Arizona Nights

by White, Stewart Edward

  “This man has my coat,” he explained.

  “Where’d you get the coat?” I asked the Mex.

  “I ween heem at monte off Antonio Curvez,” said he.

  “Maybe,” growled the sailor.

  He still held the hook under the man’s jaw, but with the other hand he ran rapidly under and over the Mexican’s left shoulder. In the half light I could see his face change. The gleam died from his eye; the snarl left his lips. Without further delay he arose to his feet.

  “Get up and give it here!” he demanded.

  The Mexican was only too glad to get off so easy. I don’t know whether he’d really won the coat at monte or not. In any case, he flew poco pronto, leaving me and my friend together.

  The man with the hook felt the left shoulder of the coat again, looked up, met my eye, muttered something intended to be pleasant, and walked away.

  This was in December.

  During the next two months he was a good deal about town, mostly doing odd jobs. I saw him off and on. He always spoke to me as pleasantly as he knew how, and once made some sort of a bluff about paying me back for my trouble in bringing him around. However, I didn’t pay much attention to that, being at the time almighty busy holding down my card games.

  The last day of February I was sitting in my shack smoking a pipe after supper, when my one-armed friend opened the door a foot, slipped in, and shut it immediately. By the time he looked towards me I knew where my six-shooter was.

  “That’s all right,” said I, “but you better stay right there.”

  I intended to take no more chances with that hook.

  He stood there looking straight at me without winking or offering to move.

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  “I want to make up to you for your trouble,” said he. “I’ve got a good thing, and I want to let you in on it.”

  “What kind of a good thing?” I asked.

  “Treasure,” said he.

  “H’m,” said I.

  I examined him closely. He looked all right enough, neither drunk nor loco.

  “Sit down,” said I—“over there; the other side the table.” He did so. “Now, fire away,” said I.

  He told me his name was Solomon Anderson, but that he was generally known as Handy Solomon, on account of his hook; that he had always followed the sea; that lately he had coasted the west shores of Mexico; that at Guaymas he had fallen in with Spanish friends, in company with whom he had visited the mines in the Sierra Madre; that on this expedition the party had been attacked by Yaquis and wiped out, he alone surviving; that his blanket-mate before expiring had told him of gold buried in a cove of Lower California by the man’s grandfather; that the man had given him a chart showing the location of the treasure; that he had sewn this chart in the shoulder of his coat, whence his suspicion of me and his being so loco about getting it back.

  “And it’s a big thing,” said Handy Solomon to me, “for they’s not only gold, but altar jewels and diamonds. It will make us rich, and a dozen like us, and you can kiss the Book on that.”

  “That may all be true,” said I, “but why do you tell me? Why don’t you get your treasure without the need of dividing it?”

  “Why, mate,” he answered, “it’s just plain gratitude. Didn’t you save my life, and nuss me, and take care of me when I was nigh killed?”

  “Look here, Anderson, or Handy Solomon, or whatever you please to call yourself,” I rejoined to this, “if you’re going to do business with me—and I do not understand yet just what it is you want of me—you’ll have to talk straight. It’s all very well to say gratitude, but that don’t go with me. You’ve been around here three months, and barring a half-dozen civil words and twice as many of the other kind, I’ve failed to see any indications of your gratitude before. It’s a quality with a hell of a hang-fire to it.”

  He looked at me sideways, spat, and looked at me sideways again. Then he burst into a laugh.

  “The devil’s a preacher, if you ain’t lost your pinfeathers,”’ said he. “Well, it’s this then: I got to have a boat to get there; and she must be stocked. And I got to have help with the treasure, if it’s like this fellow said it was. And the Yaquis and cannibals from Tiburon is through the country. It’s money I got to have, and it’s money I haven’t got, and can’t get unless I let somebody in as pardner.”

  “Why me?” I asked.

  “Why not?” he retorted. “I ain’t see anybody I like better.”

