But…he didn’t. Poor Papa.
Mister Spoon said they found the stagecoach down in the cañon, found the dead men, buried them. He said my father had died bravely, but I knew that already, knew it from Mama’s stories, but, yeah, it sure felt good to hear it from someone who had been there, well, maybe not there at the time, but someone who had at least seen the aftermath, had read the sign. Mister Spoon, he said he could read sign as good as any Army scout.
He told me he’d be glad to take me to Papa’s grave, that he knew exactly where it was. All I wanted was to see it, to make sure it would satisfy Mama, then maybe come back with a handsome stone. I remember one time asking Mama, before she took sick real bad, if she wanted to be laid to rest alongside Papa. Not in New Mexico, but we could bring his remains to a real cemetery in a real churchyard, but she had told me, no, that she’d be with Papa soon enough, together in heaven, and that it would mean more for Papa to lie near where he had so bravely fallen, as long as his grave was good and he had a monument and Christian blessing.
Well, Mister Spoon and I rode out, on horses and with a pack mule, and he was such a gentleman. He warned me of the dangers in the cañon, as had everyone in Lordsburg and Mesilla, but I just had to see it. I saw it.
Briefly.
Then I heard the screams.
Mister Spoon pushed me aside, shoved a rifle into my hands, told me to run, and not look back, and I ran. I ran and ran and ran, and I heard the shots, the screams. I was terrified. I don’t remember what all happened, I just remember running. See my clothes? Scratches? The Apaches didn’t do this. I did all that myself. Tore up my clothes in yucca and catclaw. I hid. I think I did. Found a little cave, well, not even a cave, just, well, a hole or something, and I hid there after all the screaming, all the gunshots, after everything had grown quiet. I heard men walking, ever so softly, heard them talking in some strange voice. I even saw two of them, and knew for certain that they would see me, but they didn’t. They were just kids. Boys. Not much older than you children. And then they walked off, and, when it grew dark, when the moon came out, I just walked back here. I’ve been here since, waiting, praying.
I’m sorry I shot at you. Sorry I didn’t believe you, but I’ve been here for days, hiding. Mister Spoon told me that I shouldn’t trust anyone we’d meet in Doubtful Cañon. For all I knew, you were outlaws. I’m sorry. I…I just want to go home.
After leaning his Winchester against the wall near the door, Whitey Grey came back to Eleora Giddings and took the cup from her hand, walked to the hearth, and refilled it with coffee. Then he drank, considering her story, or maybe our plight.
With Jasmine and Ian Spencer Henry tending and comforting Miss Giddings, I went to the albino.
“You should tell her,” I told him.
“Tell her what?”
“About her father. You knew him. You saw him die. I think it would comfort her.”
“I don’t want to,” he said petulantly.
“I don’t mean tell her how he died. She’s upset enough, has been through enough. But you knew him. You should tell her.”
“Don’t want to,” he repeated.
I tried a different subject. “Should I stand guard? In case the Apaches hit us?”
“They ain’t,” he said. “Iffen they was, they’d done it by now. Woman’s right. Said it was nothin’ but boys. That’s all I seen when they attacked us. Boys. Twelve, fourteen, no older than fifteen, I warrant. Boys from San Carlos wantin’ to prove they’s good ol’ Apaches. Show off for that Geronimo and all ’em other big bucks that took flight.”
“Boys?” Well, I recalled, it certainly had been a young lad trying to cut my throat back in the cañon.
“Don’t get careless, Jack, just ’cause they ain’t much older’n you. You’s seen how tough ’em Cherry Cows is even when they ain’t full growed.” The white-skinned man warmed up his cup with another splash of bitter brew. “Baby rattler’s just as deadly as a big one.”
Then shouldn’t someone stand guard? I wondered, but held my tongue on that subject, instead asking: “Well, what are we going to do with Miss Giddings?”
“Gots to study on it.”
“I still think you should tell her….”
“Boy, I ramrod this outfit. And I’s gettin’ sick and tired of remindin’ you that.”
He took another drink of coffee, only to spray into my face when Ian Spencer Henry asked Eleora Giddings: “What about the gold?”
“Shut up, boy!” he thundered, shoving me aside, while I was frantically wiping my eyes and nose, brushing the coffee away. By the time I had recovered, Whitey Grey stood over a cowering Ian Spencer Henry, raising his fist in an intimidating gesture.
