by Frank Leslie
Considine stopped several feet in front of the clay belonging to Latigo Hayes and ran his gaze across the horse’s saddle. His beard bristled and his face warmed.
Latigo Hayes sat the saddle backward, leaning forward so that his face was pressed against the horse’s spotted ass. Latigo’s hands and ankles were tied under the horse’s belly; his face was turned toward Considine, tongue protruding slightly, sightless eyes half open and staring at something downstream. He wore no hat, and his blond hair was ruffled by the morning breeze.
Considine moved around behind the clay. The other men were moving up around the front of the horses, water sluicing off their underwear bottoms or denims, frowning as they cast their gazes across the three horses’ grisly cargoes.
Yasi and the black outlaw, Ben Towers, both sat their own saddles the way Latigo sat his—backward and dead.
Considine looked at Mad Dog staring at him over the ass of Tower’s dun gelding. He didn’t say anything, but his half-grizzled face looked even more grizzled than usual, the mottled skin drawn tighter across the bone, the right eye narrowed to a slit.
“Banditos?” Considine said, his voice trembling with rage.
“That’d be my guess,” Mad Dog said. “They seen us carryin’ the gold, trailed us here. They’re tryin’ to pick us off a little at a time until there’s nothin’ left but the gold.”
“I reckon it’s time we all mounted up and got after ’em,” said one of the other riders, holding the bridle of Hayes’s paint.
Considine turned and stared up the low hills rising away from the river, toward the surrounding blue mountains growing more and more distinct as the sun rose.
He shook his head. “That’s what they want. So they can run us to a frazzle and bushwhack us somewhere off in them mountains.”
He shuttled his gaze this way and that. Anger was burning in him. Anger and the emotion he enjoyed least—fear. Someone was toying with him, playing a nettling little game of cat and mouse. The stalker hadn’t yet gotten the gold, but the fact that they’d wiped out nearly half his gain—so quickly and cunningly—meant that they were winning.
Eventually, they’d get the gold.
The idea of him being whipped like this, by an unknown enemy, was enough to blow the top of his head off.
He gritted his teeth so hard they cracked. “We’ll stay right here. Let them come to us.”
“I reckon that’s the best.” Mad Dog glanced at the others standing around the horses before following Considine’s gaze toward the mountains. “Though I sure would like to run those jaspers down. Teach ’em you don’t mess with the Thunder Riders.”
Considine looked around, counting the men they had left. Including Tomas, on the other side of the stream, there were seven.
Considine’s eyes darted up toward the ruined mud shacks climbing the canyon’s southern wall. “Hey, who’s supposed to be guarding the gold?”
The other six men glanced at each other. Finally, the half-breed Sioux, Quint Broken Bow, turned to Joolie “clubfoot” Hale.
“I . . . I reckon I was,” Hale said, running a gloved hand through his shaggy beard. “I just come down to see what all the commotion in the river was about.”
Mad Dog’s cheek dimpled. “You mean that gold is sit-tin’ up there in them ruins unprotected?”
Hale backed away toward the river, shuttling his sheepish gaze between Considine and Mad Dog, hemming and hawing and wringing his hands.
“Haul ass, fool!” Considine shouted.
Hale jumped with a start and stumbled into the river, heading for the other shore.
Considine turned to the half-breed. “Go with him, Quint. From now on I want two men guarding the strongbox at all times!”
He looked again at the three dead men and made a sour expression, eyes narrowed. “I can’t wait to meet the smart sonsabitches who done this! I just can’t wait!”
Chapter 20
Yakima woke at midnight. He lifted his head from his saddle, threw his blankets back, reached over in the cold darkness, and jerked Patchen’s left boot. The marshal gave a startled grunt and snapped his head up, a hand dropping to the holster on his hip.
“Time to move,” Yakima said quietly.
Patchen froze, glanced at Yakima, then turned and nudged Speares, lying a few feet away. The sheriff, too, woke with a start, looking around wildly until he realized he wasn’t about to have his throat cut by the Thunder Riders.
It was dark as tar in the hollow where they’d cold-camped, and Yakima began rolling up his blankets and gathering his gear mostly by feel. Yawning and grumbling but not saying anything, the lawmen followed suit, and in a few minutes all three horses were rigged and ready. The men swung into their saddles, the creaking of the leather sounding dangerously loud in the quiet, frosty night. Low clouds sharpened the slightest sound, but the absence of moon and stars would make Yakima’s job in the canyon easier.
He and the lawmen rode southwest. Because of the darkness, they had to hold their horses to a trot. An hour after they’d left the camp, the giant stone walls of an ancient Spanish cathedral rose on a low mesa before them, glowing as though from a faint light within the crumbling, vine-shrouded stone.
At the cathedral’s east end, Speares and Patchen checked their horses down among the rubble of the collapsed ceiling and the giant, cracked pillars.
Yakima merely slowed the buckskin as he continued southwest. “I’ll try to lead them this way. Stay alert.”
He batted his heels against his mount’s ribs, continuing on across the sloping mesa.
