Wimmera Gold

by Peter Corris

  Lincoln groaned, rolled his aching bones in the blankets and was asleep before Bass reached his watch point. Bass nudged him awake in what seemed like a few minutes later. The air was frosty and stung at his eyes as soon as he opened them. 'What?'

  'Your turn. Four hours to sun-up and I'll know if you fall asleep on me.'

  Lincoln struggled to his feet, keeping the blankets up around his shoulders. 'How's that?'

  'You snore something terrible, Mr Lincoln.'

  When they were underway again, Lincoln recollected some of the detail of the map. 'Course, we could go to Mexico,' he said. 'It's closer.'

  Bass shook his head. 'To my way of thinking, Mexico's for later. If things don't work in California.'

  'What things?'

  'Life is very uncertain.'

  'You had this all planned out certain enough.'

  'A small matter compared with losing the past and making a new future. We'll have to change our names and the way we look.'

  Lincoln held up his left hand. 'You suggesting I get myself fitted for a hook?'

  Bass shrugged. 'Might help if you was to wear gloves on both hands. You could grow a beard and I could shave mine off. You could gain some weight and I could lose some—things like that.'

  'Wiley Abraham. How's that?'

  'Not bad. I might take my old master's handle—Joshua Clay.' Bass pulled off his hat and bowed over the saddle. 'Mista Josh, suh. I sho' would be glad to lick yo' boots.'

  Lincoln laughed and rode on but, as the day warmed up and the effects of the cold night watch receded, he began to have misgivings. They couldn't stay out of human contact forever, and anyone looking for them would ask about the unlikely sight of a Texan and a black man riding together and it wouldn't matter much if they called themselves Ulysses S. Grant or Robert E. Lee. On the other hand, he liked Bass and couldn't think of anyone he'd rather have beside him if it came to a fight. The matter needed pondering and Lincoln pondered it as they pushed west towards the river.

  On the third day Lincoln, tired of beans and biscuits, shot a jack rabbit as it hopped back from a watersoak to its burrow. He whooped, jumped down and grabbed the animal. 'Meat tonight.'

  Bass' brow wrinkled under the wide brim of his hat. 'Nice shot. You're handy with that thing, I see. How many men have you killed?'

  Lincoln slung the rabbit over his saddle and remounted. 'Kind of a fool question is that? I haven't killed any men. Hit a leg and an arm once or twice, but that's all.'

  'You clear the gun quick.'

  Lincoln shrugged. 'A knack. I can throw horseshoes and spit fast and straight, too.'

  Bass' frown deepened and he looked troubled through the rest of the day. Towards sundown he turned several times and looked behind him at the dry, lightly timbered country they'd passed through. Lincoln also turned and saw nothing.

  'What?' he said, as Bass turned yet again.

  'Ever since you shot that rabbit I've had a feeling we're being followed.'

  'See anything?'

  'No, just a feeling.' Bass clicked his tongue to urge his horse on. 'I suppose it's natural.'

  'Hold up a minute.'

  The time Lincoln had spent guarding silver shipments, drinking and gambling in Tucson and carrying payrolls had eroded his skills as an outdoorsman. Since carrying out the robbery he had been occupied by thoughts of concealment and by the peculiar personal force of Jubal Bass. He realised that he'd paid very little attention to the country they'd been travelling other than to making progress through it. Now he gazed intently at the patches of mesquite scrub, the boulders and dry gullies and on up to the horizon. He looked for flashes of sunlight on surfaces and listened for sounds of movement. His eyes swept to the sky to track the flight of birds and study the wind and air currents above the hot earth. Unconsciously, he'd slipped back into the natural behaviour of the Mescaleros.

  Bass eyed him curiously. 'What in hell are you doing? You look like you're fixing to fly.'

  'That'd help some. Maybe you did see something, maybe your horse smelt something.'

  They were moving ahead again now, instinctively keeping apart. 'I think it might have been the horse. I think she checked a time or two, lifted her head. I don't know.'

  Lincoln gazed ahead of him. The hairs on the back of his neck were rising and, despite the heat of the day, he could feel a coldness in his spine. Mescalero boys were sent out blindfolded into the desert and taught to use their senses to pick up signs of danger. Lincoln had tried it once and failed miserably, but he knew to trust the boy's reactions. He told Bass to move a little ahead.

  'Why?'

  'Two men and two horses make twice the noise. I'm trying to listen.'

  'To what?'

  'Shut up. Get!'

  Bass jogged forward and Lincoln strained his ears, trying to shut out the sound of the hooves and the creaking of the saddle. After a few minutes he was sure—there was a rustling scraping sound somewhere behind them. It was faint and irregular, now close, now further back. He moved up to join Bass and stared ahead at the broken landscape.

  'We got company.'

  'What?'

  'Don't look back! Look front.'

  'I don't see anything.'

  'Sure you do. See that arroyo up ahead? With the rocks on either side? That's where they'll be.'

  'Who?'

  'Indians—Gila Apaches most likely. Could be Navajo.'

  'You sure seem to know what you're talking about. Why haven't they attacked us?'

  'They've seen our guns, I guess. Means they haven't got any. We've been in open country. They're back behind us but they need to get close to use bows.'

  'Lord almighty,' Bass breathed. 'What do we do?'

  'What we don't do is go into that arroyo. We ride up as if that's our way, then we wheel off fast and go by on the right. See there, where the ground's flatter.'

  'I also see some trees. What if that's where they are?'

