he intended to take advantage of it. She was irked when he poured himself a drink without her offering first.

  He knocked it back. The whiskey was as good as he thought it would be. He sampled another couple fingers of the rye. “I’m looking for the cute blonde.”

  “We got plenty of those to choose from.” She eyed him over the rim of her glass. Her rheumy eyes worked to focus better.

  “The one I want’s the one whose sister was killed.” He shifted a little in the chair and glanced at his pistol.

  “This ain’t your first time here, then, is it?” Madam Morgan squinted harder at him. Recognition began to dawn on her.

  “I wasted my time before. Doing that a second time would make me mad. Real mad.” He considered another drink and decided against it. Keeping a clear head if shooting started was important. He had to remember finding the map mattered more than leaving bodies in his wake.

  “You’re interested in a certain lawman, I reckon. What’s it worth to you if I told you where he was?” Madam Morgan looked cagey.

  He snorted in disgust. “Absolutely nothing. I want the girl. What’s her name?”

  “Mandy.”

  “And the miner who hires her. Cooley.”

  “John Cooley.”

  “John? That’s actually his name?” Jensen chuckled. “That’s about the most apt name I’ve come across in a month of Sundays.”

  “I never thought on that before. But you don’t care about the deputy?”

  “Not a whit.” He wondered why she had dangled that in front of him. She must not have known he had left Alberto Gonzales dead in a field somewhere in the hills. “Mandy. Where is she? And where’s Cooley?”

  “I can
pass along a way to find them. For a price.” Madam Morgan looked downright canny now.

  “I’ll pay the price,” he said, standing. “The price is a single bullet in your head.” He cleared leather fast and pointed his six-gun at her. She had enough whiskey in her not to flinch, but he saw the flash of fear. He only had to nudge her a little more to find what he wanted to know. He cocked the gun and made a show of aiming.

  “You kill me, you’ll never find them.” The words sounded lame. They both knew it.

  “I’ll find them sooner or later, and until then I’ll have the warm memory of killing you.” He waited. He had to give her credit for not begging or crying. There was enough gumption for her to face him down. “She’s inside, isn’t she? That saves me shooting you.”

  Jensen edged around her, wary that she might draw a hideout pistol and shoot him in the back. He remembered how she had waved around the straight razor the last time she tried to stop him. Madam Morgan made no move this time. He ducked inside. A pair of half-dressed women lounged in the parlor. They started to come to him, then saw he wasn’t here for the kind of service they offered.

  “Mandy. Where is she?” One of them, a mousy brunette, rolled her eyes toward the stairs leading to the second floor. That was good enough for him. He started up the stairs, then slowed and stopped halfway up.

  Voices filtered down from above. He strained to make out the muffled sounds.

  “She wouldn’t dare touch you, not with me here.”

  “She’d dare anything since I’m running out on her after she agreed to take me back. That’s something she’ll never forgive, me breaking my word.”

  “. . . missed you so much, I had to come back.”

  “You’re a liar, John Cooley. What really brought you back here? You wanted to see if he could get you a reward? Is that it?”

  Jensen wondered whom the woman meant. The nearest lawman was in Bisbee. He had seen to that. Nobody else passed out rewards. Jensen reached for his gun, only to feel his feet pulled out from under. He crashed facedown onto the steps. The edge of a riser caught him in the middle of his forehead. His neck cracked and blood spurted from the head cut. He was dragged down the steps, hitting one after another.

  Dazed, he grabbed for his six-shooter, but it was on the top step. Every passing second he was yanked farther away. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he shook his head. It felt as if something had come loose inside.

  “Get rid of him, Gus. Permanently.”

  Lars Jensen grunted as a boot crashed into the middle of his back. The brothel’s bouncer kicked him again. Jensen appreciated the attack. Always kick a man when he was down.

  Because he might get up if you didn’t finish him off.

  He rolled left and then jerked right, coming over to lie on his back. He grabbed the bouncer’s foot as he tried to kick him again. A powerful twist sent Gus stumbling and gave Jensen a few seconds to recover. Sitting up made him dizzy. He fought through it. Madam Morgan had defined the fight. If Gus came back, it’d be a fight to the death.

  The bouncer growled like a mad dog and lumbered over. Jensen reached down, found his sheathed knife and pulled it free. A quick stab as Gus tried to land on top of him ended the man’s life. Jensen lay pinned under his deadweight. When he regained enough strength, he heaved and got the body off him. Blood soaked his shirt—and very little of it was his. Gus bled out like a slaughtered pig.

  Madam Morgan gasped, rushed to the door and ran. Catching her would have been easy enough, but his brother’s words burned into his brain. He wiped off his blade on the bouncer’s pants. By the time he made his way to the top of the stairs and retrieved his gun, the door to the first room stood open.

  A quick look inside showed it was empty. Jensen swore, then stumbled down the hallway to the back stairs. He fell more than walked down the steps and threw open the back door.

  All he saw was a dust cloud slowly settling in the direction of town. He’d come close to catching Cooley. But the miner didn’t have that much of a head start. Lars Jensen pushed his hat up so the cut on his forehead wouldn’t stain the band, and he ran as fast as he could to reach the livery stables. He had a miner to chase and a map to retrieve.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  COOLEY SHIVERED AS he snapped the reins and kept Mabel plodding through the chilly dawn. More than once he had looked over his shoulder to see if anyone was catching up. The wind whistled through the treetops, but no sound matching that of the night before added to his fright.

