Secret of the Malpais

by Ferber, Richard

  Now it's even worse. He's sick. He's crazy, I guess, and he needs all the care I can give him."

  Logan sighed and got up from the rock. He had felt angry and frustrated; now he felt dead. The noble sacrifice. He should have seen it coming, for all the difference it would have made. None. It simply raised up its head, evil and irresistible, and there was nothing you could do to fight it. He was tempted to try, but he knew how it would end: she'd hate him; he might even hate himself.

  He reached down and lifted her to her feet. Temptation came rushing in on him again ... the truth had made her softer, warmer, more desirable ... but he resisted it. He released her immediately.

  "Let's get moving," he said. "If we're going to help him, we might as well start by catching him. Besides, there's no telling what he might try. He might try to bother those horses in camp. He's done it before and..."

  He stopped. She was looking up at him, her eyes filled with love. Or gratitude. He wasn't sure which, and for the moment it didn't matter. She was tempting, without meaning to be. She had decided what she was going to do, without having quite the strength to do it. That left it up to him.

  "Come on," he said, and took her by the hand and half-dragged her behind him.

  She understood, probably. She didn't say anything, and after a while he let go of her, to let her make her own way up the trail. It was steep, and full of twists and switchbacks, and the horses were out of sight. Though Logan could hear them plainly enough. They kept nickering. He put it down to loneliness, made the last turn, and saw there was another reason. The horses weren't alone. Ramsey Moon was with them.

  "We've been through all this before," Moon said, shifting in the saddle. "Don't try anything with that gun. If I don't kill you, these Apaches will."

  He'd changed. He was still big and soft-spoken, but there wasn't any congeniality in his voice any longer. The necessity for it was gone, apparently. He gazed down at the canyon.

  "So that's The Place in the Rocks. It took you long enough to find it. And look what it got you."

  He stared at Logan and Angela, waiting for an answer, then gave the answer himself.

  "Nothing," he said. "All that work trying to find the gold, and then some crazy coot takes it away from you. Your brother, wasn't it?"

  "My brother?" Logan said. Trying to run a bluff was about as futile as trying to reach for the Colt, but with one difference: there was no harm in trying. "I don't follow you, Moon."

  "It was your brother, all right," Moon said, glancing down at the canyon again. "It had to be; otherwise you wouldn't have let him take that gold away. I saw him leave. He's your brother, and he's crazy . .. but not as crazy as you are. You're a fool, thinking that I'd chase oft after Old Pablo and leave you to pack up my gold." "Your gold?" Logan said. He'd been a fool, all right. There were things he was just now beginning

  to understand. **If you think that gold's yours, then you're as.. /'

  Moon turned and looked at him. There was anger behind the steel glint of his eyes. Anger, and something else. A kind of bright glow of blindness that Logan had seen before ... in civic-minded old ladies, hell-fire preachers, and gold hunters.

  "It doesn't matter who has it now," Moon said. "It's mine. I spent eight years looking for it, more than any man alive. I put more into it. Eight years with these Apache dogs, in a country that hell wouldn't have. You think I liked it? I stood it, that's all, because I knew that sooner or later somebody would come along who knew the way to the gold. It turned out to be you, and it's your misfortune. And nobody's fault."

  The wild gleam had gone out of his eyes. He sat holding the reins and looking businesslike, as if he were some town merchant studying his ledgers. They didn't seem to add up right away.

  "That brother of yours can't get far, not packing all that gold. We'll take care of him, maybe before sundown. The problem is, what are we going to do with you people."

  "It's a problem, all right," Logan said. "You can kill me, though somebody's liable to get hurt in the process. But you'd better think twice about killing a woman. That's the sort of thing they frown on in this country. And you might get found out. You can never tell. Can you trust those Apaches?"

  "It's a chance I'll have to take. Besides, they know what will happen if... No, there's a better way. Unbuckle that gunbelt."

  Logan looked back at Angela and wondered if she had time to duck into the rocks. Not that it would save her from anything in the long run. It would be better.

  probably ... quicker ... if she stayed in the line of fire. He turned to Moon.