“There he goes again,” Speares complained, leaning forward on his saddle horn.
“You can take it up with him after we’ve got the gold,” Patchen said, swinging down from his saddle. “After we’ve kicked the rest of that gang out with a cold shovel.”
Speares dug in his shirt pocket for his makings sack. “Shit, if that crazy half-breed can sneak into that canyon, find the gold and the girl and lead that crew into our rifle sights, I might just give him my badge.”
Chuckling softly, Patchen led his horse off. “What makes you think he’d want it?”
Yakima had spent his whole life drifting around the American West and Old Mexico, where he’d done some prospecting a few years ago. He knew that every ride took longer than expected.
Still, the ride back to the warm-river canyon, which he remembered the Yaquis called the Canyon of Lost Souls, was frustratingly long. The ridge before him rose with teeth-gnashing sluggishness, like a curtain of black velvet inching above the pale fog to stand high and jagged peaked against the clouds.
He skirted the canyon’s center, where a previous scouting mission had told him the desperadoes were camped, and crossed the river at a rocky ford a good mile east of the ancient ruins. A few days ago, he’d spotted a notch in the canyon wall—a talus-strewn chimney—and this he and the buckskin negotiated slowly, carefully. The slope was steep, the talus unstable.
Halfway up the ridge, Yakima dismounted and led the horse, wincing at every clatter of falling rock behind him. The desperadoes probably had no pickets this far from the main camp, as they’d lost too many men for such an extravagant precaution, but this was desperado and Yaqui country. It was said that few Indios ventured into the canyon, which was supposedly filled with evil spirits, but it was a known hideout for Yanqui and less superstitious Mexican bandits.
At the top of the ridge, Yakima ripped the blanket and bridle off the horse, turned it south down the slanting ridge crest, and slapped its rump. As the horse trotted away in the darkness, Yakima swung his rifle over his shoulder by its rope lanyard and began making his way east, staying well back from the canyon.
When he’d walked a good mile and found himself staring down the steep canyon wall at three fires shivering in the rocks on his side of the fog-capped river, he sat down and removed his boots and socks. He hadn’t been able to get close enough to study the ridge wall in the daylight, so he picked a route now in the darkness and hop
ed that luck and whatever dark gods remained in the canyon chose to either smile on him or ignore him.
Hoisting himself over the lip, he crabbed down the wall, grinding his fingers and toes into any dimples or fissures he could find. A couple of times, holds gave way and he found himself hanging by one hand and a foot or, in one case, only the first two fingers of his left hand until he swung back toward the wall and ground his big toe into a crack.
The toe rubbed against something at once leathery, furry, and prickly, something that apparently made its home in the crack. The bat shot out from under Yakima’s foot, screeching. Gritting his teeth, he dug his fingers and toes into the wall and hung there until his heart slowed.
Continuing to spider down the wall, he glanced below. The dark smudge of an ancient mud roof rose slowly toward him. A couple of viga poles protruded from one wall, while a chimney—or what remained of a chimney—climbed the one opposite.
His fingers and toes were leaving blood on the wall behind him by the time he dropped to the mud roof. He bent his knees and hunkered low, praying that the roof would hold. It did. He looked around, hearing nothing but the wind shunting against the stone, the rattle of a falling pebble, and the occasional screech and sinewy flap of a bat somewhere above.
Tossing his sweaty hair back from his face and swinginghis Winchester behind his shoulder, he stole over to the edge of the roof and crept down a crumbling stone stairway. Avoiding caved-in floors and fallen walls, occasional storage pits and cisterns now home to only snakes, rats, and insects, he made his way down the ruins. Occasionally he used a ladder, testing it first to make sure it would support him.
He was nearly to ground level when he moved across a crumbling ceiling, dropped slowly down a short, inside staircase dank with spring water, and hoisted himself over a stone wall. He dropped his bare feet to the mud-and-grass ceiling below, testing its weight carefully.
It seemed solid until he began to stride across it. With a lurch and a crack, the floor suddenly disappeared beneath his feet, and he plummeted straight down through darkness. He grunted sharply when his feet hit the ground, then again when his back slammed against the hovel’s earthen floor. He lay blinking against the ancient mud and grass tumbling down around him.
When the rain of debris ceased, he spat grit from his mouth and blinked up at the hole he’d fallen through—a ragged opening about four feet in diameter. He squinted up at it, steeling himself for a complete cave-in.
There were a couple of creaks and groans, and a mud clump fell in a corner with a thump, but the rest of the ceiling held.
Yakima shook the debris off his legs and belly as he turned onto his side. Planting his knees, he was about to rise when a low voice sounded outside.
He froze, listening.
Boots ground gravel and spurs rang softly, growing louder until Yakima could hear the labored breathing of two men approaching from his right. Moving slowly, he grabbed his rifle and crawled to the wall facing the canyon. He hunkered down in a dark corner, opposite the hovel’s low, narrow door, and drew his knees to his chest. Hoping that he would blend in with the wall shadows, he held the Yellowboy low, so no light would reflect off the brass receiver.