  “Big Owl,” he whispered. “That’s who it was coming for me. Damn you, Dan, taking me into the hills where an ogre is all set to eat my flesh.” He jumped again as a mourning dove spoke and another answered. He urged the mule to a quicker gait. Mabel responded, as if fearing what lay behind them, too.

  He drifted off to an uneasy sleep, letting Mabel move along without guidance. The rising sun touched his face and caused him to sneeze. This shook him awake. An instant of panic passed. Cooley had no idea where he was. This was brand-new terrain for him, but the direction told him he was still headed back toward Oasis. An hour later he came across a road and knew where he was. If he turned left and headed uphill, he’d arrive at the Trafalgar Mine eventually.

  That wasn’t in the cards. He’d run out on England Dan, and one man working the mine couldn’t produce enough gold to live on. Being alone at the mine after what he’d experienced sent a new shiver up his spine. Big Owl. Big Owl and the Lost Banshee Mine. As much as he wanted to cash in on the vast wealth in the hidden mine, the banshee had shrieked and he’d heard it, and so had No Shadow, who had died. The sooner he got out of the Superstition Mountains, the better. He felt a mite guilty about leaving his partner without so much as a fare-thee-well, but England Dan was welcome to the mine.

  A bad taste came into his mouth. He was welcome to their played-out mine, only he’d heard the banshee scream, too. That meant he was a goner if he lingered in the mountains.

  Cooley took the fork in the road leading into Oasis. Returning before he was rich was wrong, but Mandy had learned to accept his failures. Not that he was that much of a failure. He owned half the Trafalgar Mine, and if Dan actually found the Lost Banshee Mine, it stood to reason he was entitled to half. They were partners and had never formally dissolved their union.

  As he rode, the rising sun warm on his back, he stared at the road ahead. Emptiness stretched all the way down into the foothills. Cooley appreciated that. He had no desire to fight off a banshee, if such a thing was possible. He wished Dan had told him more about the ghosts or whatever banshees were. All he really knew was that they howled before somebody died.

  And one had sung its death song for him to hear.

  “Maybe it doesn’t count. Big Owl is an Indian banshee. No Shadow died, and he was one of the Mogollon tribe.” The memory of how the half-loco brave had died worried him some. He’d had more than a little part in the death. “I must have been forced by the banshee to kill him. I never wanted to shoot him.” Cooley swallowed hard. “It was a curse. A spell. The banshee cast its spell on me so I’d do its bidding.”

  As he rode more, this seemed plausible. Not only were Indians the only ones likely to die when Big Owl screeched, but the curse made someone else perform the deadly deed.

  By the time he rode into Oasis, he was positive this was what had happened. He hadn’t been responsible for the Indian’s death, and hearing Big Owl meant someone else—one of the Mogollon hunters, perhaps—was slated to die.

  Cooley rode around to the back of the brothel, not wanting to face Madam Morgan. He had seen her sitting on the front porch, swilling her liquor. Sneaking in to see Mandy without dickering over a fee with the madam was the only way he’d get inside. He doubted Madam Morgan would even let him see Alberto Gonzales and find out how the deputy marshal was faring. She had a habit for charging for everything, and he didn’t have two nickels to rub together. Th
e only reason she would have taken the deputy in was to get a favor from him later. Having a deputy marshal beholden to you gave leverage to do all kinds of illicit things.

  He left the mule in the shed behind the cathouse. The horse that had been the Mogollon chief’s reared when he put Mabel in the stall next to it.

  “You remember me, don’t you, you miserable hunk of horseflesh?” He tried to soothe the animal, but it bucked and kicked. It remembered him with no fondness. “Mandy deserves you, the way she stayed behind and let me go into the hills.”

  Memories of the banshee’s cry made him hurry back to the house. He gingerly tried the side door. Locked. A bit of rattling loosened the latch enough so he could slip in. He heard two of the girls talking in the parlor, but looking into the back room was his goal. The door creaked as he opened it and peered inside.

  Alberto Gonzales thrashed about on the narrow bed. Cooley tried to decide if the lawman was in a coma or asleep and enduring a nightmare.

  “Maybe he’s hearing a banshee.” He meant the words as a joke. Instead Cooley scared himself.

  He decided the deputy was doing just fine. His color was good, a full plate of food sat on a side table and, from the look of the half-filled glass, he had drunk enough water to revive a man dying of thirst out in the Sonoran Desert. Gonzales was on the mend.

  Closing the door gently, he heaved a sigh. If the deputy had died, the US marshal over in New Mexico would have sent a small army to investigate. Although he wasn’t wanted for anything in particular, Cooley had run afoul of the law a few times as he made his way through Texas on his way to Arizona. A diligent law enforcement officer could find a wanted poster or two down in San Angelo and a couple other places.

  There wasn’t any chance that Davy Crockett’s descendants would bail him out, either. If there were any others.

  Carefully climbing the stairs to avoid the loose steps that would squeak and betray him, he got to the second floor. At this time of day, none of the cribs was occupied. He made his way to the room at the head of the stairs. The door was ajar. He peeked in and smiled broadly.