Everything moved swiftly. The mules were turned toward the gate, the disarmed soldiers marched to the guardhouse.
Captain Rafael Vargas was a brave man. He was also a sensible one--up to a point. With a shock of cold realization, he knew the note for what it was--a trick. Rosita Calderon had not changed, and he had been betrayed. Mexico was about to be robbed.
Somebody stepped up behind him and a hand unsnapped the flap of his holster. Vargas whipped around like a cat, knocking away the grasping hand, and drew his pistol.
A blow staggered him, and then a gun muzzle was thrust under his heart. Something exploded there, and Vargas turned, squeezing off a wild, futile shot that lost itself in the earth at his feet, and then he fell.
Bijah Catlow rushed up, the taste of anger bitter in his mouth. He stared down at the dead man. It was bad--he had hoped to kill no one.
"Get going!" he said to Bray. "There's no time!"
Catlow had no idea that riding the saddle of a captured horse was the one man he did not want anywhere around ... Ben Cowan.
Ben Cowan was unconscious. He had fought against the wave of darkness creeping over him, but had lost the fight. Tied now in the saddle, his body bobbed with the movement of the horse. Pesquiera had wanted to knife him, but Rio Bray had ruled against it. "You don't know Catlow," he said. "I'd never want to be the man who killed Ben Cowan."
As the men moved up the dark street, Pesquiera rode in beside Catlow. "The cellar!" he said, sharply.
"No."
"They will never find us there!"
"If they don't find us on the trails they will go through this town like it has never been gone through before. They would find us--and the gold."
But Catlow was not altogether sure of that. He was sure, though, that once that gold got into Pesquiera's secret cellar, it would never get out. He was equally sure that the Mexican had no intention for it ever to get away from Hermosillo.
Nor for them to get away, for that matter. A little poison in their food--and they would have nowhere else to get food-- and it would be an end to them. That ancient cellar could conceal bodies as well as gold, as no doubt it had.
Pesquiera gripped his gun butt. "It must be the cellar," he declared, "or--"
Catlow smiled, and Pesquiera did not like what he saw in that smile. "You go ahead, amigo," Catlow said. "You draw that gun."
Pesquiera hesitated, and the moment was past. "You may be right," he said; "but your friend--it would be wise to leave him here, no?"
It was the first that Bijah Catlow had known of Cowan's presence. There was no more time to be wasted, and Bijah did not want Ben Cowan along. "All right," he said, "leave him here."
By the time Recalde had explained to General Armijo what he believed was happening, the pack train was leaving the outskirts of Hermosillo.
The first wild rush of cavalry went out the trail toward the border, assuming that Catlow, being an American, would lead his men that way. And they found nothing. Other detachments scattered in several directions, all of them wrong.
Bijah Catlow, with characteristic cunning, had led his pack train down back streets, where they made no sound in the soft dust. Turning from a trail, he took them through an orchard, then opened the gate on the irrigation ditch just enough so it might appear to be an accident but would successfully flood the orchard, wiping out all tracks.
Through country lanes, past orchards and wheatfields, Catlow led his mule train, the animals staggering from weariness. Twice he paused to open corral gates and allow animals to get out that would destroy the trail they had left. Finally, with the mules more dead than alive, he herded them into a pole corral on the edge of a small arroyo. Nearby was a dam. The ranch itself was deserted, and apparently had been for some time.
In another, larger corral, among the trees on the far side of a low butte, fresh mules awaited him. Swiftly exchanging pack-saddles and loads, Catlow led the train off toward the northwest. He had told no one his plans, nor did he intend to.
On the skyline, more than a dozen miles away toward the northwest, was the Cerro Cuevas, a low mountain range that stood out above the comparatively level plain. The trail toward it was a long-unused one. When they came close to the mountains, a Mexican was waiting by the trail to guide them into the caves.
