by Chuck Tyrell
Molly and Wee Willy sat in the cavern, their backs against the rock wall. They said nothing, but Stryker knew they expected him to find a way out. He rubbed his left hand against the trickle of tears that always wet his left cheek.
The gold just sat there, mocking him, or so it seemed. Molly was there. He’d found her. That’s what he’d told Dodge Miller he would do. Maybe if he let the gold lie. Maybe if he just walked away with Molly and Wee Willy. Maybe. Stryker’s head got so full of maybes that he found it hard to think straight.
And what would happen when John Walker led those gold-crazy men back into this canyon? And he would; that white Pima would bring them back.
“Mister?”
Stryker didn’t answer at first.
“Mister?”
Stryker opened his eyes like he was just waking up. “What?” he said.
“We ain’t got no water, mister. I’m all right. I’m not worth nothing. But the missus. She needs water, mister. Real bad.”
“I’ll be all right, Matt.” Molly’s words were more a croak than something a human voice would make.”
That’s what Catherine said when she left for San Francisco. I’ll be all right, Matt. You just look out for yourself. Who knew where she was now?
“Willy. Anything to build a fire with?” Matt’s voice sounded nearly as cracked and dry as Molly’s.
“Look see, mister.” Wee Willy labored to his feet. Inside the cavern he found the three dry sticks he’d located before. He went outside, and he didn’t come back.
Stryker said nothing for some time, thinking of all the reasons Wee Willy didn’t return. Finally, he said, “I’ll go see where Willy went.” He struggled to his feet, using the Winchester as a pole up. Molly sat spraddle-legged, back against the rock wall, eyes closed, mouth open. She didn’t speak.
Stryker stuck the Winchester through the bandana sling that supported his broken arm. He worked the lever. A bullet jumped from the ejector and another took its place. Striker left the ejected bullet where it landed on the cavern floor. He’d get it later, or so he told himself. He shuffled toward the cave entrance. His legs and feet still did not work properly, but he was no longer dizzy. Maybe the effort of pushing the slab over with Wee Willy’d cleared his brain. He moved out of the cavern, past the fallen slab and into the sunlight, and there was Wee Willy Dent.
“Where ya been?” Stryker said.
Wee Willy held up a dead and dried creosote bush. “Ain’t much wood around,” he said. “Found this, though.”
“Good. Kin ya build a fire?”
Wee Willy gave a vigorous nod. “Ah allus made the fires for my pa,” he said.
“That’s the man. Build one right here.” Stryker sketched an X on the ground with his toes.
“Here? Outside?”
“Yep. Build it with the sticks from inside, then put creosote on. Make it smoky.”
“Oh, mister. They’s Indins around. Smoky fire ain’t good. That’s what my pa say.”
“We need smoke, Willy. We want Apaches to come.”
“Oh no, mister. Apaches do scalpin’ and such. They all’ll cut the liver right outta a man, they will. No, sirree bob. Apaches ain’t no good.”
“Did you ever hurt an Apache, Willy?”
“Oh, no, mister. I don’t hurt nothing. My pa allus said I was so strong I might kill a man without me meaning to, that’s what he said.”
“Well. Now, we need my friend. He’s Apache. His name’s Taklishim. He’s a government scout. We send up a smoke, and he’ll see it.”
Wee Willy stood there looking at Stryker for a long time. He gave a short nod. “All right, mister. But if’n some Apache buck takes after the missus, I’ll surely kill him. You hear me?”
“I won’t let it happen, Willy, I promise.”
Again, Willy took a long time to answer. “But mister. You all gots a busted arm en’ a dizzy head en’ what all. How does you figure to stop some Apache buck what’s after missus?”
Stryker couldn’t help smiling. “You’re a good man, Willy Dent. And, I’ll just depend on you to protect missus Miller, and thank you for doing that.”
Willy ducked his head and scuffed at the cavern floor with the toe of his boot.
“Now. Could you build us a fire,” Stryker said. “And keep a sharp eye out for Apache bucks.”
Satisfied, Willy set about building the fire Stryker wanted. After shavings from the dry sticks got burning well, he put the rest of the wood on, and then broke pieces of creosote bush to pile on top. In moments, black smoke climbed skyward. Even in the heat of the day, it carved a visible black line into the coppery blue sky.
