Taggart (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures)

by Louis L'Amour

  A faint sound came to him, and he turned his head like a man in sleep, struggling to place the sound. A cottonwood…leaves rustling. The whispering leaves spoke of water. And then that sound again, a scratching and rustling. Carefully, he worked his way into the brush on the stream’s bank, but exhaustion had robbed him of guile and he made the brush rustle. Instantly, the sound he had been moving toward stopped.

  After a moment of silence it began once more. Pushing his way through the brush, he emerged a dozen feet from the base of a giant cottonwood. Nearby two porcupines were digging for water.

  The hole they had dug was only as large as a good-sized water bucket but the last of the sand was damp.

  He picked up a rock and shied it at them, but they stood their ground, quills bristling. Swante Taggart moved toward them and reluctantly they backed off, giving ground slowly.

  The gelding had followed him and it went to the hole, sniffing eagerly at the damp sand, and scratching at it with one hoof.

  Pulling the horse away, Swante knelt and began to scoop sand from the hole with both hands. The sand became damper, and he was down less than two feet. He dug on, working feverishly, and soon the hole began to fill with muddy water.

  Swante sank back on his heels, and let the steeldust have the first of the water. Then pushing the horse away, he dug the hole deeper, widened it out. The porcupines had not left him. They waited on the edge of the brush making angry sounds at him, their need for water overcoming their fear of him.

  He would make it then…he would drink and the horse would drink and he would fill the canteen. Then he would leave the water to the porcupines, and they deserved it. He dipped his cupped hands into the water and gulped a mouthful which he held in his mouth, letting the parched tissues soak it up ever so gradually, then allowing a cool trickle to find its way down his raw throat.

  The gelding whinnied pleadingly and he allowed the horse to drink again, although there was scarcely more than a swallow or two in the bottom of the hole. He scooped out more sand and the hole began to fill up. He managed another swallow, and a delicious coolness began to spread through him.

  There was shade under the cottonwood, and concealment, so he stretched out on the sand and lay still, relaxing little by little as exhaustion took over. From time to time the horse drank, then he began cropping on some brown grass nearby. Swante lay still and listened to the sounds, and he heard the porcupines sucking at the water.

  Turning his head he saw them there, watching him warily, but drinking, too, not six feet from where he lay.

  When they were gone he cleaned out the pool and dug into his pack for what remained of his coffee. He built a small fire of dry sticks under the cottonwood and made the coffee. Desperately as he wanted food, he would not kill one of the porcupines, for they had brought him to water. Actually they had saved his life.

  No desert man will camp near a water-hole, for water in the desert is too precious to others beside himself, and wild creatures will not approach a water-hole when a man is near. The porcupines had been a rare exception, their need perhaps as great as his own.

  When he left the water-hole, it was only to move back a short distance, for he needed time to recover from the effects of his long thirst. He spread his blanket and slept, too soundly for safety, but with the sleep of utter exhaustion.

  He awakened before daylight and led the gelding to the hole, where they both drank again, and when fresh water, now clear and cold, had collected again, he filled his canteen. The porcupines had been there during the night, for the marks of their tiny hands were all about.

  The sun was just showing itself over the mountains when he finally left. The place where he had found water was in the mouth of a wash running into Tonto Creek from the Sierra Anchas; and emerging from the brush, he found a faint Indian trail that led back into the mountains, running alongside the wash. There were no signs of recent travel.

  It was not the trail he had been planning to take, but it was one even less likely to be discovered. Without doubt it led to the top of the plateau.

  Following this trail into a notch in the Sierra Anchas, he drew up in the shade of a massive cliff, and turning in the saddle he glanced back along the way he had come.

  Wind moved stealthily among the piñons on the mountain near him, breathing cool and fragrant across his heat-baked cheeks, and behind him the land lay vast and empty under the blazing sun. The Tonto Creek valley, the Mazatal Mountains riding beyond it.

  Nothing…

  The land lay vast, red-brown-pink. Sand-colored mountains splashed with the green of juniper. Here and there were shadows of clouds, and occasional shadows in the lee of cliffs, but otherwise it was a red-brown-pink monotony.

  Something…there was something. Very distant, very faint, there was dust. A stirring of dust that was not a dust-devil, but someone, somebody coming.

  So they were still behind him. They were still coming.

  CHAPTER 3

  The sky was faintly gray when Miriam Stark climbed the thread of trail to the top of Rockinstraw Mountain, a single rose-tinted cloud above the horizon giving only a suggestion of the glory to come with sunrise. Yet there was enough light to see the web of faint trails, each leading to some vantage point from which the country could be observed.

  She loved this place, for even on the hottest day there was a faint stirring of wind, and always there was silence, an unbelievable silence that left the mind free to wander without interruption.

  Taking her station behind a juniper, Miriam began the methodical search of the terrain, using the system taught her by Adam. First a quick, sharp survey of the area closest to the mountain, in case somebody had approached during the darker hours, and then the eyes lifted to the farthest horizon and searched with infinite care every canyon, every possible route, every place where men might camp or hide.

