The Yaquis had left the teams hitched and had hobbled the mules. One of the Indians sat on the lowered tailgate of the second wagon, a rifle across his knees. The other redskin prowled near the mouth of the canyon. He carried a rifle, too.
“How we gonna get ’em?” Arnie whispered in Cobey’s ear. “We can’t get close enough to jump ’em without them seein’ us.”
Cobey had already realized the same thing. He frowned as he tried to figure out what to do next. He and Arnie and Bert were good shots, he knew, and he supposed Hardy Powers was, too. If they all fired, they could cut down the two Yaquis before the Indians knew what was happening.
But the sound of those shots probably would reach the top of the canyon with little trouble in this thin air. That would alert Preacher and the others that something was wrong down here. Surprise was vital if they were going to deal with the deadly mountain man.
“We gotta lure ’em over here some way,” Cobey breathed. “And when we jump ’em, we gotta kill ’em quick, so they don’t even have time to yell.”
Arnie and the other two nodded in understanding.
Cobey began making a faint rustling sound in the brush, the sort of sound that a small animal might make. He had to be careful not to make too much noise. If too many branches began to crackle, the Yaquis might decide there was a bear or a wolf or some other big varmint in here and just blaze away at it. He had to get them curious enough to investigate, but not worried enough to shoot first and check to see what they were shooting at later.
The Yaqui sitting on the tailgate heard the noise first. He looked toward the brush and frowned. Arnie, Bert, and Hardy lay utterly still while Cobey continued to shake the brush a little. Cobey stopped for several seconds while the Yaqui was watching, then started again, like an animal that had paused briefly in whatever it was doing.
After a minute the Yaqui said something to his companion. Cobey didn’t understand the language. It just sounded like a bunch of grunts to him, mixed with a few barely recognizable Spanish words. The Yaqui at the wagon stood up. The one over by the canyon mouth walked toward him. Together they started toward the brush where the gringos were concealed.
Cobey slid his knife out of its sheath and motioned for the others to do likewise. He gripped the weapon tightly, ready to throw it. Beside him, Arnie was tense with anticipation. Cobey knew that Arnie Ross was deadly with a knife; that was just one of many ways in which folks usually underestimated the round little man who was so much more dangerous than he appeared.
Cobey stopped making the rustling noise when the Yaquis were about ten feet away from the line of brush. The two Indians stopped as well and waited to see if the rustling would resume. When it didn’t, one of the Indians shrugged, said something to his companion, and started to turn away. They thought that whatever was in the brush had gone on.
With a nod to Arnie, Cobey suddenly burst out of the brush and flung his knife. Beside him, Arnie did the same.
Cobey’s knife buried its blade deep in the chest of one of the Yaquis. Arnie’s throw was even better, the blade lodging in the other Indian’s throat so that he couldn’t cry out. The two white men followed their knives with a rush that bulled into the Yaquis and knocked them off their feet. McDermott and Powers charged out right behind them in case they needed help subduing the Yaquis.
Cobey ripped the rifle out of his man’s hands and threw it aside. He slammed his knee into the Yaqui’s groin and locked his hands around the man’s neck.
A few feet away, Arnie Ross grabbed the knife he had thrown and ripped it across the other Yaqui’s throat. Blood fountained high in the air, and the Indian’s heels beat a grotesque tattoo against the rocky ground as he died.
Cobey kept choking his man until the Yaqui went limp underneath him. A fierce sense of satisfaction went through Cobey. Both of the Yaquis were dead, and neither of them had let out a shout or gotten a shot off. The small sounds of the deadly struggle could not have been heard up above on the shelf where the rest of the Alvarez party worked at recovering the lost treasure.
Cobey pushed himself to his feet and motioned the others forward. Arnie went back to fetch Wick and Chuck and the horses, as well as Professor Chambers.
When they were all together again, Cobey said quietly, “We’ll leave the horses down here and go up the canyon on foot. We don’t want the others to hear horses comin’ and get spooked.”
Chuck Stilson whined, “I don’t know if I can make it that far on foot, Larson.”
