Doubtful Canon

by Johnny D. Boggs

  “My belly’s tetchy,” Whitey Grey said. “Y’all et yesterday. Grub in your gut now’ll just slow us down.”

  “No,” Jasmine said. “We didn’t eat yesterday. We haven’t eaten since supper the night we left.”

  Upon realization on this fact, my stomach began to grumble, even louder than Whitey Grey’s complaints, and I forgot all about my nose. Through bloodshot eyes, he stared at each of us, and perhaps reading a mutiny if we didn’t get something to eat, he exhaled and pointed at the Sheffield velocipedes. “Well, ’tain’t no Drover’s Cottage, ’tain’t no Texas Hotel, or my ma’s fried taters, but I recollect there bein’ some crackers and maybe an airtight in that tool box on that centipede car. Fill your bellies, chil’ren…reckon you do need some strength to haul out all that gold we’s gonna get…’cause it’s a hard walk from here.” He sighed again. “Wisht I had some coffee,” he said. “Better yet, a mornin’ bracer of rye.”

  I detested canned tomatoes, hated tomatoes of any kind, and the crackers were stale, but Ian Spencer Henry, Jasmine, and I savored the railroaders’ leftover food as if we were dining at a Shakespeare social on Thanksgiving. We even found a piece of cured ham, which must have fallen off a sandwich and smelled more of oil and dust than pork, but we divided it into three pieces and ate it as well, washing breakfast down with the last of the water from Ian Spencer Henry’s canteen. We’d have to make it those six or so miles to the water hole with dry throats, but, with our appetites appeased, we didn’t seem to mind.

  Nor did we consider the fact that Whitey Grey, mastermind of this campaign, had brought no food. Perhaps he planned on shooting game, living off the land, although around Stein’s Peak—they pronounced it Steens—we didn’t find a whole lot to live on. No horses or mules, either. Had he planned on walking into the cañon, digging up the gold, and returning to the railroad tracks afoot? Were horses waiting for us at the old Butterfield station? Did he even have a plan? These thoughts would come to me on the long, arid walk north.

  I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. Whitey Grey stood, rifle butted on the ground, staring at the rugged peak named after the Army officer killed here by Apaches back in 1973. My nose had stopped bleeding, and I handed the handkerchief to Jasmine, who looked at the stains and shook her head.

  “That’s all right, Jack. You keep it.”

  “Let’s get movin’,” Whitey Grey said, “afore the sun gets much higher.”

  We walked along an old road, kicking up dust, trailing the albino who moved with an urgency, yet with caution. Sometimes Whitey Grey struck me as pure fool, but now he reminded me more of some great Western hero.

  “He’s like Kit Carson,” Ian Spencer Henry said. “I was reading about him in The Prince of the Gold Hunters. It’s an old one, but, gosh, it’s full of blood and thunder and killings and treasure and excitement.”

  A thought struck me. I hadn’t had time to ask him about it since our adventures began after we plunged off that train at Lordsburg. “Is that why you were late?”

  Looking at his dusty boots, he kicked a rock in front of him as we walked. “Well…yeah.” He laughed. “But I was learning about hunting gold from that story. It was like one of our school assignments you give me and Jasmine.”

  “You almost got left behind.” I remembered something else, the pain and frightful experience of tumbling beside a speeding train. “You almost got Jasmine and me run over. By thunder, we could have broken our necks. Or got chopped to pieces.”

  “Well….” He kicked another loose stone in front of us.

  “And why did you run away?” My anger began to boil over. “When Mister Grey had that row with the railroad workers, when he was about to murder them? You took off running south. Deserted Jasmine and me.”

  “I was scared,” he said honestly.

  My fists clenched. My face flushed, yet Ian Spencer Henry cooled my rising anger with a reminder. “But I come back, Jack. Remember? I ran back and kept that wild man from killing you and Jasmine. Remember?”

  “I remember,” I said, suddenly ashamed of myself. “Why’d you come back? You could have been killed jumping on Mister Grey like you did.”

  Another rock danced up the road in front of us, propelled by Ian Spencer Henry’s foot. “By jingo, Jack, what a fool question. Because we’re friends.”

  That said it all. I reached over and parted Ian Spencer Henry’s back.

  “Stop that chatter, chil’ren,” Whitey Grey said. “You’ll just swallow dust and alert any bushwhackers or Cherry Cows that we’s comin’.”