  We talked the matter over at length. I had to force him to each point, for suspicion was strong in him. I stood out for a larger party. He strongly opposed this as depreciating the shares, but I had no intention of going alone into what was then considered a wild and dangerous country. Finally we compromised. A third of the treasure was to go to him, a third to me, and the rest was to be divided among the men whom I should select. This scheme did not appeal to him.

  “How do I know you plays fair?” he complained. “They’ll be four of you to one of me; and I don’t like it, and you can kiss the Book on that.”

  “If you don’t like it, leave it,” said I, “and get out, and be damned to you.”

  Finally he agreed; but he refused me a look at the chart, saying that he had left it in a safe place. I believe in reality he wanted to be surer of me, and for that I can hardly blame him.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE MURDER ON THE BEACH

  At this moment the cook stuck his head in at the open door.

  “Say, you fellows,” he complained, “I got to be up at three o’clock. Ain’t you never going to turn in?”

  “Shut up, Doctor!” “Somebody kill him!” “Here, sit down and listen to this yarn!” yelled a savage chorus.

  There ensued a slight scuffle, a few objections. Then silence, and the stranger took up his story.

  I had a chum named Billy Simpson, and I rung him in for friendship. Then there was a solemn, tall Texas young fellow, strong as a bull, straight and tough, brought up fighting Injins. He never said much, but I knew he’d be right there when the gong struck. For fourth man I picked out a German named Schwartz. He and Simpson had just come back from the mines together. I took him because he was a friend of Billy’s, and besides was young and strong, and was the only man in town excepting the sailor, Anderson, who knew anything about running a boat. I forgot to say that the Texas fellow was named Denton.

  Handy Solomon had his boat all picked out. It belonged to some Basques who had sailed her around from California. I must say when I saw her I felt inclined to renig, for she wasn’t more’n about twenty-five feet long, was open except for a little sort of cubbyhole up in the front of her, had one mast, and was pointed at both ends. However, Schwartz said she was all right. He claimed he knew the kind; that she was the sort used by French fishermen, and could stand all sorts of trouble. She didn’t look it.

  We worked her up to Yuma, partly with oars and partly by sails. Then we loaded her with grub for a month. Each of us had his own weapons, of course. In addition we put in picks and shovels, and a small cask of water. Handy Solomon said that would be enough, as there was water marked down on his chart. We told the gang that we were going trading.

  At the end of the week we started, and were out four days. There wasn’t much room, what with the supplies and the baggage, for the five of us. We had to curl up ‘most anywheres to sleep. And it certainly seemed to me that we were in lots of danger. The waves were much bigger than she was, and splashed on us considerable, but Schwartz and Anderson didn’t seem to mind. They laughed at us. Anderson sang that song of his, and Schwartz told us of the placers he had worked. He and Simpson had made a pretty good clean-up, just enough to make them want to get rich. The first day out Simpson showed us a belt with about an hundred ounces of dust. This he got tired of wearing, so he kept it in a compass-box, which was empty.

  At the end of the four days we turned in at a deep bay and came to anchor. The country was the usual proposition—very light-brown,
brittle-looking mountains, about two thousand feet high; lots of sage and cactus, a pebbly beach, and not a sign of anything fresh and green.

  But Denton and I were mighty glad to see any sort of land. Besides, our keg of water was pretty low, and it was getting about time to discover the spring the chart spoke of. So we piled our camp stuff in the small boat and rowed ashore.

  Anderson led the way confidently enough up a dry arroyo, whose sides were clay and conglomerate. But, though we followed it to the end, we could find no indications that it was anything more than a wash for rain floods.

  “That’s main queer,” muttered Anderson, and returned to the beach.

  There he spread out the chart—the first look at it we’d had—and set to studying it.

  It was a careful piece of work done in India ink, pretty old, to judge by the look of it, and with all sorts of pictures of mountains and dolphins and ships and anchors around the edge. There was our bay, all right. Two crosses were marked on the land part—one labelled “oro” and the other “agua.”