“Now we wait,” Stryker said. And they waited. But no one came by the time shadows deepened in the canyon and the sun neared the western horizon. The little fire petered out hours before that, too. No one said anything. No one coughed or spat. No one moved.
Molly’s position had not changed for hours. Her chest rose and fell as she breathed, but she showed no other sign of life.
Willy sat close to Molly but not touching. His eyes accused Stryker of not doing anything to get them out of this mess, but he said nothing.
Stryker made up his mind.
“Willy? Can you help me?”
“What for, mister?”
“Can you carry Molly?”
“I can move by myself,” Molly said. “No need for Willy to carry me.”
“All right. Willy. Let’s move the gold back against the wall. We’re going to leave it here.”
Willy didn’t ask why. He just stood and went to heave the canvas packs over against the wall.
“Molly,” Stryker said. “Willy. We’re gonna climb out of this canyon. There’s water up top where we left the horses.”
Molly got to her feet. Willy went over to her and offered his arm. She smiled a little, careful not to crack her lips.
“Let’s move out,” Stryker said. He slung the rifle across his back and tested his stride. He could walk a little better now, the muscles in his legs grateful for the rest he’d given them. “Come along,” he said. Now, if they could scale the cliff on the eyebrow of a trail Stryker and Carpenter and Taklishim had come down, they should find horses waiting. Should. He didn’t think about what they’d do if the horses weren’t there.
Willy and Molly followed Stryker. He found the eyebrow trail in the gray of late afternoon. “Now we climb,” he croaked. “Willy, you stay behind missus. Don’t let her fall. Counting on you, man.”
“I can do ‘er,” Willy said.
For a while, the trail was wide enough to walk on. It slanted gradually upward as it moved toward the back end of the canyon.
Stryker went first, his rifle slung on his back, his Colt SAA pushed around to rest on his butt, his broken arm in a bandana sling. Molly followed, Stryker’s shirt sleeves rolled up three times to stop just above her wrists, his extra pants rolled halfway up her calves. She wore brogans, as always. Wee Willy climbed last, his eyes fastened on Molly Miller, his hands ready to dart out to catch her if she stumbled or got vertigo and began to fall.
At first, the arm slung to Stryker’s chest was not problem. But on the second switchback, perhaps twenty feet above the canyon floor, the path narrowed. Sunlight reflected off the opposite canyon wall, so Stryker could easily see, and what he saw did not hearten him. “Path’s narrowing,” he said. “We’ll have to climb up sideways.” He struggled to extract his arm from the bandana. Hell of a time to have a broken wing. Chest against the cliff, feet splayed so the entire soles of his moccasins sat firmly on the shelf, right arm hanging at his side, left arm raised, fingers splayed, searching for any handhold. Stryker took his first sideways step up the eyebrow trail. His left hand scrabbled for purchase as he sidestepped up the canyon wall on an uneven protrusion that took them upward oh-so-slowly. The thirst began to gnaw at the back of his throat, cracking the tissues and splitting capillaries. He sidestepped six inches at a time, making sure he had his balance before taking another step.
<
br /> “Do you always walk so slowly, Matt?” Molly’s voice cracked, but it carried a smile, too.
“I do, Molly dear, when discretion is the better part valor. If I fall off, you’ll know to climb back down rather than try to climb out.” Stryker’s long speech came out as if over a bed of dry gravel.
“I’m right behind you, Matt. And Wee Willy’s breathing down my neck.”
Stryker continued up the eyebrow, fingers finding little holds to help him, feet in moccasins feeling the uneven trail and giving him good purchase on the protruding rock.
There came another switchback. Stryker felt it with his fingers before he came to the end of the eyebrow they were climbing. Light from the setting sun long since turned from brilliant orange to jewel box blue-gray, but Stryker depended more on his sense of touch than on his eyesight. “Stop, if you will, Molly, Willy. There’s a switchback coming and I’ll find the way up.”
“Not to worry, Matt,” Molly croaked. “We’ll be here until you tell us to move.”