It was midday when they unsaddled inside the caves. Old Man Merridew climbed up among the rocks and settled down to watch. The rest ate, slept, and waited for Catlow to tell them what he planned. But Catlow said nothing.
He had two million dollars in gold and silver and, aside from the Old Man, there was not a one among them he could trust.
If he was unlucky, the mules would be found at the abandoned ranch before the day was out. If he was lucky, they might remain there for several days before some searcher happened upon them. The route he was taking was the least likely of any that could be found. Just as he had done when slipping into Mexico, now in slipping out he intended to use the least-known route and the least-known water holes. But if the men with him had any idea of what they faced he would have mutiny on his hands.
It was a hot, still day. After a while the Tarahumara went up to relieve the Old Man.
Merridew came and squatted near Catlow. "Nothin' stirrin'," he commented. "Seemed a sight of dust over east, but that might have been anything."
"How'd Cowan happen to stumble on us?" Catlow asked.
The Old Man shrugged. "Durned if I know. Pesky was takin' over the sentry's job so's everythin' would look all right. He says Cowan came up there in a rush and started to ask a question. Rio Bray slugged him."
"Cowan's too smart."
"Well," Merridew replied dryly, "if they got him locked in that there cellar, he'll keep for a time. Lucky if he ever gets out, if that Christina takes after her pa."
Catlow looked from the mouth of the cave toward the north.
"Didn't you tell me you'd been down to the Rio Concepcion
one time?"
Merridew shot him a startled glance. "Look here, you ain't figurin' on that route, are you? There's no water--or so damn' little it don't matter."
"All the more reason. They won't be lookin' for us there, Old Man. Look,"--squatting, he drew a rough diagram in the sand-- "there's the border ... over here is the Gulf of California. The main trail from Hermosillo to Tucson is yonder. Here's where we are. And here"--he indicated a spot on the sand--"is Pozo Arivaipa--'pozo' meaning well."
The Old Man looked up. "How far is it between here and that pozo you speak of?"
Catlow lowered his voice to a whisper. "Maybe sixty miles-- as the crow flies."
"Sixty miles? Without water? With mules?"
Catlow lifted a hand. "See here? Right there is the Rio Bacoachi. It's about sixteen miles out. Now, it ain't a reg'lar river. In fact, it flows only part of the time--we might have to dig for water there. But we've had a wet spring ... I think it's a good chance."
"You goin' to tell them?"
"No--not until I have to."
Merridew squinted his eyes at the desert. "You're shapin' for trouble, Bijah. I tell you, this lot won't stand for it--not Pesky, nor Rio either, for that matter.
"Rio's been with me as long as you have."
"There's a difference. I'm a segundo. I never aimed or figured to be owner or foreman. Rio, he figures he's smarter than you. He goes along, but it chafes him. It really chafes him. Here lately it's been worse, so don't you put faith in Rio Bray."
"What about the others?"
"I'd say Keleher--you can count on him. And the Injun. That Injun likes you, and I don't think he cottons to any of the rest of us. If trouble breaks, it might split fifty-fifty, and it might not break so good for us."
Catlow nodded. "That's about the way I figured, Old Man; but we need them, and once we get far enough into that God-forsaken desert, they're going to need me--like it or not."
When the sun went down they moved out, Bijah leading off.
He started at a good clip deliberately, to keep them s
o busy there was no time to ask questions. He pulled his hat low over his eyes and looked north into the desert. He knew what he was going into, and what was likely to happen before he got out--if he ever did.
The last man off the mountain reported no sign of pursuit, and from where he had been watching he could see for miles, with the setting sun making the land bright.
On top of a low rise, Catlow drew up to let the mule train bunch a little and to look over the country. Old Man Merridew had not asked the question Bijah had been fearing; and fortunately, the Tarahumara did not talk. The desert, the lack of water, and the heat ... they were bad enough, but the country into which they were riding was the land of the Seri Indians.