  The rest of the journey we made in silence, the only noise coming from our footfalls and the rattling of the empty canteens bouncing against our thighs and the makeshift pack the albino had manufactured back at Stein’s Peak station. In it we carried the broken-handled spade, other odds and ends including the albino’s plunder, plus Ian Spencer Henry’s was bag, with the pickaxe fastened outside. We took turns carrying the pack of our backs. Well, by we, I mean Ian Spencer Henry, Jasmine and me, not Whitey Grey.

  Wind and sun had scorched the earth, shadowed by the nigh 6,000-foot-high peak now southwest of us. The only vegetation to be found came from century plants scattered along the side of the road. By the time we reached the small hollow, my lips had cracked, my mouth felt like sand, and my feet had begun to blister. Relief washed over me when Whitey Grey announced: “There she is.”

  It didn’t last long.

  “Where’s…what?” Jasmine asked.

  “The Overland station,” the albino answered, quickening his pace. “Just like I remembers it.”

  Whitey Grey had some imagination, for all I found were ancient, charred ruins and crumbling rock and adobe walls, mostly foundation. To here men like Whitey Grey and Mr. John Eversen talk, Stein’s Peak station bustled with the excitement of the Tucson depot, but I spotted only a few lizards. Walking along the old foundation, I guessed that the biggest part of the prison-like compound had been the corral. Two small rooms had once faced the west wall, no larger than eight-by-fifteen feet, and a smaller one in the southeastern corner of the corral. Outside the east wall, a lean-to had been rebuilt, and Jasmine, Ian Spencer Henry, and I took shelter underneath its roof corduroyed with agave stalks, tossing the backpack in a corner.

  “Where’s the well?” Jasmine asked. “I’m parched.” “The Apaches poisoned it,” Ian Spencer Henry answered. “Remember his story?” His jaw jutted out toward Whitey Grey, who shifted his rifle to one hand and asked us to hand him the canteens.

  “You chil’ren looks tuckered out,” he said with a grin, his hangover gone. “I’ll get us something’ to drink.”

  “But,” I said, “the well…the Apaches….”

  “Well dried up years ago, I reckon, after the Apaches done their dirty deed back in ’Sixty-One. Used to be ’neath ’em dead cottonwoods. But they’s a spring just west of here, inside the cañon.” He gathered the canteens. “Be back in a jiffy.”

  I watched him go, crossing a sunburned meadow and heading toward rising hills dotted with a handful of juniper, an arrow-shaped rock (well, a crooked arrow, maybe) jutting toward the peak. Whitey Grey walked easily until the county swallowed him up.

  Heavy panting woke me, and I sat up suddenly. “Hush now,” the frantic albino was saying, his rough hands shaking Ian Spencer Henry and Jasmine from their slumbers. “Ol’ Whitey Grey found a peck of trouble.”

  “What?” I rubbed my eyes.

  “Quiet,” His left hand shot toward me, holding a canteen. “Take a drink of that, and pass it ’round. Don’t drink too much.”

  As we slaked our thirsts, the wiry man crawled to the edge of the crumbling foundation and peered toward the cañon entrance. “Saw Apache sign all over down yonder,” he whispered. “What’s more, some fool up and tried to build a house just beyond the spring. Rock house. Right comfy. But there ain’t been a body there in some time, I warrant. Maybe, Nana likely drove ’em out of there, or maybe Cochise. Don’t matter none.”

&nb
sp; “Should we go back?” Jasmine asked. “Back home?”

  “Not without my gold,” he answered. “Ain’t got time nohow, because that ain’t all I seen by the spring and in that house and all. No, sir. Seen petticoat sigh.” Swearing, he lifted himself up on his elbows.

  I took another mouthful, swallowed, handed the canteen to Jasmine. “Mister Gidding’s daughter?” I said.

  “Yeah. Likely. After my gold!” He lowered himself and backed into the lean-to, sat up, and unscrewed another canteen. After drinking greedily, he collected all the canteens and tilted his head toward the cañon.

  “See that pointy rock? That’s where we’s goin’. I wants you to run, keep in a crouch, and move ’bout like you was a snake, goin’ this way, then t’uther. Keep, say, thirty rods betwixt you. Make it difficult for any Apache to shoot you down. You first, Jack, ol’ pard. Run like the wind! But, here, don’t forget our possibles.” He reached for the pack.

  I made no effort to rise, for my legs didn’t want to cooperate, and I couldn’t blame them. “Do…do you see…any…Apaches out there?” I asked.