“Yessir, mister,” Wee Willy said. “Missus’s awright, too, mister.”
“You all stay put,” Stryker said, and sidestepped up the eyebrow. The ledge got narrower and narrower until he was standing with his heels hanging out in space. He could go no farther on that ledge, and the one above was separated by a good two feet of canyon wall. What’s more, the distance increased along the eyebrow they currently sidestepped along. Stryker felt his way across the face of the canyon, searching for he knew not what.
There. His fingers came across a handhold chipped into the rock by long ago climbers. Another. Less than six inches away. Two handholds. A way up. Stryker raised his right arm. The temporary splint of saddle blanket kept the arm away from the rock, but he could gain slight purchase with his fingers. He lifted a foot. Hard to bend the knee enough to put a moccasin on the next ledge. Would the handhold give him enough leverage? He pulled, mostly with his left hand, and when he got high enough, he pushed with the leg he’d stepped up with.
“See how that’s done, Molly?” he said when he stood on the next ledge.
“I see, Matt. Just you move on out of the way.”
“Don’t talk so much. You’re liable to drown in your own blood.” Stryker chuckled and sidestepped farther up the switchback.
“You keep a hand back of missus Miller, Willy,” Stryker said. “Counting on you.”
“It’s right there, mister, never you mind.”
“I won’t, Willy, with you there.” Stryker sidestepped out of the way, glad that the new shelf gave more purchase for his feet.
Molly’s hands barely reached the handholds, but she got her fingers into them and proceeded to mount the switchback ledge. Willy kept a hand at her back.
The ledges broadened and the switchbacks got easier to negotiate as Stryker, Molly, and Wee Willy climbed the canyon wall along Hell’s Trail. The fifth switchback led them to the arroyo that went to the top of the canyon rim. With luck, there would be water.
When they topped our, the sun was gone, and so were the horses.
“We’ll have to sleep here tonight,” Stryker said. “Tomorrow’s another day.”
A signal from Cousins sent the hard men who rode with him fanning out across the trail as they followed the gold-frenzied Alamo miners. Walker rode in the lead. He slowed as he neared the cavern where the Dents lay dead, where perhaps Stryker the scarface lay dead, where they’d left the big simpleton and the crazy woman.
“Anyone in there?” Todd’s question was nearly a shout.
“Not likely,” Walker said.
At that, the Alamo men crowded around the only way into the cavern. They fairly leaped from their horses, leaving Winchesters and Henrys in their saddle boots. Walker stood in the entrance with his hand up. “I’ll go in,” he said. He left them standing first on one foot and then the other, but they only had to wait a couple of minutes.
Walker reappeared in the entrance. “No one here,” he said, “’cept dead bodies.”
The Alamo men rushed in, jostling and crowding as they went. “Jayzus! Gold! Six lord-loving packs of gold!”
Cousins shucked his Winchester and checked its action. Carpenter and the men riding with Cousins did the same, except for Garth Upton. When the Alamo men came out of the cave with the packs of gold, Cousins was waiting. He eared back the hammer of his Winchester and said, “Load the packs on the mule.”
“What? We done found this gold all by ourselves!” Todd shouted. “What’s left lying around belongs to them what finds it.”
“The Dents stole that gold from the Ridges & Hale stage at Miller’s Well,” Cousins said. “And before that, Louella Hershey sent Dutch Regan out to find someone to watch over her husband. That someone was me. Me and these men you see holding long guns on you. Now just load the packs on the mule. And in case you might want to try for a gun, we’ll relieve you of the temptation. Just put your six-guns on top of that flat rock.”
Threatened by the gaping maws of the rifles held by Cousins’ men, the miners did as they were told. But they didn’t like it.
“How much they paying you, John Walker?” Cousins said.
“A hundred dollars and five dollars a day for every day over a month.”
Cousins nodded. “I’ll make good for it,” he said.
“I reckon,” Walker said.
“What happened to the people we left alive?”
“There were three. Two large men, one woman. They left.”
“Where to?”
Walker shrugged. “They left the gold. Just piled it against the cave wall.”
“Climbed out of the canyon, I’d say.” Carpenter had sidled his horse over close enough to hear the conversation between Walker and Cousins. “We left horses up top.”