“You’d damned well better if you want a share of the loot,” Cobey growled. “We’re all goin’ up there, so the odds will be as much on our side as possible. You, too, Professor.”
Chambers nodded. “Of course. You can count on me. I’ll do my part.”
Cobey wasn’t sure about that. He figured the professor might “accidentally” catch a stray bullet before all the shooting was over. He’d just have to wait and see about that.
Bert said to the giant, “Reckon you can make it, Wick?”
“I can go anywhere Cobey says to go,” Wick replied without hesitation.
Cobey slapped him on the arm. “That’s the spirit. Everybody check your pistols, and then let’s go kill us some pilgrims and get us some gold.”
“But not the girl,” Powers spoke up. “We won’t kill her.”
“No.” Cobey shook his head, thinking of Juanita Alvarez’s thick dark hair and ripe figure. “We won’t kill the girl.”
The Yaqui’s name was Benedicto. He had been born with a name that translated to Blue Eagle, but Benedicto he had become when he converted to Christianity and accepted the Spaniards’ God. Now he called on Jesus, Mary, and Joseph to give him strength and help him ignore the pain that filled his body. Far in the back of his mind, he called on older, more savage gods as well. He would take whatever help he could get, as long as it allowed him to have his revenge on those who had done this to him.
He had no idea how much time had passed since blackness claimed him. When the gringo’s choking hands had sent him into oblivion, Benedicto had believed that he was dying. He might die yet, of course, but somehow he had clung to life and now had made the long, slow climb back to consciousness. He drew rattling breaths through his bruised and painful throat, and each of those breaths seemed to add fuel to the fire that burned in his chest. The knife that had penetrated his body was gone, pulled back out by the man who had thrown it. Blood had followed, welling out of the wound so that the front of Benedicto’s shirt was soaked with the stuff. Even though his chest was on fire, the rest of him was cold, as cold as a winter morning high in the mountains. He could barely feel his hands and feet.
But he managed to pull himself upright anyway, and as he stumbled to his feet he lifted his pain-blurred eyes and looked around.
The gringos were gone.
He did not know how many of them there had been. He remembered seeing two, perhaps more. They had killed Ismael and wounded him, then left.
Even through the fog of pain that shrouded his brain, Benedicto was able to think clearly enough to realize what must have happened. The gringos had sneaked up, attacked him and Ismael, and then gone up the canyon to kill the others and steal the holy treasure.
“Padre,” he murmured, thinking of Father Hortensio. It was Father Hortensio who had shown him the light and led him to the Lord. Benedicto owed everything to Father Hortensio. He would gladly give up his own life to save the priest. Señor Esteban and Señorita Juanita were in danger, too, and Benedicto wanted to help them. He cared nothing for the man called Preacher. Preacher was a gringo and a heathen, and therefore less than nothing. But the others, including Pablo and Joaquin . . . Benedicto had to help them.
He looked around for his rifle, but even after he found it, he knew he lacked the strength to lift it and carry it up the canyon. His hand went to his waist. His knife was still there in its sheath. He could handle the knife. He drew it and stumbled toward the mouth of the canyon.
It never occurred to him
to pick up the rifle and fire a warning shot. He merely shuffled along, clutching his knife, grimly determined to catch up to the evil gringos and avenge himself.
With each step, more of his life’s blood dripped onto the canyon floor.
In the twisting canyon, men could move just about as fast on foot as on horseback. Cobey led the way, setting a quick pace. He had known the canyon twisted and turned, but he was surprised that it snaked around as much as it did. It was almost enough to make a man dizzy.
It took them over an hour to reach the top. That was longer than it had taken him and Arnie and the professor to get to the ledge on the other side of the river, but that had been a straight, relatively easy climb. As they trudged up the canyon, he heard Chuck Stilson muttering curses under his breath. Stilson was another one, like the professor, that they could probably do without, Cobey decided. Wick still didn’t complain, even though he was really hurt worse than Chuck was.
When they neared the top, Cobey called a halt while they were still out of sight of the people on the shelf. For ten or fifteen minutes they waited there, catching their breath from the long climb. That gave Cobey a chance to go over the plan with the other men.
