Curse of Skull Canyon

by Peter Brandvold

  Brocius was the one sitting at the table’s far end. Madsen sat adjacent to Bill, facing Lonnie’s mother. Lonnie shook Madsen’s hand first and then reached across the far corner of the table to shake Bill Brocius’s hand.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Lonnie said, unable to work up much enthusiasm for the introduction.

  “The pleasure’s all ours, boy,” Madsen said. “Your mother told us a lot about you.” He was fair-skinned with dark-brown hair, a dark-brown beard, and bulbous red nose. Brocius was a compact, clean-shaven man with a high forehead and thin, sandy hair combed so that a lock swept down over his right, pale blue eye. Both appeared in their thirties.

  The men had washed recently. They had freshly scrubbed looks, and their hair, like Lonnie’s, was damp and combed. Lonnie thought he smelled the sweet, cloying odor of pomade on one of them, or maybe both.

  Brocius seemed to study Lonnie with a faintly sheepish, devious air, though he kept a smile on his small, thin-lipped mouth. Or maybe Lonnie just imagined the devious gaze, being suspicious of men who got along too well with his mother, especially when they hardly knew her.

  Madsen was smiling, too, but he had dark, deep-set eyes that gave him a menacing look.

  “Bill and George work for a mining company,” May Gentry told Lonnie, rocking the sleeping Jeremiah in her arms. “They’re . . . they’re . . . what did you fellas call it?”

  “Geologists,” Brocius said. “We’re scoutin’ around, lookin’ at rocks an’ such, tryin’ to find evidence of any gold or silver in the area.”

  “I see,” Lonnie said, unable to feign interest.

  His mind was still up at Skull Canyon, and all he wanted was to shove some vittles into his gullet and then get about his barn chores. He wasn’t in the mood for socializing. He had livestock to tend before he could roll into the mattress sack, and he felt deeply fatigued—both mentally and physically.

  He looked at his mother. “When’s supper, Momma? I feel as empty as a dead man’s boot.”

  “Lonnie Gentry, what a way to talk in front of our new friends!” May scolded. “Why, Bill and George are going to think I didn’t raise you to talk proper!”

  “Not at all, not all, May,” Brocius assured her, chuckling as he sat back in his chair and began rolling a cigarette from the makings sack on the table before him. “I was raised in the country myself. I know what it’s like.”

  Lonnie noticed that Madsen had his head turned to one side, scrutinizing Lonnie. He was trying to look subtle about it, but Lonnie could tell when he was being sized up. Madsen made Lonnie feel uncomfortable. But when he looked at Brocius, he realized Brocius made him feel uncomfortable, too.

  “So, Momma,” Lonnie said, peering around his mother and noting an iron pot steaming on the range, “when’s supper?”

  “As soon as the rolls are done, Mister Scowly Face. Look at you. You’re in one of your moods again, Lonnie Gentry. Here—why don’t you take little Jeremiah outside for a spell. Walk him from one end of the yard to the other while I visit some more with our supper guests. He’s been so fussy since you’ve been gone.” To her guests, she said, “Lonnie’s so much better at getting the baby settled down—isn’t that peculiar?”

  To Lonnie again: “By the time you get back, I imagine the rolls will be done, and we can dish up . . . but only after you’ve said grace, Mister Scowls. So while you’re out there with your little brother, you think up a nice, sweet table prayer and show these gentleman that you have better language than that you use around the cattle!”

  May Gentry had handed over the tightly wrapped bundle of little Jeremiah to Lonnie. The baby’s little, red, pinched-up face was turning redder now as the child started to fuss harder.

  Lonnie silently cursed as he took the baby in his arms.

  He walked outside, silently, bitterly fuming. He kicked a rock and then he turned toward the cabin to see Madsen watching him from the window right of the door. Madsen had that same, dark, speculative look as before.

  What did that look mean?

  “One thing after another,” Lonnie said, as he started walking his squawking brother around the yard, hearing his mother’s and her visitors’ laughter rise again from inside the cabin. “When will it ever end?”