He stared at the door, little more than an opal smudge in the darkness, on the other side of the low mound of ceiling rubble. The footsteps approached, the two men now setting their feet down slowly, carefully. Yakima drew a deep breath, held it.
Outside, whispers.
A minute passed, and then a shadow moved in the gray doorway, almost indistinguishable from the shadows around it. The shadow stopped. There was the high, soft whistle of air drawn through a nose. The musty air of the hovel mixed with the smell of sweat and fresh gun oil.
Yakima’s throat grew dry as stove wood as he stared at the stationary shadow in the shape of a man’s head and shoulders. If he had to fire a shot, he’d have the entire gang on him in seconds.
Go on, he silently urged. No one’s here.
After a few beats, the man in the doorway cleared his throat and turned back out through the door. From a ways off, another man called, “Anything over there?”
“Looks like another ceiling fell in. We best get back to the strongbox.”
Yakima waited, listening as the footsteps receded. He let his breath out slowly, and rose, hefting his rifle. Wincing at the ache in his lower back and left hip, he crossed to the door and stared out.
A couple of fires fluttered down the hill toward the river. More ruins humped around him in the darkness, in various shades of brown and gray.
Yakima stole down the slope, his bare feet moving silently across the sand and gravel. He held his rifle high, a fresh round seated, the hammer cocked. Several times, dropping down the slope toward the river, he stopped, listening, his eyes searching close about, then farther out, then farther still.
The canyon was eerily quiet, the ruins like grave-stones. Occasionally a mouse moved in the brush. Above the canyon, where the clouds had thinned, a meteor arced across the sky, trailing sparks. To his right and left, low fires flickered. He cat-footed down the slope between the fires, then worked his way downstream through the brush.
First he would find Wolf and get the stallion ready to ride. Then he’d look for Anjanette. The gold was a peripheral concern. Once he’d led the desperadoes out of the canyon and into an ambush, Speares and Patchen could come back for the strongbox.
When he’d moved a hundred yards downstream, Yakima stopped suddenly and dropped to one knee behind shrubs. A figure stood twenty yards before him, between a stand of willows and the stream. A young woman in a long skirt and a man’s shirt. Long black hair hung down her back. Her arms were crossed on her chest as she stared out over the fog-shrouded water.
Anjanette . . .
Yakima looked around, then rose to a crouch, began to move around the shrubs. The sound of a spur ching froze him. Another figure, taller, materialized in the darkness beyond Anjanette, heading toward her.
Yakima dropped back down behind the shrubs, peering through the branches. The tall man, wearing a low-crowned, silver-trimmed hat and drooping mustache and carrying a Winchester over his right shoulder, sidled up to Anjanette. He wrapped an arm around her, leaned his head close to hers. She shrank away slightly.
He could hear the man’s smooth voice, but he couldn’t make out the words. Yakima frowned through the shrubs as the man drew Anjanette close, muttered something, then slowly lowered his head and kissed her forehead. She put her hand on his chest and said something too softly, intimately, for Yakima to pick up, then rose up on her toes and kissed the man on the lips. They both chuckled softly, turned together, and walked through the poplars and willows and up the slope toward the fires.
Yakima sat hunkered down behind the shrubs, frowning. Gradually the befuddlement cleared until the picture swam into focus.
Anjanette and Considine.
Anger stabbed him, sharp as a Yaqui spear. He ran the back of his hand across his mouth, ground the Yellowboy’s butt into the sand. After a time, kneeling there, his head swimming, he chuckled, rose slowly, and continued upstream.
He’d gone fifty more yards when he heard a soft nicker on his left. He climbed a natural levee and walked slowly through cottonwoods toward a patch of manzanita grass. Before him, seven or eight horses were tied to a picket rope strung between two trees. Moving up to the horses slowly, cooing softly to placate the skittish beasts, Yakima raked his eyes across each.
There was no black in the bunch.
Where was Wolf?
His stomach churned with dread. Having been trained to carry only Yakima, Wolf would have been a contrary mount. Considine or one of the other gang members might have shot him.
Yakima stepped wide of the horses, looking around for both Wolf and a possible guard. He’d taken only a couple more steps when a voice rose on his right, from about ten yards away.
“Hey!”
Yakima turned, froze. A man’s hatted silhouette stood between two cottonwo
ods. He wore an old Confederate greatcoat and hat, and he was crouched over a carbine. Behind him, the foggy river slid by.
The man moved toward him slowly, keeping the rifle leveled on Yakima while shifting his head slowly from right to left and back again. No doubt looking for others.
“One move, and I’ll drill you.” He moved closer, still swinging his head. “Drop that iron.”
Yakima crouched to lean the Yellowboy against a tree bole. The armed man moved up on his right, prodded his side with the carbine’s barrel. He was a little shorter than Yakima, thick-bearded, with long hair falling over his shoulders. His coat was open, revealing revolvers on both hips, positioned for the cross draw. He reeked of tequila. He must have left the horses to take a piss.