“Arnie, you and me’ll take Preacher. He’s got to go down fast and hard, since he’s the most dangerous of the bunch. We’ll fire at the same time. Bert, you’ll line your sights on Preacher, too, and if Arnie and me don’t drop him right away, it’ll be up to you.”
McDermott nodded in understanding.
Cobey turned to Powers and Worthy. “It’ll be up to you two to get them Yaquis, since they’re probably the biggest threat after Preacher.”
The two men gave grim nods of assent.
“That leaves you and Wick to take care of the Alvarez boy,” Cobey said to Stilson. “I don’t know how good a shot he is, so aim good and we won’t have to find out.”
“Yeah, I got it,” Stilson said in surly tones.
“Wick, you understand?” Cobey asked the big man. “You’re gonna take your gun and shoot at Esteban Alvarez. He’s the young fella who’ll probably be wearin’ a sombrero.”
“I understand, Cobey,” Wick said with a frown, “but I don’t know why we’re doin’ this. Why would I want to shoot at somebody who ain’t shootin’ at me?”
“Because we want what he’s got. You remember me tellin’ you about the gold?”
“Oh, yeah,” Wick said, his expression clearing up a little. “The gold. I remember now.”
“You just do what I tell you, and you’ll get some of the gold.”
“All right,” Wick said. “I’ll be good, I promise, Cobey.”
“What about me?” Chambers asked. He took his pistol out of his coat pocket. “I can shoot, too, you know.”
“You’re like Bert, Professor,” Cobey said. “If any of the rest of us miss with our first shots, it’ll be up to you to step in and finish the job.” But that wasn’t likely to happen, of course, and anyway, Cobey didn’t want to think about how badly things would have to be fouled up before their fate would rest in the hands of a professor from back East.
“Excellent,” Chambers said. “Are we ready?”
“I reckon we are. It’s half a mile or more to that cliff where the cave is. There are plenty of trees between here and there for us to use as cover, though. I figure we can get within fifty yards of them without ’em knowin’ we’re there. That’ll be close enough to cut ’em down without any trouble.” Cobey looked around at the other men, saw the greed and ruthlessness on their faces—well, with the exception of Wick, of course—and he was pleased. “Let’s go,” he said.
The gringos were fools, Benedicto thought an eternity later as he reached the top of the canyon and staggered after his quarry. They believed him to be dead, and they never looked behind them. All their attention was focused ahead.
They had no idea that death was dogging their trail, he thought as he smiled grimly and tightened his grip on the knife in his hand.
NINETEEN
Everything had gone as planned so far. Cobey, Arnie, and the others crouched in the trees, watching the people gathered around the mouth of the cave. No one had noticed their presence.
But now things began to go wrong. Cobey realized with a scowl that he didn’t see Preacher anywhere, or the Alvarez kid, either.
That meant the two of them had to be down inside the cave.
There was a big pile of sailcloth bags near the horses. Professor Chambers slipped up next to Cobey and clutched his arm. He pointed with his other hand at the bags and whispered, “The artifacts from the missions. The gold ingots are supposed to be in wooden chests.”
Cobey nodded. “They’re still bringin’ the stuff up. Haven’t gotten to the gold yet.”
That wasn’t a problem. Once everybody except the girl had been disposed of, some of Cobey’s men could climb down in that hole and see to bringing the gold out. The problem was that Preacher wasn’t out in the open where they could shoot the son of a bitch first thing. Cobey didn’t figure that Esteban Alvarez represented much of a threat, but Preacher, now . . . Preacher was different.
Cobey leaned over to Arnie and whispered, “Preacher’s down in that hole. We’ll have to wait for him to come up.”
Arnie nodded. “Yeah. We got to kill him first.”
Cobey motioned for the other men to just wait and be quiet. They had waited this long; they could be patient for a little while longer.
Meanwhile, the two Yaquis hauled on a rope that went down into the hole and brought up several more bags of loot, one at a time. The watchers were close enough so that Cobey could hear the girl calling down the hole to Preacher and Esteban. He couldn’t hear what they said back to her, though. But he made out enough of the conversation to know that all the bags were now on the surface. That left the chests full of gold bars. Cobey licked his lips at the thought of all that gold. . . .