  "I told you about killing me," he said. "I'll die hard, and I might die slowly. I might take you with me."

  "You might," Moon said. "Except that I won't be around when it happens. I'm not going to kill you, Logan. You're going to die a lot slower than that, a lot slower than you figured on. I'm going to leave you to walk out of the Malpais... if you can."

  "And what if we decide we want to ride," Logan said. He was going on senselessly now, and he knew it, but he couldn't quite bring himself to stand there silently.

  "If you try anything with those horses, there'll be some shooting," Moon said. "If you don't hand over that gunbelt, there'll be some more of the same. That woman will get hurt, and you'll have it on your head. It's your choice. If you decide to walk, at least you'll have a chance."

  "Like hell we will," Logan said, but he unbuckled the gunbelt. Anything was better than being shot on the spot; anything at all.

  Moon reached down and took the belt. He didn't hang it over the saddle horn, he kept it in his hand. "I'll give this back to you. I'll leave it at the other end of the trail. That way everything will look natural. There's a wild chance that somebody'll find your bones, and if they do, it'll simply look like you let your horses stray, and got lost... and couldn't quite make it. If they found you without a gun, they might start thinking."

  "Then why take it at all?" Logan said. "I thought about that. No, you might take a shot at my back."

  "You're right," Logan said. "I would have. And I

  may yet. You may see me again. Nothing's certain. If you do, watch out. I'll take you from the front, from the back, while you're sleeping. I'll take you any way I can."

  Moon sat holding the gunbelt and staring down at him. Something stirred in his mind. He started to lift the belt, then seemed to think better of it. "I almost wish you'd make it. I wish ..." He tightened the reins of the big apaloosa and turned to his Apaches. *'Vamos/* he said, and they wheeled their horses on the narrow trail. He followed them without looking back.

  Logan rolled a cigarette. There was no breeze up in the rocks and the tobacco stayed in place. The sun beat down on him. Angela came up to stand beside him.

  *ls it bad, Logan?"

  He didn't know what to tell her. But any lie would be better than the truth. She'd find it out soon enough, sooner than he would like.

  "It could be worse," he said. "I've made the trip before, right from this same place. It won't be easy, but that gun will help. We can shoot game. And there's plenty of water this time of year."

  He was spreading it pretty thick, but she seemed to believe it. That made lying even more painful to him, and he didn't go on. He looked down at her, and it was as though he could already see the lines distorting her face, drawn from hunger, eyes popping, tongue lolling

  from thirst He'd done that to her. It had been his

  idea to hunt for the lost gold, and everything that had happened had happened because of it. There was only one comfort: the gun. He wouldn't let her suffer for long. He couldn't stand it.

  "You might as well wait here," he said. "There's some shade back in the rocks, where the trail cuts

  through the wall. I'm going back down into the canyon. There might be something we can use, something Old Pablo's Apaches missed."

  It was just a slim chance, probably not worth the hike down and back along the steep trail. But he took it anyway. The worst part was that he had to go over every foot of the
canyon, and it was like walking through a graveyard without any graves. Just bones for markers; bones, and what clothing the rats and mice hadn't dragged off to their nests. There was nothing of value. There were a few picks and shovels that the Apaches had disdained, apparently. There were a few splintered arrows. A rusted iron spider. A canteen with a bullet hole in it.

  He walked up the brush slope and found the place where Jeffrey had camped. There wasn't much to it, but it was obvious enough ... a hollow in the earth, a pile of animal bones, a few scraps of fur, scattered feathers. He felt his stomach turn. A man had to want something pretty bad to sink that low. Jeffrey had wanted gold. He wanted something more commendable for Angela and himself: simply to live... and they might have to sink as low as Jeffrey had to do it. Even lower, perhaps, without Jeffrey's advantage: he was mad.

  She came out of the shade to meet him and studied

  his face.