“Walker, how far to water?”
“The San Pedro River. A day’s ride, maybe a little more.”
“We’ll give the horses and the mule all the water but a few swallows, and then we’ll head for the river. All right with you?”
“Good.”
Cousins raised his voice. “We’ll head for the San Pedro. From there, to Tucson. The gold goes to Bob Paul if Leuella’s not in Tucson yet. I’ll give you all a choice. At the San Pedro, I’ll give whoever wants to get back to Alamo a share of the gold. Not a big share, but a share, a finder’s share, you could call it. If you think you can get more from Sheriff Paul or Louella Hershey, come all the way to Tucson.
The canteens didn’t give much water to man or horse, but at dusk, Walker started out, leading men and gold toward the San Pedro.
Chapter Fourteen
The tiring tense climb out of Hell’s Trail canyon put Molly and Wee Willy to sleep almost before they settled on a place. Molly lay so she could put her head on Wee Willy’s thigh, and he laid a protecting hand on her shoulder. Matt Stryker sat apart. His excuse was keeping watch. The truth was, he couldn’t sleep. He lay on his back, his head on his left arm and his right one again in the bandana sling. He shut his eyes and listened to the night sounds. A cricket chirped off toward the canyon rim. Another answered from under a stand of chamise near where they’d picketed their horses on the way down. Some small creature scuttled among the pebbles that covered the area. A ground squirrel, perhaps, or a skunk. No moon lit the landscape, but myriad stars combined their light to give a man a decent picture of the surrounding landscape. I’m going to San Francisco, Matt, she’d said. April needs me at the moment. You don’t. Where in the world would Catherine de Merode get the idea that Matthew Stryker did not need her? How long were they together? Since Rimrock? Since she’d become April Ruggart’s governess and Matt Stryker executor of Stanford Ruggart’s will and estate? Sometime among his musings, Stryker fell asleep. He awoke to the smell of frying bacon.
“Mister. Mister?” Wee Willy’s huge form blocked the sunlight from Stryker’s eyes.
“Mister? Sun’s up. Rise and shine.”
Stryker turned and struggled to sit up. He thrust out his left hand. “Hel
p me stand up, Willy, if you please.”
“Matthew Stryker. Why must you ask another man’s help to rise to your own feet?” Taklishim’s question held a smile.
“Mighta known you was here when I smelled the bacon,” Stryker said.
“I saw your signal. I brought horses, food, some water. Now we eat.”
Stryker’s legs had gone stiff again, so he hobbled toward the tiny fire that smoldered under a little cast-iron frying pan no more than four inches across. “I see you found my frying pan,” he said.
“You white-eyes have a good saying. ‘Finder’s keepers.’ Don’ make nothing whose it were. Finder’s keepers. My fry pan now.”
“Bullshit,” Stryker said. “Oh, pardon me, Molly.”
“Not so,” said Taklishim. “Bacon now, with frybread. No bullshit.”
The horses Stryker and Carpenter rode to Hell’s Trail canyon stood hipshot, their butt ends toward the sun. A large mule with saddle and bridle was with them. Taklishim brought a round piece of frybread to each of them, then piled bacon on one half. They folded the frybread, trapping the bacon inside, and bit into their first food in nearly two days.
Stryker savored the bacon and frybread. Any kind of food was better if a man chewed it well, Stryker’s mother always said, and he believed her. He was still chewing when Molly and Wee Willy looked at Takishim expectantly.
“No more,” the Apache scout said.
Stryker chewed, a full third of his frybread and bacon still in his hand. Wee Willy watched him with hunger in his eyes, and Molly stole glances at the food in Stryker’s hand. He grimaced a grin and tore the remaining frybread and bacon in half. “Here, you hungry people. I’ve had enough.” He handed a portion to each.
Molly reached out her hand, then withdrew it halfway. She looked at Stryker, who nodded. She took the food.
Only after Molly had taken a bite did Wee Willy reach for his own portion. “Obliged, mister,” he said.
While the others ate, Stryker went to the horses. Taklishim followed. “What do we know of the others?” Stryker asked.