  She knew what to look for. Any movement, any change in the pattern of shadows, any flickering, any alteration of any kind at all in the familiar terrain. She had learned to distinguish smoke from dust, and to tell after a brief glance whether dust was caused by a dust-devil, a flurry of wind, or the passage of mounted men…or man.

  This study of the terrain, this careful search for any traveler, this continual awareness was not a matter of diversion, but was a matter of life and death. They existed here in a precarious situation, and a careless movement, a careless track, or a chance sighting by some Apache or drifting white man could mean the end of everything; it could even mean death.

  Twice each day one or the other of them came to this place and studied the country around. As there were only three of them, there was no way they could continually keep one person on lookout, and the study of the country at dawn and sunset represented the closest alternative.

  Rough as the country was, by now they knew it well. Due south and north were the areas of greatest danger. There were canyons and arroyos and considerable cover, but long ago, when they first arrived, each of them had ridden these canyons, studied them, and knew where the cover was to be found.

  On the west the only danger lay in the openings between the mesas, for no one would come across the tops. On this side the descent was gradual, but on the far side they fell steeply away to Pinal Creek.

  This morning, after a brief survey, Miriam directed all her attention to the north. Two creeks entered the Salt River from the north in this vicinity—Coon Creek and Cherry Creek. Her view up the basin of each was nearly perfect, but only a tenderfoot would chance coming along such a route.

  Red arrows shot sunlight into the heavens, and the ridges to the east were crowned with gold and rose. Crushing some cedar foliage in her hands, she sniffed their aromatic smell. Nowhere in all that vast expanse did anything move…the air was astonishingly clear, and from where she stood she could see miles upon miles.

  When first she saw the speck she did not believe
it was a man…yet intuitively she knew it must be. A moment before the speck had not been there, and then it was, and now…it was gone!

  Only for an instant had something been visible there, some moving thing upon the bare slope of Black Mesa, just beyond Salt River. There had only been the one speck, so if it was a man it seemed almost certain that it was a white man.

  Curious and puzzled, she directed her glass toward the area and inspected it with care, but it was beyond the practical range of the glass and she detected nothing more. Yet something had been there, and now it was gone.

  If it had been a man he had chosen a way never traveled, but one that would allow him a good view of his back trail and the surrounding country. From below he would not be visible, and it was unlikely anybody would be above him, for due to the conformation of the mesa, going higher would be pure waste of time.

  She left her position and worked her way around the top of the mountain, studying the country in every direction. Their lives depended on remaining unknown to the Apaches who occasionally passed through, and so far they had been secure.

  Adam came up the mountain and met her at the first position. “See anything?”

  “A rider, I think.” She indicated the bare spot on the shoulder of Black Mesa. “Can he get down to the river from there?”

  Adam took the glasses and studied the place. “I killed a deer over there the first week we were here. Yes, he can come down, all right.”

  He studied the area again. “No sign of anyone now.”

  “There won’t be. I have a feeling he doesn’t wish to be seen.”

  He made a slow search of the country. “Connie doesn’t like it here,” he commented suddenly. “I don’t blame her, exactly.”

  “She’s had enough, I think,” Miriam responded. “She had it before we did, you know. She grew up with it.”

  “Is she afraid?”

  Miriam considered the question. “Aren’t we all? I think she is less afraid than we are. She’s a strong woman.”

  “I know…and she believes I’m weak.”

  “You love her, don’t you?”

  “As I never loved anyone.” He lowered the glasses. “There is somebody over there.” He handed her the glasses. “See? On the cliff above the river?”

  “I see him. He’s looking for a way down.”

  They were silent as Adam took back the glasses and watched the far-off figure.

  “Yes, I love her,” he said after a moment. “I loved her from the first day we met, and I believed she would come to love me.”

  “I think she does.” As she spoke, Miriam was surprised to realize she really believed it. “I don’t believe she knows that she loves you, or how much, but she doesn’t believe you are strong.”

  “I know.”

  “He’s found a way,” Miriam said, watching through the glasses. “He’s coming down.”

  Adam took the glasses when she offered them and studied the distant figure of the man on horseback. “One man alone in this country…it doesn’t look right.”

  “He could be an outlaw.”

  Adam continued to watch the rider. “When we’ve gold enough we’ll go out,” he said. “I know the ranch I want, and once I have it we can go to San Francisco or even back east. After that I think Connie will feel different…and I’m planning a real house, something she can be proud of.”

  He passed the glasses to his sister. “He’s across…he’s disappeared in the brush on this side.”

  He caught her shoulder. “Look! West of him…see the dust?”

  She shifted the glasses to study the dust cloud, and saw a war party of perhaps a dozen Apaches, traveling in the same direction as the strange rider, but some distance from him.

  There was no way they could warn him without revealing their position. And Consuelo was alone at the house.

  “Apaches,” she said.

  He got to his feet. “Let’s get back before they cut us off.”

  They snatched their rifles and almost ran down the steep trail. At the canyon they could defend themselves, but caught out like this they would be killed in a matter of minutes if they were seen, and alone in the canyon Consuelo could do little. The lone rider must shift for himself.