Juanita Alvarez lowered the rope into the hole in front of the cliff again and then waited. The other end of the rope was tied to the saddle of the big rangy horse that Preacher normally rode. One of the Yaquis went over to the horse and grasped its reins, being careful because the animal bared its teeth at him. That was a one-man horse, Cobey thought, but it looked like the animal was willing to let the Yaqui lead it, even though it wouldn’t have tolerated taking the Indian on its back.
Didn’t Preacher have a dog? That thought suddenly occurred to Cobey. He had forgotten about the damned dog! Where was the shaggy beast? Off chasing varmints somewhere, Cobey hoped.
“Look how taut that rope is,” Arnie said as the Yaqui began to lead the horse away from the hole. “There’s somethin’ heavy on the other end!”
“Damn right,” Cobey said. “A fortune in gold.” Instinctively, he lifted his rifle.
That was when a blood-covered apparition reeled out of the brush behind Cobey, lunged toward him, and drove a knife at his back.
Instinct and keen hearing warned Cobey in time for him to turn halfway around toward the unexpected threat. Horror shot through him at the sight of the pain-crazed Yaqui who was supposed to be dead down at the mouth of the canyon. Pain jolted Cobey the next instant as the Yaqui’s knife lanced into his upper left arm. The thrust would have gone into his back if he hadn’t turned sharply when he did. The rifle slipped out of his hand and clattered to the rocky ground, and he let out a choked groan, unable to hold it back.
Over by the cliff, a heavy wooden chest had just emerged from the hole on the end of the rope. The priest and the other Yaqui grabbed it and wrestled it to the side. Evidently, they hadn’t heard the disturbance in the trees.
But Juanita Alvarez had, and as she turned swiftly, she saw Cobey stumble into the open, knocked forward by the collision with the Yaqui who had just stabbed him. She opened her mouth to scream.
Cobey wasn’t sure until later exactly what happened next. Arnie Ross streaked forward, moving faster than a short-legged fat man had any business moving. He covered the ground between the trees and the c
liff in a flash and tackled Juanita, clapping a hand over her mouth as he bore her to the ground. Fast as he was, though, he was too late. She had already gotten out part of a scream.
Snarling, Cobey jerked his pistol from behind his belt and raised it, cocking the hammer as he did so. The blood-covered Yaqui ripped his knife from Cobey’s arm and brought it back to strike again.
Cobey jammed the pistol in the Indian’s face and pulled the trigger.
The fire that geysered from the pistol’s muzzle burned the Yaqui’s right eye out. The heavy lead ball shattered his cheekbone and bored on through his head to burst out the back of his skull in a grisly shower of gray matter and glistening white bone fragments. The Yaqui flopped to the ground, dead at last. Cobey breathed hard as he looked down at the corpse. The reaction was partially from the pain in his arm and partially from the atavistic fear that the Indian would rise again, shattered skull and all, and come after him again. He would have sworn the Yaqui was dead when they left him down below.
He was dead now, sure enough, and didn’t move except for a few final twitches. Cobey twisted around as more shots blasted out. The whole plan had gone to hell.
And any second, Preacher might crawl up out of that hole and go to killin’.
Juanita Alvarez struggled madly in the stranger’s grip, but he was much stronger than her and his hands were like iron as he grasped her. She managed to get one hand loose and clawed at his face, trying to gouge out his eyes. He jerked his head to the side so that she merely scratched his cheek. He grunted in pain but didn’t loosen his grip. She felt her feet leave the ground as he lifted her and carried her toward the trees.
Several other men stepped out of those trees and fired rifles at Father Hortensio and the two Yaquis. Those shots were hurried, however, and all but one of them missed. The only one that hit its target just grazed Joaquin’s upper left arm. The impact was still enough to slew him around sideways. He recovered and snatched his rifle from the ground. Pablo had already grabbed his rifle and was drawing a bead on their attackers.
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