  “Now there’s the high cliff,” says Anderson, following it out, “and there’s the round hill with the boulder—and if them bearings don’t point due for that ravine, the devil’s a preacher.”

  We tried it again, with the same result. A second inspection of the map brought us no light on the question. We talked it over, and looked at it from all points, but we couldn’t dodge the truth: the chart was wrong.

  Then we explored several of the nearest gullies, but without finding anything but loose stones baked hot in the sun.

  By now it was getting towards sundown, so we built us a fire of mesquite on the beach, made us supper, and boiled a pot of beans.

  We talked it over. The water was about gone.

  “That’s what we’ve got to find first,” said Simpson, “no question of it. It’s God knows how far to the next water, and we don’t know how long it will take us to get there in that little boat. If we run our water entirely out before we start, we’re going to be in trouble. We’ll have a good look tomorrow, and if we don’t find her, we’ll run down to Mollyhay[4] and get a few extra casks.”

  “Perhaps that map is wrong about the treasure, too,” suggested Denton.

  “I thought of that,” said Handy Solomon, “but then, thinks I to myself, this old rip probably don’t make no long stay here—just dodges in and out like, between tides, to bury his loot. He would need no water at the time; but he might when he came back, so he marked the water on his map. But he wasn’t noways particular AND exact, being in a hurry. But you can kiss the Book to it that he didn’t make no such mistakes about the swag.”

  “I believe you’re right,” said I.

  When we came to turn in, Anderson suggested that he should sleep aboard the boat. But Billy Simpson, in mind perhaps of the hundred ounces in the compass-box, insisted that he’d just as soon as not. After a little objection Handy Solomon gave in, but I thought he seemed sour about it. We built a good fire, and in about ten seconds were asleep.

  Now, usually I sleep like a log, and did this time until about midnight. Then all at once I came broad awake and sitting up in my blankets. Nothing had happened—I wasn’t even dreaming—but there I was as alert and clear as though it were broad noon.

  By the light of the fire I saw Handy Solomon sitting, and at his side our five rifles gathered.

  I must have made some noise, for he turned quietly toward me, saw I was awake, and nodded. The moonlight was sparkling on the hard stony landscape, and a thin dampness came out from the sea.

  After a minute Anderson threw on another stick of wood, yawned, and stood up.

  “It’s wet,” said he; “I’ve been fixing the guns.”

  He showed me how he was inserting a little patch of felt between the hammer and the nipple, a scheme of his own for keeping damp from the powder. Then he rolled up in his blanket. At the time it all seemed quite natural—I suppose my mind wasn’t fully awake, for all my head felt so clear. Afterwards I realised what a ridiculous bluff he was making: for of course the cap already on the nipple was plenty to keep out the damp. I fully believe he intended to kill us as we lay. Only my sudden awakening spoiled his plan.

  I had absolutely no idea of this at the time, however. Not the slightest suspicion entered my head. In view of that fact, I have since believed in guardian angels. For my next move, which at the time seemed to me absolutely aimless, was to change my blankets from one side of the fire to the other. And that brought me alongside the five rifles.

  Owing to this fact, I am now convinced, we awoke safe at daylight, cooked breakfast, and laid the plan for the day. Anderson directed us. I was to climb over the ridge before us and search in the ravine on the other side. Schwartz was to explore up the beach to the left, and Denton to the right. Anderson said he would wait for Billy Simpson, who had overslept in the darkness of the cubbyhole, and who was now paddling ashore. The two of them would push inland to the west until a high hill would give them a chance to look around for greenery.

  We started at once, before the sun would be hot. The hill I had to climb was steep and covered with chollas, so I didn’t get along very fast. When I was about half way to the top I heard a shot from the beach. I looked back. Anderson was in the small boat, rowing rapidly out to the vessel. Denton was running up the beach from one direction and Schwartz from the other. I slid and slipped down the bluff, getting pretty well stuck up with the cholla spines.

  At the beach we found Billy Simpson lying on his ace, shot through the back. We turned him over, but he was apparently dead. Anderson had hoisted the sail, had cut loose from the anchor, and was sailing away.