“What gold?” Eleora Giddings asked.
The albino cursed and groaned.
“Mister Grey was there,” Ian Spencer Henry said. “He was with your father. He’s the one Willie Spoon found at the old station. That ‘odd-looking’ one. We’re here….”
Another oath. Whitey Grey let out a howl and marched back to the door, picking up the Winchester, staring into the morning.
“You…you were there?” Miss Giddings asked.
“Don’t pay ’em chil’ren no never mind,” he said, shifting the rifle.
“He was there, all right,” Ian Spencer Henry informed her. “You should hear his story. It’s all blood and thunder and glory. Tell her, Mister Grey. Tell her all about it. Tell her about her daddy. Tell her about the gold!”
“What gold?” she asked again.
And, again, Whitey Grey cursed.
Eventually, though, he handed me the Winchester, told me to keep an eye out, and walked back to Eleora Giddings. “Name’s Grey,” he said. “Folks call me Whitey. On account of…well, I reckon you can see plain enough. I rode for the Overland. And I was a gun hand, messenger, guard, conductor, whatever you want to call it, when Mister Giddings, your pa, took off from Texas to Californy on that fateful ride.”
Squatting, his fingers working nervously, he told her the story, pretty much the same tale he had regaled us with back at the Lady Macbeth Mine, although he skipped some of the blood, toned down much of the thunder, and added theatrics and heroics to the death of her father, which he kept brief. “Bravest man I ever knowed,” he said, “your pappy was.” He also failed to mention the $30,000. When he had finished, he pulled the severed Apache ear from his pocket and tossed out one final embellishment.
“Here, I kilt me one Cherry Cow that I knowed had a hand in your pappy’s death.” He glared at Ian Spencer Henry to keep silent, and I guess his fib was in the right place, disgusting as it was. “You can have it iffen you wants,” he told Miss Giddings.
“No…thanks.”
The ear returned to Whitey Grey’s pocket. “’Tain’t nothin’ much,” he said.
“What about the gold?” she asked.
The glare fell on Ian Spencer Henry again, but this time Whitey Grey sighed heavily, sank onto the dirt floor, and spit out the truth. “Your pappy was in charge of gettin’ thirty thousand dollars in gold out of Texas and into bluebelly territory in Californy. When the Apaches hit us, when it was plumb certain we’d all get rubbed out, he went to bury ’em saddlebags, make sure ’em Cherry Cows didn’t get that money. Well, he did just that. Died brave and game doin’ it.”
“How did you make it out alive?” she asked.
“Same as you,” he answered. “Pure luck. Injuns never been much good at finishin’ a fight. Reckon they gots bored.”
“We’re going to get the gold,” Ian Spencer Henry said.
The white-skinned man, looking a little flushed, ground his teeth. The petrified woman, looking a little confused, stared at Jasmine.
“And?” Eleora Giddings asked.
Jasmine shrugged.
“Dig it up,” Ian Spencer Henry said. “Hey, I got a great idea. Mister Grey said he’d give us five thousand dollars to help find the treasure. That’s why we’re here.”
“I….” Miss Giddi
ngs shook her head. “I don’t know. I guess I thought he was your grandfather.”
“No.” Ian Spencer Henry cackled. “No, he ain’t nothing like that. We’d never seen him till he scared us almost to death back in Shakespeare. No, what I was saying is this…we’re not greedy. You can have a share of our five thousand dollars. The math’s easier that way. Four instead of dividing by three.”
Now Whitey Grey perked up, liking and approving Ian Spencer Henry’s plan.
“That’s one thousand two hundred and fifty dollars. For each of us. That would buy you a mighty big marble cross to put over your pa’s grave, don’t you think?” When Eleora Giddings didn’t respond, Ian Spencer Henry, as was his nature, kept right on talking. “Me? I thought I’d have sixteen hundred dollars and then some, but I can make a good fortune with twelve hundred fifty. Do you know how many half-dime novels that’ll buy? Twenty-five thousand. And if I sell them for seven cents in Shakespeare? That’s…let’s see…that’s…. That’s seventeen hundred and fifty dollars. Five hundred dollars profit. That’s something.” He grinned and concluded with a brag. “I done all that in my head.”