  CHAPTER 20

  Jeremiah didn’t squawk long after he and Lonnie started walking out toward the ranch portal. Lonnie often took care of the baby, only three months old, when his mother was in one of her nervous states and needed a few minutes alone, or was down with the “vapors.”

  Lonnie had found he’d had a calming effect on the baby. He wasn’t sure why, but when Lonnie held Jeremiah, the baby usually stopped crying within a minute or two. Then Jeremiah would either drift to sleep or lie staring up at his big brother as though in fascination, sort of gurgling and sighing contentedly deep in his little chest.

  Lonnie walked toward the ranch portal, jostling the baby gently. Though he’d never admitted as much to his mother, and maybe not even to himself, he liked having the kid around. When it had been just Lonnie and May, they’d seemed less like a family than they did now.

  The problem was that when staring into the baby’s deep-blue eyes, Lonnie often saw the eyes of Shannon Dupree staring back at him. The baby didn’t look anything like Dupree now, but Jeremiah would likely take on some of his father’s aspects when he grew older.

  Lonnie often wondered how he himself would feel about that, reminded constantly that Jeremiah was the son of a man whom Lonnie, his brother, had killed. He also wondered how Jeremiah would feel about that, when he eventually was told. Would he hold the killing of his father against Lonnie?

  Lonnie didn’t feel guilty about having killed Shannon Dupree. Dupree had been going to kill Lonnie and Casey. Besides, if there was ever a man who needed killing, that man was Dupree. No, Lonnie didn’t feel guilty about killing him.

  He felt guilty about having killed.

  Humming gently as he rocked his brother in his arms, Lonnie turned away from the ranch portal and started back toward the cabin. He hoped his mother had done enough chinning with her supper guests, because Lonnie was damn hungry.

  He’d hoped to be able to talk to May alone this evening, but that didn’t look like it was going to happen. Judging by the air of revelry inside the cabin, he’d likely turn in long before his mother and Brocius and Madsen did. He’d wanted to tell his mother about all that had happened to him during the past twenty-four hours, to get it off his chest.

  But, then again, maybe it was just as well May didn’t know. She was not a strong woman. Lonnie had learned that the hard way. If she knew about the men who’d tried to run down and kill her son, and about Cade McLory and the four riders whom Lonnie had seen shot off their horses—who knew what she’d do?

  Merely reflecting on it nearly had Lonnie panicking and wanting to run far, far away from here. The only problem was, there was nowhere to go.

  He’d just started wondering about the two strangers in his house, when May Gentry opened the cabin door and called him to supper. Lonnie went in, handed the baby over to his mother, who took him into her bedroom to feed him, and then sat down at the opposite end of the table from Bill Brocius.

  May had told them to get started, so Lonnie dug into the rabbit stew and fresh bread, grateful that May had apparently forgotten about grace. Brocius and Madsen had apparently forgotten about it, too. Lonnie doubted that either man was in the habit of saying table prayers. They both had a hard, trail-savvy look about them.

  If they were really working as geologists for a mining company, he was a monkey’s uncle.

  He didn’t know who they really were or what they were doing here, but he didn’t like them. He’d seen too many strangers in the Never Summers over the past two days. And too many of those strangers had tried to kill him. Not only that, but he didn’t like the way these two strangers looked at his mother.

  Lonnie and his mother’s guests ate in silence for a time, all three too involved in padding their bellies to
waste time with conversation. That was fine with Lonnie. He had nothing to say to these men—at least, nothing he could say without getting in trouble with his mother.

  Then Brocius gave a snort as he set his fork down on his nearly empty plate, brushed a fist across his nose, and split a roll in two. He glanced at Madsen and then turned to Lonnie: “So, sport, you’ve lived here all your life, I reckon.”

  Lonnie was buttering his own roll. “That’s right.”

  “You probably know every nook and cranny of these mountains, strapping lad like yourself.”

  Lonnie hiked a shoulder as he set his knife down and dipped his roll into the remaining stew on his plate. He bit into the succulent, gravy-soaked, buttery bread.

  Madsen looked over his coffee cup at Lonnie. “You probably know a lot of the folks who live in these mountains, too.”