Usually, the Seris held to the coast except when raiding, or to their stronghold on Tiburon Island, in the Gulf of California. Fierce as the Apaches--Catlow had heard rumors they were cannibals--they had devastated large areas of country, and he was leading the mule train right into the region where they traveled to and from their raids.
But he was gambling on avoiding them, or even defeating them; and as for water, there had been heavy spring rains. Though now it was nearly July, from late July through August and September there were occasional heavy rains in Sonora-- rains that fell suddenly upon relatively small areas, then vanished to leave it hotter than before. But for a time they left water in the water holes.
Anyway, there was no other way to get out of Mexico with two million dollars in gold and silver.
Again they pushed on steadily through the warm night.
Two hours passed before the inevitable question was asked, and it was Rio who asked it. "Is there plenty of water where we're going to camp?"
"We're not going to camp. Not until nearly morning, at least."
"Hell, Bijah, everybody's about done in."
"By now," Catlow replied shortly, "Armijo has cavalry scouring the country. Maybe he's found the mules we left behind, maybe not. An' you know how far we've got to go? Maybe two hundred miles."
"We got to rest," Rio said stubbornly.
"You'll rest," Catlow replied, "when we get where we're goin'--not before."
It was rough, broken country. They rode down into arroyos, crossed long stretches of hard-topped mesa, waded through ankle-deep sand. Day was just breaking when they looked down upon a maze of arroyos, the broken water-courses of the Bacoachi ... and there was no water in sight.
"Where's the water?" Rio demanded. "I thought there was water."
"Get the shovels," Catlow said.!
"Shovels?" Rio swore. "I'll be damned if I'll--"
"Give me one of them," Keleher said quietly. "Come on, Old Man. You could always find water."
They found it two feet beneath the surface, and it welled up in quantity wherever they dug. The mules watered; Rio Bray was silent and sullen.
"Fill your canteens and all the kegs," Catlow told them. "It will be forty, fifty miles to the next water."
Nobody said a word--they simply stared at him. Bob Keleher gathered up the shovels and lashed them in place on the pack mules. Now he knew why Bijah had been insistent on loading four mules with two water kegs each.
Loafing and resting in the shadows of the river bank, Catlow thought ahead. This was going to be the toughest job he'd ever tackled ... and he figured that by now they had found his trail--or the mules, at least.
They would be coming after him, but he was not worried about their catching him--not that, so much as their heading him off. Would they think of that? Would they leave his trail, gambling on riding ahead along trails where there was plenty of water and where they could travel much faster than he, and then heading him off before he could reach the border?
Or would they think that perhaps he had a boat waiting somewhere along the Gulf coast, ready to pick him up and carry him out of their reach?
Catlow tasted the brackish water and looked at the mules. There were no better mules in the country, and he had prepared them for this. Despite the fast pace, they were in good shape.
Some miles away to the west lay a dark blue range of mountains. There were low hills between, but it was the mountains that were important--more important at that moment than Bijah Catlow knew.
High on a serrated ridge a lone Seri huddled against a pinnacle of rock and looked out toward the east. His sharp eyes picked out a faint thread of smoke ... a beckoning finger lifting a mute question toward the sky.
The Seri ground some seed between his broken molars, and squinted into the distance. Smoke meant men, men meant horses, and horses were meat.... He was hungry for meat.
The hard black eyes watched that finger of smoke and considered. It might be the Army; but the Army rarely came into this land, and then only after some raid by the Seris into settled land--and there had been no such raid.
Rising, he looked eastward once more; then he turned and began to slide down off the rocks. He was several miles from his camp, but he was in no hurry. He knew the country that lay before those marching men.
It would not be hard tomorrow, but the next day it would be easier ... much easier.
Chapter Seventeen.
Ben Cowan's first conscious awareness was of a musty odor.
He lay for what seemed a long time and could sense only that, and a dull throbbing in his skull. Then he opened his eyes, or he thought he opened them--but it remained dark. He could hear nothing--no sound, no sense of movement anywhere.