  "Nothing," he said. "They cleaned it out. They probably threw most of it away afterward, but we'd never find it. Maybe there's still something left of our camp. We have to go by there anyway."

  It was wild and wishful, but it gave them something to think about until they passed through the doorway at the other end of the trail. They stopped while Logan buckled on the gunbelt and looked out at the sage-

  brush flat. There was still a smell of dust in the air, and there were signs of tracks, leading south. Angela stared in that direction.

  "Do you think they'll catch him?" "Jeffrey? I don't know. He's lived for almost two months in the heart of Apacheria. He's smarter now than he was before. Maybe ..."

  He let it go and led the way across the flat. At the other side he stopped for a moment and looked back, wondering if he could see the door in the wall. He couldn't. It might never have been there at all, and he couldn't help wishing that he had never found it. Hellgate, the old man had called it

  There was nothing left of their camp. Like the door in the cliff, it might not have been there at all... except for the fire. It was still smoldering, and Logan bent over it and found out why. Moon had seen to it that his Apaches should do a thorough job: they had taken some things with them, apparently... and burned the rest.

  He got up and walked slowly to the water hole. Angela had drunk. The front of her shirt was wet and it clung to her breasts and he couldn't help thinking of all the time they had spent together... and wasted. All the bitter quarrels and cold silences. Was it too late? Certainly Jeffrey couldn't stand between them now. Jeffrey was as good as dead, all bets were off

  She was standing staring to the south. The sight of the plundered camp, the thought of the next few days should have depressed her, but her eyes were excited. And there was a determined look about her mouth that he had almost come to fear.

  "Logan?"

  "Yes," he said flatly.

  "I've been thinking. You said you could kill game, and there's plenty of water this time of year. We could live for days, even weeks, maybe. Couldn't we?" "It's possible."

  "Then we don't have to turn back." He gazed at her, slack-jawed. "Turn back. We've gone as far as we can, Angela. We've found the canyon and..."

  It came clear to him all at once. Jeffreyl She meant to go after Jeffrey as though nothing had happened in the meantime, and she was as crazy as any old desert rat whose brain had blistered under the sun. He looked at her in disbelief, then in disgust.

  "Don't talk like a fool," he said, and he was about to set her straight. It wouldn't be hard to do, except that he had lied to her about food and water, and he didn't want to admit it. If he did, it would be the same as admitting they were going to die ... he might make it out of the Malpais by himself, but not with a woman to slow him down... and it would be cruel and useless. He couldn't bring himself to do it. And what difference did it make, anyway, if they died going in one direction, or another?

  She was waiting for him to go on, but already looking hurt and disappointed. He said feebly: "We can't help him."

  "How do you know? We can try."

  Ramsey Moon cursed aloud. It was getting dark and the Apache police had lost the trail and hadn't been able to find it again. Damn their dirty hides. Tracking was all they were good for, and sometimes they weren't even good for that. He rode down to where they were making useless circles through the rocks and shouted to them.

  *'Cometisten un error estupido. Cuidate mucho para hacer un buen trabajo/*

  They went at it harder, but it was no use. He cursed again and then called them off. Tomorrow would be soon enough. He had waited this long; he could wait a little longer.

  He got down and sat on a rock while they made camp. That was one thing about this job, he thought: you could do what you wanted with your men. There was no backtalk. No crying to some superior officer over some imagined grievance. He wondered if the Army was still looking for him. Probably not, after eight years.

  Eight years. It was a long time, and now at last he felt impatient, and hated the country worse than he had ever hated anything. The sun, the dirt, the rocks, the Apaches. The sun was taking forever to go down and one of those fools was lighting a fire, while he was

  sweating. He got to his feet and found a pinon branch.

  *'No siguierdj Payaso."

  He sat down again and loaded his pipe, and smoked it thoughtfully. Most Indians were afraid of madmen, and he could see why now. There was something uncanny about them ... like Logan's brother. He should have caught up with the fool hours ago, and he'd never once got him in sight. It meant spending hours tomorrow picking up the trail again.