  Again, Lonnie only shrugged as he continued to shovel stew into his mouth while swabbing the gravy off his plate with his roll. He could tell by their fishing that these men wanted something from him. Well, let them want. Let them fish. Through their questions, Lonnie might learn something about them.

  “You know anything about a stolen army payroll shipment that might have been buried up in these mountains, several years back?” asked Brocius.

  Lonnie looked at Brocius who held his steady, penetrating gaze on him. Now that the man had mentioned it, Lonnie had heard about such a shipment.

  Lonnie had dismissed the story about the stolen army payroll as just another legend. There were as many legends in these mountains as there were people who lived and had lived in and around the Never Summers.

  When Lonnie didn’t say anything but only returned Brocius’s curious gaze, Madsen leaned forward and, keeping his voice down as though to make sure no one else overheard the conversation, said, “You have heard about it, haven’t you, boy? Tell us what you know.”

  Lonnie knew little. But he enjoyed the power he suddenly found himself holding over these two grown-up strangers. “What do you wanna know about it?”

  “Has anyone ever found it?” Brocius asked.

  Again, Lonnie merely shrugged.

  Brocius glanced at Madsen, gave a baleful grin, and returned his cunning gaze to Lonnie. “Come on, kid. Tell us what you know.”

  “First, tell me what you know about it,” Lonnie said, casually helping himself to more stew.

  CHAPTER 21

  Brocius gave a dry chuckle.

  Madsen stared at Lonnie with silent menace.

  Lonnie ate his stew, trying not to look at Madsen. Both these men made him nervous, but Madsen more than Brocius. He didn’t want either one to see how he felt, however.

  “What we know,” Brocius said, “was that a strongbox containing an army payroll was stolen down in Arizona about seventeen years ago. The gang that stole it was going to powder the trail to Mexico, but their route was cut off by a contingent of cavalry out of Fort Bowie. So the gang swung north instead.

  “They evaded the cavalry but telegraphs were sent to local lawmen and some deputy US marshals in New Mexico, and these men formed a posse. They chased the gang up into Colorado. Supposedly, they were heading for the Hole in the Wall in Wyoming. They didn’t make it.

  “Their gang was whittled down by the posse as they headed north, until only two men was left. Both of those men were wounded, one badly. He and the other man made it into the Never Summers, where, as the story goes, they hid the strongbox. Then one of the men died. The sole survivor left the Never Summers to get medical attention for himself, and was captured by the posse that was still on the scout for him.”

  Brocius picked up the blue-speckled coffeepot sitting on the table, and refilled his stone mug. As he set the pot back down, he said through the steam wafting up from his cup, “That sole surviving thief never did tell the law where he and the other man had hid the strongbox. But it’s long been believed that they hid it somewhere in the Never Summers. Now, some are saying it must be in or somewhere around Skull Canyon.”

  Lonnie had known that part of the story was coming since Brocius had been about halfway through his tale. Still, he literally almost fell off his chair. His shock must have shown in his features, because Madsen, who’d been staring at him with those flat, deep-set brown eyes gave a wry snort.

  “Is that where it is, boy?”

  Lonnie composed himself, cleared his throat. “Couldn’t tell ya.”

  Brocius dipped his chin and pinned Lonnie with a direct, threatening look. “Can’t? Or won’t?”

  “Can’t,” Lonnie said quickly, realizing the trouble he was in.

  These men were after what all those other men including probably Cade McLory had been after—stolen army loot! Which means that they were likely as kill-crazy desperate as all the others. Again, in his mind’s eye, Lonnie watched the four riders get shot out of their saddles.

  “Can’t,” Lonnie repeated with more urgency this time. “I heard sometime back about the loot maybe bein’ cached somewhere in the Never Summers. But I never knew where. That right there is everything I know on the subject.”

  It was as though Madsen hadn’t heard what Lonnie had just said. “Has someone found it? Or is it still out there somewhere?”

  Brocius said, “We don’t want to waste our time on a wild-goose chase.”

  “I have no idea,” Lonnie said.