  “Don’t see nothin’ now. Which makes me wary. Now, go, pard. More places to hide in that cañon than in this lean-to.”

  That made sense, and, forgetting all about my sore feet, I rose, letting the albino help secure the pack over my shoulders, then ducked, turned, and sprinted for my life, zigging and zagging, darting, legs pounding, pickaxe, shovel, and everything else rattling noisily, taking in huge gulps of air through my mouth. Twice I stumbled, but maintained my footing, watching the sharp rock draw closer, hearing the footsteps of Jasmine Allison and Ian Spencer Henry behind me. Breathlessly I reached the rugged rock and hugged it, let the backpack fall to the dirt. Moments later, Jasmine joined me, and soon Ian Spencer Henry arrived. Sinking to our knees, we heaved, wetting our lips, watching the albino snake his way across the meadow floor. Only he didn’t stop at the rock. He kept going…into Doubtful Cañon.

  “C’mon, chil’ren,” he said. “Keep close, and keep your eyes peeled for that thievin’ hussy!”

  We moved silently, close together now, sweating although it wasn’t hot, frightened by every shadow, every singing cicada, every scurrying lizard. The land opened for about a mile, maybe a mile and a half, into a gentle meadow, and Whitey Grey pointed out the spring and the rock ranch house he had discovered, buttressing the walls, door open heavy wooden shutters closed. The building lacked warmth, reminding me more of a deathtrap, and I could see why it would be abandoned with Apaches on the loose.

  Yet it looked much more inviting than the cañon, which turned treacherous as the meadow narrowed and descended into the cooling depths of the desert, dark rock walls rising until they towered over us. I felt as if I were walking into a grave. My grave. Our grave.

  With caution, we moved westward, hugging the north wall, dodging boulders, hiding behind juniper, side-stepping cactus. Shadows lengthened, and we stopped to rest, sitting beside a rock cairn while Whitey Grey scouted a few rods ahead before returning a moment later.

  His eyes blazed with recognition, and suddenly the albino smiled, pointing at the rocks upon which we rested.

  “Hey, that’s where we buried Sam Golden and the Mex. Buried what was left of ’em, I mean.” We leaped off the grave, brushing dirt off our backsides, prompting a short burst of laughter from the white-skinned man. “Nothin’ to fear, chil’ren. You ain’t gonna wake ’em up. Let’s go.”

  Above us, the rock walls stretched skyward, and I recalled stories of Apaches rolling boulders from the bluffs, crushing their trapped enemies to death. The canvas pack on my back felt much, much heavier. No longer could I see the sun, and the air had turned much cooler. The wind picked up, howling among strewn boulders, whistling through junipers and brush. We’d walk, wait, listen, creep along the cañon edge for a few yards, and wait again, sometimes as long as five or ten minutes.

  Whitey Grey leaned his rifle, hammer pulled back to full cock, against a dead juniper, wiped his palms on his filthy britches, and slowly pulled the Colt from his waistband. Quietly he blew on the cylinder, spun it, then held the weapon out, butt forward.

  “You know how to shoot this thing?” he asked.

  Blinking, I fought back disappointment.

  “Sure,” Jasmine answered.

  “Kicks like a lady dancin’ the cancan,” he said. “And they’s six beans in the wheel. Some fools think it’s safer to keep the hole ’neath the hammer empty, but ’tain’t safe, iffen you asks me. That’s carelessness.” As soon as Jasmine held the six-shooter, the gun shaking in her two small hands, Whitey Grey picked up the Winchester, told us to stay put, and disappeared in the thick forest of fallen rocks and dirt before us.

  A hawk’s shrill cry echoed across the cañon. Jasmine aimed the wobbling Colt at the far side of the cañon. Unwilling to be out here unarmed, I picked up a good-size stone. Beside me, Ian Spencer Henry brought out a slingshot he had managed to keep hidden the past two days.

  A dove cooed, and Ian Spencer Henry stepped forward.

  “What are you doing?” I asked hoarsely.

  “That’s Mister Grey’s signal,” he replied. “Safe to come. Let’s catch up with him, get that gold, get out of here.”

  “How…?”

  My friend grinned. “Read about it in Prince of the Gold Hunters. I told you I was studying. Here, Jack, it’s my turn with the pack. Let me carry it.”

