Shakespeare dared not nod or speak. The cold steel might slice deeper.
Grunting, Jasper Flynt sheathed his long blade, “That’s better.” He walked off, remarking, “We’ve got a long day ahead of us tomorrow. I need to be rested up.”
Tittering drew Shakespeare’s gaze to the grimy character standing guard.
“That Flynt sure is a card! Touchy as sin, ain’t he, McNair?”
“Do I know you?”
“No, we ain’t ever been introduced. But I know who you are. Hell, every coon who ever laid a beaver trap has heard of you.” The man extended his right hand to shake. “I’m Jeb Calloway, from down Alabama way.”
Shakespeare just stared at him.
Realizing what he had done, Calloway blinked, then shamefacedly lowered his arm. “Sorry. I plumb forgot you was trussed up.”
“What’s this all about, Jeb? What’s Flynt up to?”
The Alabamian glanced toward the sleeping figures. “He’d gut me if I was to jabber.”
“Whisper so he won’t hear you.”
Calloway licked his mouth and rubbed his palms on his pants. “Well, truth is, I don’t know much. None of us do. Other than the fact we’re all going to be filthy rich pretty soon.”
“Did Flynt say how this miracle was going to come about?”
“Naw. He’s too smart. He’s playin’ this real close to the vest, if you know what I mean.”
“Where did you first meet him?”
“Oh, I’ve known Jasper for years. Most of the boys have. He only looked up those he felt he could trust. I was in a bar, half drunk, when he made me the offer.”
“Where was this?” Any details Shakespeare could glean, however insignificant, might shed light on whatever Flynt was up to.
“St. Louis,” Calloway said. “He rounded up all fourteen of us in St. Louis. We had to hustle some to get ready to leave in time. That crazy Spaniard didn’t waste a minute once he hired Jasper.”
“How does Varga fit into this?”
“I’m not too sure. Again, Jasper ain’t been lavish with information. We’ve been doggin’ the Spaniard’s expedition for weeks now, and soon it’ll pay off.” The Alabamian sat down. A twig caught his notice. Picking it up, he pried at tobacco-stained teeth.
Shakespeare frowned and lay back. He had not learned much at all. His only hope now was that Nate track them down and rescue him. If not, well, he’d had a fine, long run, longer than most. He’d laughed and loved and never done harm except to those who asked for it. Maybe the Almighty would count that in his favor.
Beside him, the fire sizzled like a thing alive.
Nate King was awake before the first pale pink streak banded the eastern sky. Sentries patrolled the camp’s perimeter, an extra man always near the horses since without their mounts and pack animals, the expedition must turn back to civilization.
Nate sat up and stretched. His family and Blue Water Woman were still asleep. He would let them rest a few more minutes yet. Standing, he turned, and was surprised to discover someone else already awake.
“I hope you will reconsider my offer, Señor King,” Don Manuel de Varga said. He was seated on a crate, sipping coffee. “It means more to me than I can say.”
Nate donned his ammo pouch and powder horn, stuck both pistols under his belt, and strolled over. Rosa was not far off, kneading dough. She looked up and smiled.
“What do you say, my friend?” Don Varga prompted.
Nate thought he had said it all the night before. He had made it clear that he would not serve as their guide. He wanted no part in the Spaniard’s half-baked scheme. “I assumed we had settled this,” he said as he helped himself to some of Rosa’s delicious brew.
The Spaniard smiled thinly. “I am afraid that I am not a man who accepts defeat graciously. I need you, Señor King. I mean to have you help me, because without your aid, I could wander these mountains for years and not find the lost mine of Captain Pedro Valdez.”
“Who?”
“A soldier in Spain’s army. He and a small garrison were assigned to protect a tiny settlement built only forty miles south of here. Many people think that San Carlos, down on the Arkansas River, was our northernmost outpost, but they are mistaken.”
Nate was one of them. Rumors had circulated for years, though, that the Spanish penetrated farther north than anyone ever suspected in search of the fabled Seven Cities of Gold. Here was proof.
