by Chuck Tyrell
“Him what was gonna kill my pa?” Wee Willy didn’t sound ready to help Stryker.
“If anyone can get us out of this predicament, it’s Matt Stryker,” Molly said.
Weights began to move, to disappear, and a tiny fraction of Stryker’s pain went with it. Light came.
“Matt? Matt?” Molly’s voice carried a plea.
It wasn’t dark any more, but Stryker didn’t feel like opening his eyes. Maybe that would hurt, too.
“Matt?”
Molly lightly slapped Stryker’s face on both cheeks. “Matt Stryker. You talk to me, will you?”
“Ungl,” Stryker said.
“What?”
“Urgl mngu.” Matt tried to spit at the dust that seemed to clog his vocal cords.
A moment later, Stryker was high above the floor of the canyon. No, above the floor of the cavern, in Wee Willie’s arms. He put Stryker down on a saddle blanket.
“Matt?”
Stryker hacked and spit, holding his ribs against the pain.
“Matt?”
“Whur’s Lige? Whur’s Cousins?”
“Gone,” she said. “They’re gone.”
Stryker slumped. He no longer fought back the pain. Let it come. He’d tried. He had no idea who Hershey’s heirs were, but he’d tried. His job was to get Molly for Dodge Miller, and she was right there, tending to his hurts. They could just go back to Tucson. If they could get back out of Hell’s Trail anyway. Not like Lige to run off. Cousins either, for that matter. Damn but it hurt. No putting a place on “it” because it was all over and all finished.
“Matt?”
“Huh?”
“What are we going to do, Matt.”
“Where’d Lige and Cousins go?”
“With those men from Alamo, those miners, that John Walker.”
“Where’d they go?”
“Looking for gold. Walker said he’d back-track the Dents and find the gold.”
Stryker chuckled. His ribs hurt. His arm hurt. Bruises up and down his body hurt. He laughed, but only a couple of barks. His rips pained him too much to laugh. “Chasing gold? Don’t sound like Lige to me.”
That’s better. You’re talking now,” Molly said.
“Sit me up?” Stryker’s eyes were still closed.
“Why?”
“Think better sitting up. And we can find out what’s wrong with me, too. Ain’t every day a man has a mountain fall on him and lives to tell the tale.”
Wee Willy and Molly wrestled Stryker around until he kind of sat against the cavern wall, his legs splayed and his right hand and arm cradled against his stomach.
“Damn,” Stryker said. “Hurts a man to sit up.”
“Where does it hurt, Matthew?”
Stryker opened his eyes, only to shut them again.
“Can you see, Matt?”
“Yeah, but seeing makes me dizzy,” he said.
“All right, keep them shut. Just tell me where you hurt.”
“Ever where.”
“Matthew Stryker. You must do better than that.”
“Ungh.”
She put a hand to his head and felt with feather-light fingers. “Two big goose eggs,” she said, as much to herself as to Stryker. “A little blood.” She sat back. “Can’t wash it, Matt. Those men took all the water and all the food, too. They left me and Wee Willy. I guess they figured we’d either die or survive. Either way, it was no skin off their noses.”
“Don’t sound like Lige.”
Her hands and fingers ran down his neck and onto his shoulder.
“Damn but you hurt a man, Molly,” Stryker said.
“Little cuts and scrapes,” she said. “Some blood, but they’re all scabbing over.” She grasped Stryker’s right hand.
“Jeez,” he said. “Don’t move it. Hurts to blue blazes.”
Her fingers felt along his forearm and found a lump. She got a knife and slit the loose sleeve of his sand-colored blouse. “Broken.” She raised her voice a notch. “Wee Willy, I need a little stick. Find me one, please.”
“Awright, missus.” Wee Willy shuffled off, his shoulders hunched as if he expected a blow.
“Take a deep breath,” she said.
“Can’t,” Stryker said.
“Take one. Let’s see how much it hurts.”
Stryker tried, but his ribs wouldn’t let him get much over half a breath. “Damn it, woman. Dadburned ribs hurt. One or two busted, I reckon. Busted, but not broke in two ‘cause I can still breath and my lungs ain’t filling up with blood. If I go easy, I can do ‘er.”
