by W R. Garwood
Crouching behind my stone shield, I couldn’t spot the party on the hill, and, as they failed to show themselves, I wriggled out, got the ripped gold sack, and stuffed it back under the boulder.
All was still save for the movement of my animals in the distance and the chiming ripple of the little mountain stream.
I waited, and waited, but no one moved. So I did. Colt in one fist and Bowie knife in the other, I slipped quietly along the edge of the streambank to ghost into the little woods.
Two people were on the ground near a large oak. A twig cracked under my boot and one of the bodies stirred. It was Diamond Dick, trying to pull a rifle closer.
“Bean!” Powers gasped. “God, I thought it was those bastard Indians again,” he mumbled as he tried to pull himself up onto his elbow. His face was smudged with gunpowder and creased with tears that had trailed down his cheeks.
It was then my eyes steadied at the other figure on the ground near him. Dulcima! Clad in a soiled buckskin riding outfit, she lay on her side, one arm flung out and the other under her body. Still keeping my Colt on Powers, I knelt and, clutching the girl’s shoulder, shook her.
“What the hell’s going on?” I hissed.
But I already knew.
“Indians!” Powers’s lips trembled. “They hit her . . . dead-center . . . with their second shot. God, we shouldn’t have come up here. But. . . .”
“But you had to follow after the gold!” I cocked the pistol and aimed it at his head. “Well, damn you, you’ve lost the gold and lost me that girl!”
“Lost you Dulcima? She never cared one plugged peso for you . . . or me . . . or anyone. She was mine for a while . . . after I picked her up on the streets of Frisco, but then. . . .” Powers grimaced, and I saw the bloodstain growing on his shirt front. “Guess Lady Luck scowled on us from the start,” he muttered as his head fell back and he closed his eyes.
As I stood there, debating whether or not to put another bullet into the pandering villain, there came three shots from the hill and closer now.
I crouched and yanked the six-gun from Powers’s holster, remembering how Dulcima had told me of her fear of this country from the time the Comanches had killed her folks, and how much she had wanted to flee its wildness—and the Indians. Then she’d followed me to this hidden valley, with Powers, and found nothing but death. Salazar was right, I thought, and cocked my head to listen for any sound. All was quiet, so I kneeled and rolled Dulcima’s limp form over, thinking of the last time I’d held her. As I crossed her pale hands on her blood-soaked breast and closed those wide blue eyes, tears formed in my own eyes for that wistful waif of the tintype—the tragic daughter of the lost lady of the Medicine Hand.
Some slight movement jolted me out of myself and I stood and whirled, gun in hand, to find Francisco Almada, a rifle cradled in his arms, staring at me.
“So Dulcima is dead . . . along with the killer of your brother?” he said.
“Powers killed Josh?” I said, rocked, though I knew Francisco, the second Joaquín Murieta, knew just about everything going on around San Francisco. “But Powers was nearly a hundred miles off that night,” I stated, trying to sound more certain than I was feeling. “Dulcima told me only a few days ago.”
“Dulcima! From what I have heard from my sister, the little minx would lie to you as easily as she’d lie to a perfect stranger. She may have cared for Powers, that scum, a little, but she was always out for herself . . . And you forget this Powers . . . for all his evil ways. is one of California’s campeón horsemen. He doubtless rode that eighty miles in one night just to take his revenge.”
I recalled the $5,000 bet Powers had won by racing one hundred and sixty-one miles in less than seven hours. So it had been Powers, and not Carlos Hechavarría, who had actually killed Josh. So why had Carlos tried to drygulch me? As though he could read my thoughts, Francisco said: “Someone of the little sheriff’s posse learned you were the source of the information and talked. Word got to Carlos and he awaited a chance to catch you in an ambush. He was stalking you and became careless. But, obviously, you were the better shot. So, now my sister and I have disbanded the company. At some better time we shall be in a more favorable position to aid our poor country.”
“You’re leaving?” I said, and stepped toward Francisco at which movement he raised his rifle and aimed it at my mid-section.
“Put up your pistol, Bean. I assume the reason you’re here is that you have found the gold. And, in that case, I am taking enough of it so Rosita and I can establish ourselves elsewhere. You will lead the way.”
I silently walked from the grove, heading toward the big rocks, leaving Dulcima lying in the dappled green and golden shadows of the trees.
“What about those Indians?” I asked.
“This is their valley, sacred only to the Yuki tribes. That’s why they attacked Powers and Dulcima. You were lucky his shots drew their fire. At Rosita’s request, I have been keeping my eye on Dulcima. And. . . .”