“San Lupez, the settlement was called. Indians routinely came to trade with the settlers. One day, several showed up with some gold. Naturally, Captain Valdez was curious. He tried to persuade them to take him to where they found the ore, but they refused. Their people would not like it. The spot was taboo to outsiders.”
Nate tried to think of all the tribes in the region who might have a secret source of the precious metal. There was only one he could think of, and if he was right, he most definitely wanted no part in the expedition. They would be going to their graves.
Varga continued the account. “Captain Valdez had to kill one before the other two would do as he wanted. He was taken to a cave high in the mountains, a cave lined thick with gold, so much gold that it made a man half mad to look at it.”
“Valdez started to mine the ore?”
“Of course. But he had only scratched the surface when the Indians rose up in rebellion. The settlers were wiped out, every trace of the settlement destroyed. The good captain was lucky to escape with his life. Him, and a dozen soldiers. But he made a map, intending to come back one day. Unfortunately, circumstances prevented it.”
“And now you have his map,” Nate said. “So why do you need a guide?”
“Because the map is not as specific as I would like. Certain landmarks might be hard to locate.” Don Varga stared at the emerald mountains. “I need someone who knows this area. Señor Flynt claimed he did. With him gone, you are the next logical choice.”
Nate eased to the ground, his back to a crate. “Don Varga, you’ve been open and honest with me. So I’ll do you the same favor.” He bobbed his chin at the formidable peaks. “Don’t go up there. If your sons and daughter mean anything to you, you’ll turn back while you still can.”
“It is precisely because they mean everything to me that I am doing this, señor” Varga fondly regarded his slumbering brood. “They are my life, my joy. I must do what I can to restore our fortune, for their sake. I’ll die a happy man if I know that they can go on living in the style to which they have become accustomed.”
Nate drank more coffee, mulling how best to convince the Spaniard to change his mind. “Which tribe wiped out the settlement?”
“The Utes.”
“I knew it,” Nate said. The Utes were a proud, defiant people who had been holding their own against the Apaches and Comanches for generations.
Initially, the tribe had tried to drive Nate from the high valley. Over and over again, warriors were sent against him. Over and over, they failed. But the tribe was undeterred. For every warrior he slew, two more were ready to take their fallen friend’s place.
His life had been a nightmare, one attack after another, for weeks and weeks on end. What made it worse was never knowing when the next attack would take place. Would it be when he went down to the lake for water? When he heeded nature’s call? His nerves had frayed to the point where he jumped at shadows.
Ironically, the Utes ended the dispute by coming to him for help. As a worthy adversary, he had earned their respect. As an adopted Shoshone, he had been in an ideal position to parley a truce between the Utes and the Shoshones, who had clashed over which tribe could lay claim to a valley sacred to both.
Now the Utes left Nate pretty much alone. A prominent warrior had become his fast friend, and now and then stopped to visit. The rest avoided his valley, or watched his family from a distance.
Other whites were not so lucky. A couple of trappers had been killed the year before, stripped naked and scalped, after they had the gall to lay trap lines in Ute
territory.
Nate scanned the camp. Was he looking at men and women already dead, who just did not know it yet? “Have you done much Indian-fighting?”
“The Apaches have plagued my hacienda for many years. They steal horses, kidnap women. But always we have driven them off. My vaqueros are a match for a number of red devils.”
Where had Nate heard nonsense like that before? It was the sort of attitude that bred disaster. “I don’t know what else I can say,” he said frankly. “If you’re bound and determined to be turned into worm food, it’s your privilege. But I won’t have any part in your suicide.”
Don Varga pursed his lips. “I am most sorry to hear it, señor. My back is to the wall, as you Americans say. I must do what I must do.”
“We all must,” Nate said, figuring the matter was finally at an end.
Just about that time, Ignacio woke up and came over. “Buenas dias, padre,” he greeted his father. To Nate, he merely nodded. Rosa brought him a cup of coffee, which he swilled in three gulps. “The sun will rise shortly,” he said in English. “When do we leave, Father?”