  He found it hard to wait. He kept thinking of Se-lina and trying to convince himself that he could trust her, and knowing all along that he couldn't. She wanted the gold, all right. But she was like those twitter-ass birds there, playing in the greasewood; unpredictable; shaking their ass one moment on one branch, another moment on another. Every woman he had ever known had been that way. Even whores. Even

  his...

  He got up and went to the packs. He took out a pint of whiskey and carried it into the brush where the Apaches couldn't see him. Never drink in front of your men. The whiskey tasted good. A man could put up with this country just so long, before he needed something.

  Not that he'd have to put up with it much longer. He'd have Selina, and any country he named. Or she named. It didn't matter to him. California, the East, London, Mexico... the gold would take them anywhere.

  He'd come a long way from camp. The voices of the Apaches were faint and far above him, and he was glad to be rid of them for awhile. He took another drink, and thought he might drink the whole bottle. Whiskey never bothered him. He could...

  Something stirred in the brush. He had the bottle

  halfway to his mouth and he lowered it and tried to switch hands so that he could get at his gun. The bottle slipped and splintered on the rocks. He snatched out the Colt and cocked it. There was no sound. What had Logan said? "You may see me again. Nothing's certain."

  He stood holding the hammer back, ready to let it fall. But nothing happened, and after awhile he smiled in amazement. This country could do things to a man, even to him. The noise was easy to explain: some brush rabbit, probably. He shoved the gun back in the holster and went up to where his Apaches had finished making camp.

  There was a chill in the air now, and he stood with his hands over the fire. One of the Apaches squatted by it, turning a young javelina on a spit. The sun was down. Off in the direction that he'd gone to drink the whiskey, but much farther away, a rabbit screamed. So he was right. Some fox had got it, probably. He watched the pig turning, the fat dropping into the flames. He was hungry.

  Jeffrey could see the fire across a canyon of darkness. Now and then someone would walk in front of it and he'd hold the rabbit in his mouth, his teeth clamped down on it, and watch. You never knew about Apaches; you had to watch them; they were sneaky. Just a while ago one had come down into the canyon, looking for him. Though it had turned out all right. He had scared the rabbit, dr
iving it back to where Jeffrey was waiting.

  The rabbit was tough, hardly worth bothering with. He'd tear off a piece, chew at it long and methodically, and then end up swallowing it almost whole. Rabbit was much better after it had lain out in the sun for a few days. Not that he could be choosey. Not now.

  SECRET OF THE MALPAIS Richard Ferber HI

  Besides, any food was strength.

  The Apaches were eating, and he couldn't help smiling to himself. Pretty soon their bellies would be full, round and tight, and they'd lay down and sleep like pigs. Like the pig they had eaten, he thought, and it struck him funny. He had to hold his hand over his mouth and muffle a laugh. Fools. By the time they woke up he'd be long gone, far down the mountainside. They'd never catch him. He was too smart.

  He started to play his game again. How much gold? Enough for a new shaving brush? Oh ho, more than that, more than that. Enough for a pair of boots? Oh ho, much more, much more. Enough for a belt with a pretty silver buckle?

  An Apache got up and stood in front of the fire, and he remembered another game. He hooted like an owl. The Apache turned his head. He squeaked like a mouse. The Apache turned his head again. He barked like a fox, and this time the Apache left die fire, stopped, cocked his head to listen. It frightened Jeffrey; he'd gone too far. He sat as still as the Apache was standing, and for a moment he thought the Apache could see across the darkness. He couldn't, of course. After a while he rubbed his stomach and went back to the fire.

  Jeffrey crawled up through the brush, over the ridge and down into a little gully. The pack horse didn't even hear him coming. It went on cropping grass until he tugged on the lead rope. Then it lifted its head and followed him.

  The Malpais was black, even the sky was black, and Jeffrey wasn't used to this part of the country. He had to feel his way among the rocks, and sometimes he'd come to an outcropping that fell away to nothing and sense it just in time. But he kept going. He kept going