  Denton stood up straight and tall, looking. Then he pulled his belt in a hole, grabbed my arm, and started to run up the long curve of the beach. Behind us came Schwartz. We ran near a mile, and then fell among some tules in an inlet at the farther point.

  “What is it?” I gasped.

  “Our only chance—to get him—” said Denton. “He’s got to go around this point—big wind—perhaps his mast will bust—then he’ll come ashore—” He opened and shut his big brown hands.

  So there we two fools lay, like panthers in the tules, taking our only one-in-a-million chance to lay hands on Anderson. Any sailor could have told us that the mast wouldn’t break, but we had winded Schwartz a quarter of a mile back. And so we waited, our eyes fixed on the boat’s sail, grudging her every inch, just burning to fix things to suit us a little better. And naturally she made the point in what I now know was only a fresh breeze, squared away, and dropped down before the wind toward Guaymas.

  We walked back slowly to our camp, swallowing the copper taste of too hard a run. Schwartz we picked up from a boulder, just recovering. We were all of us crazy mad. Schwartz half wept, and blamed and cussed. Denton glowered away in silence. I ground my feet into the sand in a help less sort of anger, not only at the man himself, but also at the whole way things had turned out. I don’t believe the least notion of our predicament had come to any of us. All we knew yet was that we had been done up, and we were hostile about it.

  But at camp we found something to occupy us for the moment. Poor Billy was not dead, as we had supposed, but very weak and sick, and a hole square through him. When we returned he was conscious, but that was about all. His eyes were shut, and he was moaning. I tore open his shirt to stanch the blood. He felt my hand and opened his eyes. They were glazed, and I don’t think he saw me.

  “Water, water!” he cried.

  At that we others saw all at once where we stood. I remember I rose to my feet and found myself staring straight into Tom Denton’s eyes. We looked at each other that way for I guess it was a full minute. Then Tom shook his head.

  “Water, water!” begged poor Billy.

  Tom leaned over him.

  “My God, Billy, there ain’t any water!” said he.

  [4] Mulege—I retain the Old Timer’s pronunciation.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  BURIED TRE
ASURE

  The Old Timer’s voice broke a little. We had leisure to notice that even the drip from the eaves had ceased. A faint, diffused light vouchsafed us dim outlines of sprawling figures and tumbled bedding. Far in the distance outside a wolf yelped.

  We could do nothing for him except shelter him from the sun, and wet his forehead with sea-water; nor could we think clearly for ourselves as long as the spark of life lingered in him. His chest rose and fell regularly, but with long pauses between. When the sun was overhead he suddenly opened his eyes.

  “Fellows,” said he, “it’s beautiful over there; the grass is so green, and the water so cool; I am tired of marching, and I reckon I’ll cross over and camp.”

  Then he died. We scooped out a shallow hole above tide-mark, and laid him in it, and piled over him stones from the wash.

  Then we went back to the beach, very solemn, to talk it over.

  “Now, boys,” said I, “there seems to me just one thing to do, and that is to pike out for water as fast as we can.”

  “Where?” asked Denton.

  “Well,” I argued, “I don’t believe there’s any water about this bay. Maybe there was when that chart was made. It was a long time ago. And any way, the old pirate was a sailor, and no plainsman, and maybe he mistook rainwater for a spring. We’ve looked around this end of the bay. The chances are we’d use up two or three days exploring around the other, and then wouldn’t be as well off as we are right now.”

  “Which way?” asked Denton again, mighty brief.

  “Well,” said I, “there’s one thing I’ve always noticed in case of folks held up by the desert: they generally go wandering about here and there looking for water until they die not far from where they got lost. And usually they’ve covered a heap of actual distance.”

  “That’s so,” agreed Denton.

  “Now, I’ve always figured that it would be a good deal better to start right out for some particular place, even if it’s ten thousand miles away. A man is just as likely to strike water going in a straight line as he is going in a circle; and then, besides, he’s getting somewhere.”