  Madsen narrowed a suspicious eye at him. “You do know—don’t you boy? You’re a lone wolf, wily as a coyote. Most boys like you got their ears to the ground, so to speak. They move around. They’re savvy as Apaches. That’s you—ain’t it, kid? You know more about that loot than you’re lettin’ on.”

  “Hell, no!”

  “Lonnie Gentry, did I just hear you cuss in front of our guests?”

  May Gentry had just stepped out of her bedroom which opened off the parlor part of the cabin. As she quietly latched the bedroom door so as not to awaken little Jeremiah, she came toward the kitchen, frowning.

  “Uh . . . sorry, Momma,” Lonnie said. “I don’t know what happened. I reckon it just slipped out.”

  “Oh, we don’t mind,” Madsen said, leaning over to tussle Lonnie’s hair. “He’s a green one, this younker. That’s all right—the best colts got some pitch in ’em.”

  May Gentry refilled Madsen’s coffee cup, saying, “Lonnie’s problem is that he has an ornery streak. Gets a little too full of himself from time to time. I reckon that’s my fault. I’m too soft on him.” She shook her head and filled her own cup. “A boy needs a man’s touch. Lonnie hasn’t had that since his father died . . . God rest his soul.”

  May Gentry sighed as she sat down near Brocius and across from Madsen. Holding her steaming cup in her hands, she regarded Lonnie with sadness, shaking her head.

  Lonnie pushed his plate away and rose from the table. Anger burned in him, but he tried to keep it on a leash. “Thanks for supper, Momma,” he muttered, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “I’d best get to my night chores and turn in.”

  Lonnie felt all eyes on him as he grabbed his hat off a wall peg, opened the door, and went out. He stood at the top of the porch steps, a mix of emotions roiling within him—fear, confusion, and anger. He had to admit that he was also curious about the stolen army payroll loot.

  He’d hoped he’d seen his first and last cache of stolen money when he and Casey had delivered the Golden bank loot to the deputy US marshal in Camp Collins.

  He’d been wrong.

  And now he couldn’t help wondering how much loot there was in that army strongbox, and if the loot really was hidden somewhere in Skull Canyon. If so, judging by the number of men looking for it, it hadn’t been found.

  It must be a sizeable amount to have attracted so many treasure hunters.

  As Lonnie’s eyes scanned the forested western ridges standing tall and dark before him, the very last of the setting sun’s rays gilding the tops of the highest pines and firs, he entertained a brief fantasy of finding that cache himself. He wouldn’t take it, because
it didn’t belong to him. But he’d bet aces against navy beans that after all these years the army was offering a sizeable reward for the return of that strongbox.

  He fantasized about cashing that reward note and of riding a long, long ways away from here.

  Of leaving this place of so much misery and heartache behind him.

  Lonnie heard his mother and Brocius and Madsen talking and laughing in the cabin behind him. He moved down off the porch steps and headed for the barn.

  CHAPTER 22

  As the last light bled out of the sky and the cool mountain night descended on the valley, Lonnie bedded down in the lean-to side shed off the barn.

  He was surprised to hear the laughing and obviously pie-eyed Brocius and Madsen leave the cabin only about an hour or so later. Either they’d brought a bottle or Lonnie’s mother had broken out the brandy she occasionally uncorked when she couldn’t sleep.

  Lonnie had thought that they and May, who hadn’t had any visitors except for the occasional traveling tinker or drummer in a month of Sundays, would sit up half the night. He’d also been worried one of the men might not leave the cabin till morning.

  Lonnie was pleasantly surprised.

  Still, he couldn’t sleep. Too much was racing through his mind. He kept seeing those blindly staring eyes of Cade McLory as well as the four riders being shot out of their saddles while guns smoked and sparked in the surrounding trees and boulders.

  He could hear the screams of those men as they’d died.

  Also, he couldn’t help imagining digging up that stolen loot himself. Even if there was only a small reward on that payroll cache, it would likely be enough money to give a young man a decent start somewhere he’d have half a chance.

  Lonnie had the cold, brittle feeling that he’d run out of chances here in the Never Summers.