“Missus?”
Molly turned to face Wee Willy, who stood first on one foot and then the other, twisting his floppy hat in his huge hands. “What is it, Willy?” she said in a gentle voice.
“Cain’t find no sticks, only three little pieces, missus.” Wee Willy’s voice caught, as if he were going to cry.
Stryker chuckled, then grimaced. Tears furrowed tracks through the dust on his cheek. “Makes sense. No water. Nothing for trees to grow with. No decent sticks. Well. I’ll just have to do without.”
Molly stood and went back around the curve in the cavern. She came back with her ragged dress and petticoat. “I’m gonna cut a slice off your saddle blanket,” she said. “Willy, help, please.”
They moved Stryker to one side and Molly cut a foot-wide strip from the saddle blanket. She folded it, then folded it again, and again, until she had a pad six layers deep and a little over six inches wide. She placed the pad under Stryker’s broken forearm and tied it firmly in place with strips torn from her old petticoat. Whenever Stryker flinched, Molly clicked her tongue and said, “Be strong, now, Matthew Stryker. Your arm will feel better when its all trussed up.”
And it did.
Chapter Twelve
“Goldamit, Walker. Where’s the blighted gold?”
John Walker did not deign to answer. He kept his eyes on the distinctive prints of the Dents’ pack mule. In the heat of the day, those tracks had led the treasure hunters into and out of two blind canyons, and to one old campsite. There had been no sign of anyone hiding anything at the campsite. The hoof prints of the mule were as deep going away as they had been coming. John Walker’s eyes swept the approaches to the canyon, high and low. The Apache Taklishim might not be alone. There was a time when John Walker too was a scout, as he was now, but then in the pay of the cavalry. He knew the White Mountain Apaches, the only Apache tribe never to have fought the U.S. Army. Fort Apache was on their land, the White Mountains but they lived in peace with Nantan Lupan, the wolf they called George Crook. Walker had no interest in being on the wrong side of White Mountain Apaches like Taklishim. But these whitemen paid him well—would pay him well—to back-track the ones they called Dent, the ones who lay dead deep in Hell’s Trail, to find the gold they had carried. John Walker read the greed in the eyes of the men who followed him, in the eyes of all men but Carpenter and Cousins. Who were these men? These men who could even be brothers of the scarfaced Stryker.
“What now?” asked Todd the bartender and sometime prospector. “What now?”
Walker remained silent, his eyes on the tracks of Dent’s pack mule. Nowhere did they show where a significant load—250 pounds of gold—had been removed. Still, it would be proper to investigate one more blind canyon. Just one more.
“They went up this canyon,” Walker said. “We will follow their trail to see if it brings us to gold.”
Thirteen men on thirteen thirsty horses. True, they had the big canteens the Dents had carried, but it wouldn’t last long in this midday heat.
The very quantity of gold they searched for held the attention of most of the men. Though still sweating under the sun, they sat their saddles with nonchalance.
Walker urged his paint into the canyon. Thirteen men followed, the Alamo men eager and leading the column, Lige and Nate bringing up the rear behind three gunmen and Garth Upton.
Going and coming, the mule’s tracks showed no difference in de
pth or balance. The gold is not in this canyon. Still, Walker had to lead the search. That was the agreement. That’s why thirteen men followed him.
At the blind end of the canyon, they found a campsite. Walker saw where one man had dumped bloody feces on the ground without any attempt to hide himself from the others. He thought of the bodies in the cave. An old man and two dead sons. A captive woman. A simple but very strong man who stayed close to the woman. Four horses and a pack mule. Supplies. Water. No sign of the scarfaced man called Stryker, but two gunmen who had been there elected to come hunting gold. And four more gunmen who followed one of the two. And one of the four was wounded, though not mortally. Walker was not happy. He could walk away. But he’d made a promise, and unlike the promises made by whitemen to Indians, Walker’s word was as good as the gold they sought.
“Time for me to get up,” Stryker said. “Cain’t do nothing sitting on my ass. Wee Willy, I could use some of your good help to get up. All right?”
Wee Willy looked at Molly. She nodded. “Sure thing, Mr. Stryker,” he said.