  * * *

  —

  Swante Taggart rode down off the mesa and into the water. At this point it was scarcely knee-deep for the horse, and a few minutes later Swante rode up the bank and into the willows along the river.

  Dismounting there under cover of the brush, he trailed his reins and walked back to the edge of the water. With a clump of sage he brushed out his tracks and sifted dry sand over them until all evidence of his crossing had been eliminated. On the other side of the river he had been riding across shelving rock.

  He worked his way through the brush, leading his horse, and paused in the outer edge and with his field glasses studied the mountains ahead of him. Only a few minutes earlier Adam and Miriam Stark had fled down the trail, but he was too late to have seen them there, and their route led down a deep, water-worn cut.

  Still leading the steeldust, he went up an arroyo. Suddenly he felt the horse’s head come up and saw his ears prick. “Easy, boy!” he whispered. “Easy, now.”

  The gelding turned slightly toward him, but the ears remained pricked, listening. And then Swante Taggart heard the sound himself, a click of a hoof on stone.

  Drawing the horse back under the slight overhang, he waited, rifle in hand.

  The shadow of a riding Indian appeared on the far wall, then another, then several. One hand on the nose of the steeldust, Swante waited, his heart pounding heavily. Sweat trickled down his cheeks, and inside he was cold and still. A pebble fell near him, then a trickle of sand. Letting go the gelding’s nose, he lifted his rifle.

  He could hear the low mutter of their voices, for they were scarcely fifteen feet above him. They argued briefly, and then moved off along the edge of the arroyo, and he knew enough of their language to know they were looking for something. But what? Who?

  He squatted on his heels against the wall, the rifle across his knees. It was growing hot.

  His canteen was full, but he knew that neither the horse nor himself could go on as they had…they must find a place and hole up for a rest. Also, Shoyer must still be on the trail, and the reason was obvious, for there were only two places he might be going…to Globe or to Morenci.

  The thing to do was to stop. If a man left no tracks none could be found, and Pete Shoyer would go on to Globe, then to Morenci, looking for him.

  It was a risky thing to try, and he would need food, which meant either trapping or shooting game, and shooting was likely to attract Apaches. He must find a place with water for himself and grass for the gelding.

  When half an hour had gone by he rolled and lighted a cigarette to still the gnawing of hunger. Hunger, however, was not new to him, and he was not a man who pampered himself.

  When a full hour had passed he climbed to the rim of the arroyo and sat among the rocks to study the country. There should be springs somewhere around the mountain to the east, which was Rockinstraw, for run-off water had a way of coming to the surface. Any spring would be a danger, for the Apaches were almost sure to know of it and visit it from time to time.

  As he started to rise, a rabbit jumped up and he seized a rock…the rabbit was gone. Probably couldn’t have hit it, anyway. He had never been much good at throwing things…except lead once in a while.

  The Apaches had gone off to the south. His own way led to the east, so he mounted and started on.

  Desert though it was, the country was brushy. There was prickly pear, pin oak, and a variety of desert growth, so that a man riding slowly to raise no dust, and taking advantage of the brush and juniper, could keep under cover at least half the time.

  With Rockinstraw Mountain looming
ahead of him, he worked his way slowly across country, stopping frequently, constantly aware of danger from Apaches, but equally ready to observe the slight touch of green that might mean a spring or small seep.

  Ahead of him in a canyon bottom was a heavy stand of brush, and pushing up to it, he noticed that some of the brush was dead. He paused, studying the situation. What it was that first arrested his attention he did not know, and anyone riding less cautiously than he would have noticed nothing, but something about the area disturbed him.

  The patch of thick brush lay in the shallow opening of the canyon, and Taggart skirted the brush warily, trying to decide what it was that bothered him. Dismounting, he walked into the brush leading his horse. Glancing from time to time at the steeldust, he noticed nothing. If there was anything alive around, the horse was as unaware of it as he himself.

  His eye caught the abrasion before his attention came to a focus on it. He had taken a step past when he suddenly became aware of what he had seen, and turning back he looked again.

  The trunk of a twisted mesquite tree had been bruised by some heavy object. Nor was the bruise in such a place that it might have been caused by a horse’s hoof…the abrasion was higher, but not fresh. He studied it, knowing that his life now hung precariously and any slight mistake could mean its end.

  Squatting, he turned his head and looked around, and so it was that he saw the wheel.

  It was a wagon wheel, almost entirely concealed in brush, but beyond it there was another wheel. Ducking under the brush, crawling on his knees, he reached the wagon.

  A wagon concealed in such a manner meant that whoever concealed it meant to find it again, but intended that it should not be found by anyone else. How anybody had gotten a wagon this far was more than he could conceive, yet the wagon was here.

  The presence of a wagon must mean the presence of men. He studied the bottom of the wagon as much as he could in the concealing brush. There were some threads that must have come from burlap sacking…and caught on a sliver of the wagon-board was a cotton thread. He scowled…from a woman’s skirt? It seemed ridiculous, and yet…