“That’s something,” Miss Giddings said. She studied Whitey Grey. “But that money…if it’s still there…don’t you think that belongs to…?”
“John Butterfield’s dead,” the albino cut her off. “Been dead a long time. Your pa and everyone on that stagecoach is dead, ’ceptin’ me. There ain’t no Overland company no more, and Wells, Fargo and Company ain’t gots no claim on that gold. Nobody else does, neither, but one. I figure that’s me. Figure I deserves it, and the boy’s makin’ good sense. You deserve it, too. Some of it, I mean. Iffen you wants to, I’m willin’ to take you on with my other pards.”
“Pards?” She looked skeptical. “Why on earth did you bring these children here?”
“They come of their own accord.”
Well, that wasn’t entirely true.
She started to say something, probably a protest, but Whitey Grey started again. “You ain’t gots to come with us. You can wait here by your lonesome, hope ’em Apaches don’t come back, hope no contrary bandit decides to spend the night here. I ain’t hankerin’ to stay in that cañon any longer than I gots to. The chil’ren and me gots us two centipede cars hobbled over at the S.P. tracks near Stein’s Peak. We get the gold, today, and get out of here…today, tomorrow at the latest. Light a shuck back to Lordsburg. That’s….”
He never finished. Whitey Grey had a keen sense of hearing, detecting the horses before I heard the clattering of hoofs. A moment later, I spied a figure galloping along the road, reining up in a hurry and staring at the house. He was dressed like a cowhand, striped britches shoved inside tall boots, clad in a linen duster over a bib-front shirt, a black Stetson pulled low on his head, mounted on a tall sorrel horse while pulling a saddled buckskin behind him. I couldn’t make out his face, but could tell he wore a gun belt, although he kept his hands away from the holstered revolver or the rifle in the saddle scabbard.
Whitey Grey slammed shut the door, barred it—something Miss Giddings had forgotten to do—and jerked the Winchester from my hands, then, crouching, moved to the open window.
“Tarnation!” he said. “I knowed we shouldn’t have lit that fire. That hombre’s smelt our smoke, knows we’re here. Wants my gold, I warrant, but I gots too many pards already. Well, I’s gonna fix his flint.”
“He’s not an Apache,” I said. My eyes widened in horror as the albino brought up the Winchester and took aim at the mounted figure who kept calling out a loud, and friendly: “Halloooo!”
“No, sir, he ain’t,” Whitey Grey whispered, and grinned. “But they’s all kinds of snakes in Doubtful Cañon.”
Chapter Fourteen
“You should know, Whitey,” came a cottony voice from the rear window.
Everyone but Whitey Grey whirled to see a handsome man leaning inside the back window, a deadly Remington revolver pointed at the albino’s back. Grey had too much experience to spin. He just muttered an oath, and took his finger off the Winchester’s trigger.
“Put the rifle down, Whitey,” the man said. “Or I’ll put you down.”
With another curse, Whitey Grey let the Winchester topple out the window. Slowly, raising his hands slightly, he faced the gunman.
I knew this dark-haired man, but couldn’t place him until he climbed through the window, lithe as a cat. “It’s all right!” he yelled to the man on horse-back. “And the coffee’s on!”
He wore a black hat, red shirt, and canvas jacket, sporting two holsters on a shell belt around his slim waist, and gray trousers tucked inside tan boots with mule-ear pulls flapping on the sides. The boots. I’d seen him trying them on back at Mr. Shankin’s store in Shakespeare.
“Comfortable,” a second voice said a short while later, and I studied the other man, now standing in the door. He swept off his Stetson when he saw Eleora Giddings.
“’Morning, ma’am. I’m….”
“Curly Bill Brocious,” I said.
The man by the window laughed. “You’re famous, Billy.”
“It’s good to be that way.” Brocious pulled the hat back over his dark locks. “Sometimes. Yes, ma’am, the kid’s right. I’m William Brocious, but my friends call me Curly Bill. Over yonder’s my friend. We call him Dutch, but his name’s Johnny Ringo.”
Brocious picked up the old Henry repeater, studied the bullet-splintered stock, and pitched it out the open door.