With Wee Willy’s help, Stryker stood. For a few seconds, he felt disoriented, then his sight and his mind slowly cleared. “What have we got in the way of guns?” he asked.
“They took everything,” Molly said. “’Cept your Colt pistol. You had that on.” She folded a bandana in half and went to tie it around Stryker’s neck as a sling for his right arm.
“My rifle?”
“Rifle?”
“I had a rifle when the cliff face blew,” Stryker said.
Molly turned to Wee Willy. “Willy boy,” she said. “Do me a favor and see if you can find Mr. Stryker’s rifle near where we dug him out from under all those rocks, could you?”
“Yes, missus,” Wee Willy said. He went to the cavern entrance, looked both ways as if crossing a busy thoroughfare, and started removing littered stones from around the spot where Stryker had been covered.
“Will they find the gold, Matt?”
“I don’t know. John Walker’s a good tracker, but who knows if he can find where Dent cached the gold.”
“Missus,” called Wee Willy. “Something here.”
“That’s good, Willy. Can you bring it here?”
“Yes, missus.” Wee Willy shambled into the cavern with Stryker’s rifle in his left hand and something else in his right. He handed the rifle to Stryker, then turned to give the other thing to Molly.
“Wha . . .” Molly, for once, was completely wordless.
“What is it?” Stryker asked.
Molly held the gold ingot so Stryker could see. “Gold,” she said, almost reverently.
“Where’d you find the gold, Willy?” Stryker said.
“Right where Pa put it,” Wee Willy replied.
“All there?”
Wee Willy nodded emphatically. “I reckon,” he said.
“Jeez. Puts a whole different color on the situation,” Stryker said.
“My goodness. What do we do?”
“Reckon it depends on how much other people want that gold. I . . .” Stryker covered his face with his left hand. If Wee Willy was right, 250 pounds of gold lay under the rocks he thought had fallen from the cliff face. Damn. Lige and Cousins and the gunmen rode off with Walker, or so Molly said, who knew where Takishim was. Stryker shuffled toward the cave entrance. Wee Willy and Molly followed close behind. Outside, the sun was nearly hot enough to melt iron, but that made no difference. “Show me,” Stryker said to Wee Willy, who again looked at Molly for permission.
She nodded. “Show him, Willy,” she said.
Willy pointed to a slab of sandstone that stood at a slant toward the boulders behind it. “Under that,” he said. “I pulled that’n from there.”
“I’m not in very good shape, Willy, but do you figure the two of us can turn that slab over?”
“Yes, sir, mister. I can do it alone if’n you want.”
“I’ll just give you a little hand, Willy. You can do most of the work. I’d be obliged if you did,” Stryker said.
“Yessir, mister,” Wee Willy said. He squared his shoulders and stood a bit taller.
Stryker put a hand on the slab and Wee Willy settled in, got a good grip, and heaved before Stryker could add what little strength he had to moving the hunk of sandstone. Willy grunted, and the slab slowly stood up. As the stone balanced at the apex, Wee Willy stopped for a breather.
“Very well done,” Stryker said.
“You’re lots of help, Willy,” Molly said.
Willy looked at her from beneath the rim of his floppy had. A tiny smile creased the corners of his mouth, and he gave tiny nod. Then he looked at the toes of his boots again. “Only takes a little trying, missus,” he said. A red tinge crept from his collar up his neck and onto his face. He ducked his head.
“Let’s go again,” Stryker said, and he grabbed the standing slab with his left hand like he meant to tip it over all by himself.
“Hold up, mister,” Wee Willy said. “Get out from in front of the rock. You all might hurt yourself. Lemme tip it on over, if you please, mister.”
Stryker’s eyebrows shot up. “Well. All right.” He stepped away. “All yours, Willy,” he said.
Wee Willy wiggled himself in behind the slab almost all the way. “Move on away, now. Mister. Missus. You all hear me?”
Stryker motioned Molly away and stepped back and to the side himself. “We’re out of the way, big man,” he said. “Do your damnedest.”
Wee Willy placed his hands flat against the slab and bunched his shoulders against the boulder behind. He pushed. The slab moved a fraction. He pushed again, this time with a groan of effort. The slab moved another fraction. It seemed like Wee Willy was pushing the slab out, not tipping it over.