Whatever he was about to add was never spoken, for we each stopped short at the sight of Salvador Salazar and three heavily armed Mexicans standing by the giant boulders, pointing weapons at us.
“Hands up,” Salazar ordered, then doffed his battered sombrero in a lop-sided salute. “Ah, my young Bean, we trailed that fine pair, Powers and Dulcima, while they followed you into this valley.” He looked narrowly at me and Francisco. “Where is that hellhound and the little señorita?”
“Dulcima is dead. As for Powers . . . well, he’ll be joining her soon if he hasn’t already.” My throat tightened as I watched Salazar’s deputies espy the gold, walk to the boulders, and kneel to stuff the scattered coins back into their ripped sack and tug the remaining bags from under the boulder. “They’re lying over there in the timber. Indians.”
“We heard the shooting and hastened to find you.” Salazar pulled off his sombrero again and ran a hand thoughtfully over his vanished scalp before replacing the dilapidated headgear. “Poor young lady. Old Señor Destino came for her after all.” He squinted up at the hills. “Sí, this is the land of the Yuki, and, by the arrows of San Sebastian, I don’t want any of it.”
“What about the gold?” I glanced at Francisco who was watching the deputies carry the bags to the horses.
“Ah, the bloody loot of Joaquín Murieta and the renegado Jefferson Kirker.” Salazar glanced at his men going about their loading, then motioned for us to lower our hands. “You see, young señor, that I know a thing or two about this gold. I’ve watched and waited for years to get that money back. And you were the bait, my hombre joven. As soon as those Eighteen Forty-Seven gold eagles began to appear around San Diego, I knew that sooner or later you would lead me to the stolen treasure.”
“Well, take the blamed stuff and get away from this place,” I snapped. “I don’t feel like setting myself up as a target for any wild Indian . . . even if I’ve been nothing but a dammed Judas goat for the likes of you.”
“Softly, my young amigo, all in good time. But first we must pay the proper attention to your friend here.” Salazar tugged thoughtfully at his drooping mustaches. “This handsome caballero reminds me of someone. But never mind. that we shall discover at the proper time.”
After shouting orders to his busy deputies, Salazar pulled a pair of wrist bracelets from his coat. “That imbecile of a Captain Love may have destroyed Murieta, but I think this one may be wanted somewhere. He must have known the stolen gold was cached here . . . and that’s enough for me.”
He motioned Francisco to hold out his hands, and, as he leaned in to secure the manacles, I pulled my Colt.
“Drop the cuffs and tell your saloon swampers over there to drop everything and get their hands up . . . and you, too.” I emphasized my orders with a good poke in Salazar’s ribs.
Not a word was spoken as I waved Francisco over to his horse at the grove. I already knew from the look that he gave me that he had no wish for me to join him and his sister. He rode off without l
ooking back.
“Now, young Bean,” Salazar said, scowling at me, “you’ve let that bandido go. How about us?”
Keeping an eye on both Salazar and his men, I edged over to where I could scoop out a handful of gold pieces from the torn sack. “I’m leaving. if it’s all right with you. And I’d appreciate it if you’d get word to Biggs and Bender that the Golden Nugget is now theirs and that I’ll be in touch to arrange its purchase.”
Salazar lowered his hands and ordered his men to finish loading the gold sacks on their horses. “Sí, I think you had better leave. And I think I better not see you in these parts again. You can’t seem to keep away from dangerous people and that fault may bring you much trouble.” He looked me in the eye, and then stepped over to give me a bear hug. “We’ll see the poor young lady has a proper burial. Adiós . . . and now ride.”
I walked where my horse and pack mule waited, stamping and whickering. Untying both, I mounted White Lightning and rode away from the law—and the gold.
THE END
About the Author
W. R. Garwood was born in Mason City, Iowa, but spent his early childhood in New Mexico. After returning to the Midwest, poignant memories remained of the Sandia Mountains hovering on the horizon like lavender clouds while tumbleweeds cavorted past his little two-by-four home and shadowy coyotes ghosted through its yard at dusk. The West had stamped its presence upon his mind’s eye. Always a scribbler, he went to Hearst’s Detroit newspaper when out of school, gravitating from copy boy to cub reporter and eventually working on more than a dozen area papers during a fifteen-year period. From there he moved on to advertising agencies and was assigned to the arts and entertainment magazines they produced. It was a short stretch to using that talent in fiction by polishing up the personalities of whatever stars of stage, film, and niteries performing at Detroit’s major entertainment venues. In the 1980s, Garwood began to draw on his early memories of the American Southwest, turning out five Westerns, including Kill Him Again, about Billy the Kid, and Hunt Down Harry Tracey. Garwood lives in Michigan.