  Reluctantly we followed, but it turned out Ian Spencer Henry was right. The albino’s head bobbed with approval, and we inched our way through the thickening, deepening, widening cañon, armed with Winchester, Colt, slingshot, and rock. The walls closed in on us.

  Slipping the canvas pack off his shoulders, Ian Spencer Henry peered ahead, stepped back, and said: “Gosh a’mighty. Is that Mister Giddings’s body?”

  Whirling, the white-skinned man stared ahead, and Jasmine and I rushed beside him for a better view. Staked out in the middle of the road lay a body in buckskins and muslin, pinned by at least two dozen arrows, the sand all around him blackened by blood. His head faced us, mouth open as if screaming—and I could almost hear his pitiful cries—his eyes…missing. His boots were gone, too, leaving a sock on his left foot, big toe protruding from a hole.

  Quickly Jasmine looked away, making the sign of the cross, while I fought down rising bile and dropped my rock.

  “Giddings?” Whitey Grey gave Ian Spencer Henry a look of bewilderment, uncertainly.

  “You said the desert here preserves a body,” my friend explained. “Like the Apache ear you took from that shed. Is that Mister Giddings?”

  Again the albino blinked. His left hand fished the ear from his pocket, returned it, and he bit his bottom lip, his face masked in confusion, turned back to consider the mutilated body fifteen yards away.

  Whitey Grey cleared his throat. “Mister Giddings?” he called out and sank back behind the rocks.

  No answer, except his haunting echo. The albino looked even more puzzled. So did I, but it was Whitey Grey who baffled me. Did he think a dead man could answer him?

  Poor Jasmine Allison just looked sick.

  A full minute stretched before Whitey Grey rose to study the corpse again. His pale head shook, he sank back onto his haunches, and he started mumbling, more to himself than to answer Ian Spencer Henry. “No. No. Can’t be. We buried Giddings, what was left of him anyway, bones and all. No, that ain’t Mister Giddings. He’s dead. I seen him die. I practically kilt….” He shut up, gripping the Winchester tightly, eyebrows lowering, his face registering fear.

  “Apaches is amongst us!” he screamed, his voice echoing like a choir in a cave, and he ran, crossing the small passageway, hurdling the arrow-filled body, darting for the other wall.

  Chapter Eleven

  The wind began to howl, kicking up a brief but violent dust devil that lashed out against a fortification of granite boulders, behind which hid three shaking children and one albino adult.

  Ian Spencer Henry, Jas
mine, and I had raced after our fleeing leader, finding shelter on the far side of the narrow cañon, although what made it a better spot than the other side, we would remain clueless. When the wind abated, or maybe after we had survived ten or fifteen minutes without being killed, Whitey Grey’s mettle returned.

  “This was the spot,” he said, looking up, his voice quiet in reflection. “Too narrow to turn a Concord, turn anythin’ ’round.” Lacking mirth, he laughed. “ ’Long ’bout here’s where it all happened. I recollect it fine, picture it.” He pointed toward the road’s edge. “There’s where the Concord got wrecked.” Pointed again to a clearing. “Over yonder’s where Mister Giddings got laid low. We buried him…yonder.”

  “We should bury him, too.” I gestured toward the eyeless corpse.

  “Bury ’im?” The white-skinned man snorted in derision, his voice, like his courage, rising a few levels. “With Apaches amongst us?”

  “Yeah,” said Ian Spencer Henry, angering me by siding with the white-skinned man. “Besides, I left the pack with the shovel and pick over there.”

  “You done what?” The albino looked angry, then sickened as he stared across the cañon floor. Sure enough, Whitey Grey’s makeshift pack leaned against a twisted alligator juniper, handle to the pickaxe sprouting up like a pale tree. Our leader groaned. “Son, son, son,” he said, “we’ll have need of that pick and shovel.”

  “And my pistol,” Ian Spencer Henry added. “I brought along Pa’s old Navy Colt. It’s in my war bag. I remember how much you said you liked your old Navy, it being the weapon of your choice. And I’ve read that Wild Bill preferred it, as well.”

  “Lots of good it done him,” said Whitey Grey, taking his revolver from Jasmine’s quaking hands and shoving it into his waistband. “And lots of good that shovel and pick’s gonna do us settin’ over yonder. Might need ’em to gets my gold. Will need ’em.” He glared at Ian Spencer Henry. “Go fetch ’em, boy.”

  “But…but…but….” My friend sought help, and, finding none, said: “But it was Jasmine’s turn to carry the pack. She should go.”