“As soon as your brothers and the women wake up.”
“They have slept enough,” Ignacio said. Cupping both hands to his mouth, he hollered, “Wake up, everyone! Wake up!” He yelled the same in Spanish.
Don Varga winked at Nate. “With him for a son, who needs a rooster?”
The fires were rekindled. After a hurried, simple breakfast of tortillas and coffee, twenty vaqueros were picked to accompany Don Varga. As blankets and saddles were being thrown on horses, his three sons came over.
“Are we all going with you, Father?” Diego asked hopefully.
“You are, and Ignacio. Martin will stay.”
The middle son had hardly spoken ten words to Nate since they met. The previous evening, Martin had stayed to himself, as quiet as a church mouse. Nate pegged him as a shy, dutiful son who never gave his father a hard time. So he was surprised when Martin objected.
“Why must I always be the one to stay behind? Let Ignacio do it for once.”
Don Varga dismissed the request with a gesture. “You are more dependable. I leave you in charge. Do not fail me.”
Martin was not appeased. “Why not Diego? Surely he is old enough to take the responsibility.”
“Or why not Luisa?” Don Varga rejoined. “Or Francicsa? Or Rosa, perhaps?”
Ignacio found that hilarious. Slapping his side, he forked leather. “Cheer up, brother,” he told Martin. “When you can shoot and ride as well as I can, Father will rely on you also when there is trouble.”
Daggers shot from Martin’s eyes, but he did not raise a fuss.
Winona, meanwhile, had saddled Evelyn’s animal and was ready to climb on her own. She had slept fitfully, in part due to worry about Shakespeare, in part because she did not feel comfortable being with the Vargas.
Why that should be was a mystery. Most had been pleasantly friendly, especially the three daughters. They were spirited, sweet girls, full of vitality and good humor.
Ignacio was another story. A number of times Winona caught him staring at her as if he wished she were dead. And she would never forget the stinging comments he made.
Winona had met his kind before. Bigots, Nate called them. Ignacio was one of those who hated her simply because she was an Indian. Such people built walls of hatred around them that no amount of kindness or friendliness could ever break down.
To be fair, Winona had known Shoshones and members of other tribes who were rabid haters of whites and Mexicans and anyone else not Indian.
Racial hatred was not limited to any one culture. All were afflicted equally. It amazed Winona that people could hold so much hate in their hearts, yet it was a sad fact of life.
The widespread bigotry among whites was one of the reasons Winona balked whenever Nate brought up the idea of traveling to New York to visit his brothers. Many whites loathed half-breeds, as the children of mixed marriages were called, even more than they hated full-blooded Indians. She feared for Zach and Evelyn if they were to make the journey.
“Are you ready, Winona?”
The question brought Winona back to the here and now. Blue Water Woman had already mounted and was waiting for her. She swung lithely up, her rifle under her arm. “I am ready.”
Zach hovered nearby. He had appointed himself his mother’s and sister’s protector, and he never let them out of his sight. Whenever Ignacio came around, he would rest his thumb on the hammer of his Hawken, fully prepared to put a hole in the man if Ignacio gave him cause.
But now it was Diego who came toward them. Zach met the youngest Varga’s smile with a tentative one of his own, and said, “Something I can do for you?”
Diego Varga’s smile widened. “I just thought we could talk and get to know each other better. We did not have much of a chance last night.”
“We’re about ready to head out,” Zach reminded him.
Diego was more interested in the Hawken. “That is a fine rifle you have. My father bought me this one in England.” He held out an expensive long gun polished until it gleamed. “Perhaps one day we can have a shooting match. Your piece against mine.”
“Shucks. It wouldn’t hardly be fair,” Zach said. “Why not?”
“No gun made can outshoot a Hawken.”
“You think so? But isn’t it the shooter, not his weapon, that counts most?” Diego caressed the barrel of his rifle. “I am young, like you, but I practiced every day back home. Practiced until I can hit a small coin nailed to a wall at twenty paces.”