“Hold on, Willy,” Stryker called. “Gotta push it more up by the top, else it won’t tip. Let me help.”
Wee Willy didn’t speak for a long minute. “All righty, mister. You help.” Then he said, “It’s a gawdawful heavy piece a rock.”
Stryker, too, wiggled in behind the slab from the opposite side from Wee Willy. He hurt, and he didn’t know if he’d be help or hindrance, but he had to try.
“Wait a minute, Willy, Stryker said. Gingerly, trying to keep his right forearm from banging against rock, Stryker managed to get on top of a boulder that put him in a position just below the top edge of the upright slab. He inched out toward the rock.When he figured he was in the right place, he put his moccasined feet against the slab about six inches down from the top. “You ready, Willy Dent?”
“Yup.”
“Let’s do ‘er. . . . Go!” Stryker pushed. It felt like every bone in his body was about to crack, but he felt the slab begin to tip.
“Push, Willy boy. Push!” Stryker put yet another ounce of pressure on the slab. Slowly. Slowly. Slowly, it tipped farther and farther forward.
“Go!” Stryker nearly screamed. His legs went straight and the pushing pressure left them as the slab tipped farther and farther. With additional help from Willy, the great sandstone tilted yet farther and, gathering speed, crashed to the ground, missing the entrance to the cave by inches and raising a great cloud of dust.
“Damn,” Stryker said. “That’ll being every Apache in the country over here to see what’s going on.”
“See?” Wee Willy came through the dust with a canvas pack in each hand. He plonked them at Molly’s feet. “They’s some more,” he said, and went back to the hollow between two big boulders. Two more packs, then two more. Six in all. “This is all they was at Miller Well, missus. Plum all,” Wee Willy said.
“All there?” Stryker said. He stood with his back to the cavern wall, his left hand supporting his right, even though it was in a sling. He’d leaned the rifle against the wall as well.
Molly unbuckled a pack and looked inside. She nodded. “This one is. I suppose all are.”
“Damn,” Stryker said. “Just what I needed right now. Two hunnert pounds of gold.”
Riders strun
g out behind Walker. In places, the canyon was too narrow for more than one rider to get through at once. Two miles they rode, almost three. The great cliff that marked the end of the blind canyon rose before them. Under an overhang, they found the remains of a small fire. The mule and the horses had been unloaded and the saddles and tack thrown on the ground. To him, it was no wonder the Dents were dead. Careful people, those who tended their stock and took care of their tack were the ones who stayed alive, usually. Men like Carpenter and Cousins, who already had water in their hats for their horses. Walker said nothing. Who was he to tell these gold hunters how to stay alive. He watered his own horse. Half a hatful only.
Both Carpenter and Cousins looked at the sign. Neither said a word, but a knowing look passed between them. Walker smiled inside but his face remained deadpan. Both riders sidled around until one stood on each side of Walker as he put his wet hat on over his long black hair, long and black as a Pima should be, but now shot through with gray.
“Whatta ya think, John Walker?” Cousins said. “Me and Lige, we figure Dent musta hid the yellow iron where he died.”
“I may look like a Pima, Cousins, but I got myself a good whiteman’s education before choosing to join my wife’s tribe. Don’t talk to me like I was some ignorant savage.” Walker grinned to take the sting from his words, but his eyes stayed hard as anthracite.
“Beg pardon,” Cousins said. “Still, I reckon that jumble of gold is back there where we started. And if I know Matt Stryker, he’ll have found it.”
Walker sot a sharp glance at Nate Cousins. “Stryker? The scarface? The whiteman buried beneath the rocks blasted from the cliff by those . . . .” He waved a hand at the miners, who rested in the shade of the overhang, their horses ignored.
With a completely straight face, Lige Carpenter said, “John Walker, you should know by now that it takes more than a few rocks dynamited off some cliff to kill Matt Stryker. When we get back up Hell’s Trail, Matt’ll be waiting . . . If he ain’t pulled stakes, that is. Yup. He’ll be there.”
Chapter Thirteen
No food. No water. No horses. Nothing but 250 pounds of gold. Stryker couldn’t see a way out no matter which way he looked at their predicament.