He was lying sprawled on a stone floor.... And then full awareness returned, and with it full realization. He had rushed from the ballroom to the barrack courtyard, and he had started to ask a question of the sentry. It was at that moment that he had been struck down from behind.
Now he got his palms flat on the floor and pushed himself to a sitting position. His hand went to his holster. His gun was gone.
Feeling for the .44 derringer he habitually carried in his waistband, he found that was gone too. Of course it would be. Catlow knew of that gun.
Ben stared into the darkness around him. He was in absolute blackness. He put out a hand, but touched nothing. On hands and knees he began to crawl, and brought up against something-- a chair leg. He felt the chair and stood up, holding to the back. His head swam, and he clung shakily to the chair back until the confusion in his skull settled down.
There was no smallest ray of light to allow him to see anything. He must be in some sort of an underground place--a dungeon perhaps.
He felt in his pockets for matches and found none ... they had been taken from him, too.
If there was a chair, then people sometimes sat here, hence there might be a table. Carefully, he felt around him, but found nothing. Finally, using the chair, he moved about, keeping it with him. If necessary it could be a weapon, or he might break off a chair leg.
Suddenly he paused. He had a faint but distinct impression of heat. Keeping one hand on the chair, he knelt and slowly crawled around it. He was almost all the way around the chair when he felt the heat quite distinctly on his cheek. Moving in that direction, he discovered a hearth and a fireplace.
It was cool down here, but not cool enough to need a fire. Someone must have been cooking, or perhaps making coffee, and there was still warmth there. Feeling around the edge of the fireplace, he found the end of an unburned stick, and he picked it up carefully. Then he moved his hand until he located the place of greatest warmth. Here he poked at the coals with the stick, uncovering some that glowed faintly red. He placed the stick upon them and blew, ever so gently. There was a smell of smoke, but nothing more.
Pulling out his shirttail, he tore a small piece from it and edged it against the coals. There was more smoke, and then a little flame. He saw the ends of more sticks and pushed them into the fire. The flames leaped up, and then he saw a coffee pot on the hearth and several cups at the edge. He rinsed a cup with a little coffee, then filled it and drank.
The coffee was very strong, but it was hot, and after a few gulps he felt better. He found more pieces of wood for fuel and
added them to the fire. Then he stood up and looked around.
As well as he could tell, he was in a large, low-roofed room with stone walls and ceiling. No doors were visible, and no windows. There was a table, and several more chairs. On the floor were stubs of cigarettes and cigars, quite a lot of them.
There were also some empty beer bottles. He picked up one of these, hefted it, and placed it close at hand in the shadow. Then he placed others at various points about the room.
In so doing he found the door, but the latch would not give and the door itself was flat with the wall. It was strongly made of heavy oak planks, and he thought it must be reinforced on the other side with iron bars.
Carefully, he paced the room, studying the walls, the ceiling, the floor. He found nothing that offered any chance of escape.
And yet ... there was something....
The room was musty, as a place long closed might be, or one poorly ventilated. But he had smelled something else, some distance from the fire.
The room was all of sixty feet long and more than half that in width, and he tried pacing back and forth again, pausing at intervals. He had moved several feet before he again detected the faint odor. He hesitated there, then walked slowly back, testing the air.
Nothing....
Or...? He waited, breathing naturally, and suddenly it came to him. The faintest of odors, and yet it was definitely there. What he smelled was a stable--a horse stable.
He went back to the fire and added fuel from a pile nearby, and then, taking a blazing brand, he walked back and held it up toward the ceiling, which was only two feet or so above his head. There, beyond any doubt, was a trap door.
Returning his brand to the fire, he was about to make an attempt on the door when he heard the rattle of a bar being removed, and then the outer door opened. Standing in the door, holding a candle in one hand and a pistol in the other, was the girl he had seen from the park when he was talking to the General.
There was no mistaking the menace of the pistol.
"You don't need that," he said quietly. "I am not given to attacking women."
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