“That’s some shooting,” Zach allowed. “When this is over with, we’ll set up targets and go at it.” Nate was happy to see his son getting along with Varga’s youngest. Don Varga and Ignacio were walking their mounts westward, giving everyone plenty of time to fall into step behind them. Nate caught up and said, “I can’t thank you enough for doing this. Not many folks would go out of their way for a stranger.”
“Nonsense,” Don Varga replied. “You have shared my food, been company to my family. You are much more than a stranger. I consider you a friend.”
“Gracias, “ Nate used one of the few Spanish words he knew.
Don Varga shifted and raised an arm to give the signal to head out. Instead, he gave a start and forked two fingers at Winona, Blue Water Woman, and Evelyn. “Why are they on horseback?”
It should have been obvious, Nate reasoned. “They’re going along.”
“Women and a child? What if we catch up to the savages who attacked you?” Don Varga clucked like an irate hen. “No, I will not have it. Tell them to stay behind. They will be perfectly safe. Martin will see to that.”
Nate hid a grin. The old gentleman did not know Indian women very well. They did not take to being coddled. Why, most could ride as well as any man and wield a knife or bow with great skill. “I’m afraid not.”
“How is that?”
“Where I go, my family goes. And a herd of horses couldn’t hold Blue Water Woman back with her husband’s life at stake.”
Don Varga was none too pleased. He bent toward Ignacio, and father and son whispered back and forth. “Very well,” Don Varga sighed at length. “If it cannot be helped, we must live with it.”
“Don’t fret yourself,” Nate said. “My wife and McNair’s can take care of themselves. And my children can hold their own better than most their age.”
“Just to be sure, I will watch over them, Father,” Ignacio volunteered. Hauling on his reins, he trotted back down the line and took up a position behind the two wives.
Winona did not like having him so close. He smiled at her, but it was a smile empty of warmth. She moved her mare so that Evelyn was between it and Blue Water Woman’s sorrel.
The vaqueros and servants left behind nervously watched their departing comrades. Rosa waved, and a husky vaquero waved back.
Yellow and orange streaks painted the eastern sky. In a column of twos and threes the rescuers rode briskly, Don
Varga’s splendid Arabian prancing as if it were in a parade.
A figure on foot appeared in the distance, jogging toward them at a tireless pace. It was a Maricopa. Don Varga listened intently to the warrior’s report, and grunted. “They have found the gully you told me about, Señor King. Chivari waits for us there.”
“You sent them on earlier?” Nate asked, impressed by the Spaniard’s efficiency.
“Before you woke up. Time is critical. More critical than you know.”
“How so?”
“I can only spare one day to search. If we have not found your friend by late afternoon, I must turn back.”
Nate was dumbfounded. With the rugged terrain and the head start the culprits had, overtaking them by nightfall was highly unlikely. “You can’t!” he protested.
“On the contrary. I can, and I will.”
Nine
The circulation in Shakespeare McNair’s arms had been cut off for so long, they were numb. He tried wriggling his fingers to keep the blood flowing, and for a while that worked. But by the middle of the morning he could not feel his fingers or his wrists. By noon, he had lost all sensation clear up to his shoulders.
His legs fared better. Although his ankles were linked together under the belly of his white mare by a short length of stout cord, his thick moccasins protected them.
“How about untying my hands for a bit?” Shakespeare at last complained. “I give you my word that I won’t act up.”
Jeb Calloway was leading the mare by a rope. Glancing back, he said, “Sorry, old coon. But Jasper threatened to bust my noggin wide open if I let you get away.” His left cheek bulged with chewing tobacco.
“Just for a short while,” Shakespeare asked. “I won’t do anything. Hell, I can’t even move my arms.”
Calloway spat brown juice, wiped the back of his mouth with a sleeve, and said, “If it were up to me, McNair, I’d take the gamble. I ain’t about to rile Jasper, though. He’s worse than a rabid wolf when his dander is up. Why, once I saw him chop the ear off a feller who wouldn’t stop belchin’. It annoyed him so powerful bad, he went half-mad.”
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