After shoving the Remington into the empty holster on his left hip, Dutch Ringo tipped his hat. “John Peters Ringo. Didn’t mean to give y’all a fright,” he said. “But didn’t want to get shot dead, either.”
“Especially since we’re friendly folks,” Brocious added. “Coffee sure smells inviting.”
“Only gots one cup.” Shuffling his feet, eyes darting, Whitey Grey mumbled his words.
“No biscuits?” Ringo said. “No bacon or slumgullion or fried quail eggs?”
“We haven’t had anything to eat in a ’coon’s age,” Jasmine said.
“Well, that’s not healthy,” Ringo said. “Not healthy at all. Kids and, likewise, grown-ups need to eat. Curly, put our horses in the corral, bring in our saddlebags. We’ll have us a veritable feast. But I’d feel more comfortable if you…”—he jutted his jaw toward the albino—“would kindly toss your Colt outside. Slowly, Whitey. Very slowly.”
“You want my gun, too?” Ian Spencer Henry asked.
“Huh?”
“My gun? Do you want it, too? It’s my Pa’s, though, so I’d like it back. He’ll whup me good if I lose it.” Ian Spencer Henry fished out the old Army Colt, which prompted a short chuckle from both gunmen.
“That’s all right, son,” Ringo said. “You keep it. Might have need of it if we run into bandits.”
“Or Earps,” Brocious said with a laugh, and walked outside.
Famished, we ate heartily, greedily, devouring fried bacon, cold tortillas, and posole, and a fresh pot of coffee that Dutch Ringo made more to his liking. Brocious even passed out peppermint candy sticks to the three children. It was a feast. After we ate, stretching out on the hard floor, enjoying our candy while Brocious fetched knife and tobacco plug from his pocket and leaned against the door frame, keeping, as Ringo had suggested, one eye on the cañon road and the other on Whitey Grey.
“So,” Ringo said, nodding at the pale man. “You finally decided to dig up that gold.”
“You been trailin’ me, Ringy?” the albino asked.
“Not at all. I hadn’t given you a minute’s reflection since Arkansas, Mister Grey. Not until Curly and I overheard this boy.” His head tilted at me. “Back in Shakespeare.”
My eyes tried to avoid the albino’s murderous glare, and, when I worked up enough courage to look at my two friends, their angry faces said I had betrayed them as well. “I…I didn’t know,” I said.
“It’s not his fault,” Ringo said. “Curly and I were on our way to Tombstone, but, well, Curly
wore out his welcome last year after a little accident involving the marshal there. And, oh, we reckon that money you claim is still in the cañon is more tempting than trying to buck the tiger or finding some beef for the Clantons to sell.”
“Twenty years,” Brocious said, failing to stifle a burp. “What makes you dead certain it’s still there?”
Whitey Grey didn’t answer until Brocious aimed the Winchester at his abdomen.
“Man has to know where to look,” the albino said. “Then he has to be able to gets it. I reckon it’s still there.”
“So.” Ringo tipped his head back. “The lady comes to see her daddy’s grave. You come for the gold. Curly and I decide to place our bets on you. But why three shirt-tail kids?”
“They’s my pards,” Whitey Grey said. “This lady’s my pard. You ain’t my pard, Ringy. You neither, Brocious.”
“We are now,” Brocious said. “We shared our grub with you. That cuts us in.”
Leave it to Ian Spencer Henry to interrupt the conversation, and at least ease some tension. “Jasmine, Jack, and Miss Giddings and me are splitting five thousand dollars,” he said. “You want some of that?”
Brocious chortled, and Ringo grinned. “How much gold did you say there was, Grey?”
“I didn’t.”
“Thirty thousand,” Ian Spencer Henry interjected.
“That’s what I thought. Well, I think Curly and I deserve more than five thousand.”
“You might not get anything, but your own tombstone,” Miss Giddings said, her voice tight, but forceful. She didn’t care one whit for Curly Bill Brocious or Dutch Ringo, and I couldn’t blame her. Whitey Grey was one thing. Not that we trusted him, not that he wasn’t cold-blooded, but Ringo and Brocious made my skin crawl. I truly believe, well, most times anyway, that if we did find that treasure, Whitey Grey would give us $5,000. But men like Curly Bill Brocious and Johnny Ringo? They would slit our throats without compunction.
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