  Lincoln sniffed and cleared his throat. He felt like scratching at his head and his ribs. He was more nervous than he'd ever been in his life. This was almost as bad as when the noose had dropped over his head back in Snakehole. Bass was fingering the action of the shortened shotgun he had loosely strapped to the saddle horn.

  'Wouldn't be a bad idea to have that scatter gun ready,' Lincoln said. 'Guns and speed is what counts now. When I pull out my Colt, we wheel and ride. Watch where you're goin' and hunch over, but don't bother to keep your head down, they'll aim the arrows at the horses and our backs.'

  'Smart,' Bass said.

  Lincoln freed his pistol, fired a shot behind him and spurred his horse, all in the one swift action. The two men hauled on the reins and dashed for the ground that fell away fifty yards to the right of the boulders. Arrows swished past them as they rode. Lincoln fired two shots in the direction of the boulders and was answered by several arrows, one of which embedded itself in his saddle. The horses, alarmed by the shots and the sound of the flying shafts, dashed down the slight slope, throwing up stones and snorting as the riders bent forward and used their spurs.

  An arrow thudded into Bass' saddle pack and another hit Lincoln's left boot with a force that almost unbalanced him. They were past the boulders, above the arroyo with a straight run by the stand of trees to open ground where they could outrun their pursuers. Suddenly, two Indians stepped from the trees with bows raised. Lincoln shouted an Apache war cry and fired at them. He missed, and one Indian loosed his arrow. Lincoln heard Bass grunt and then they were almost on top of the Indians who were fitting fresh arrows. Lincoln shot one through the chest. The other threw down his bow and leapt at the head of Bass' horse. His knife flashed and then his head was a bloody pulp as Bass loosed both barrels at a range of inches. The body flopped and twitched as Lincoln and Bass swept past, driving the horses on. More arrows flicked and hissed by them.

  Then they were clear, racing for the open ground. Lincoln heard a wail and the clatter of a couple of arrows falling short.

  'We did it,' h
e yelled.

  Bass did not reply. His horse seemed almost to be bolting and Lincoln had to urge his mount forward to keep up. After a few minutes he reined in and looked back. Squinting, he was able to see perhaps a dozen or more men, most of whom must have been concealed at the entrance to the arroyo. The Indians were milling about, raising dust. As he had expected, he saw no horses. The Indians had tracked them on foot, got a party ahead of the riders by virtue of knowing how best to travel through the country, and laid their ambush. It was their only strategy, and now that it had failed they would mourn their dead and sing songs about their bravery.

  Bass' horse had slowed and Lincoln caught it up. He examined the arrow stuck in the pack. 'Apache,' he said. 'I guess they wanted our horses and weapons.'

  Bass was slumped in the saddle and did not reply. Lincoln's blood was racing. 'You can't hardly blame them. They've fought each other and Mexicans around here since … Jubal, you all right?'

  'No,' Bass grunted. 'Are we safe yet?'

  'Almost, be best to get over that rise.'

  Bass straightened himself and controlled the reins. The shotgun, still in his grasp, drooped towards the ground. 'Let's get there.'

  Lincoln looked back again. The Indians had gone and the dust they had stirred up was thinning out. He moved abreast of Bass and saw the blood running down over his saddle and dripping onto the hard, dry earth. 'Jesus,' he said. 'You got an arrow?'

  Bass' usually deep voice was a faint whistle. 'And a knife, Mr Lincoln. And a knife.' He coughed and blood gushed over his horse's mane. Lincoln took the reins and led the horse up the slope and down into a sandy basin with a scattering of stunted acacias. He threw his blankets into a patch of shade, eased Bass from his horse and helped him to lie on his back. Blood was flowing from the big man's mouth and his eyes were fluttering. An arrow was embedded deep in his chest and the hilt of a knife protruded from his left side.

  'Oh, Jesus,' Lincoln said.

  Bass coughed and more blood welled out. 'Be seeing him soon, if there's any truth in it at all.'

  Lincoln touched the feathered shaft but he could see there was no point in trying to draw it out or pass it through. It had penetrated a lung and probably done other damage. The knife was in deep too. Lincoln's knowledge of anatomy was rudimentary, but he guessed it was somewhere near the kidney.

  'Did you get hit?' Bass wheezed.

  'Arrow took the heel off my boot is all.

  'You can take mine. You're a lucky man, Mr Lincoln, and a rich one now too.'

  Lincoln took off his bandana and wiped blood from Bass' mouth. The flow had stopped and he could sense the life force ebbing from the man. 'I don't want it, Jubal. Is there someone I could send it to?'

  Bass' eyes opened but Lincoln could tell that he wasn't seeing anything. 'You'd do that?'

  'Sure. I promise. Tell me.'

  'Matty … Matilda Bass, Brentwood, Alabama. Make up a story and tell her to go north.'

  'Is that your ma?'

  'Sister. Send it care of Reverend Sewell. Got that? And you … '

  'Yes?'

  'Go to Mexico. This country's too hard. Too hard … '

  'I'll do it. Have you got any pain? Do you want some water?'

  'I got too many holes in me to contain it, Lincoln. Give me your hand. Never thought I'd die with a white man holding my hand, but it'll have to do.'

  Lincoln gripped the big dark hand. Bass tried to return the pressure but he had no strength. Lincoln felt the tears coming at Bass' fingers twitched then relaxed and his eyes closed. His chest heaved and a last whistle of breath rushed from him with a great gush of blood.

  'Jubal,' Lincoln whispered. 'Goodbye.' He kept hold of the lifeless hand and the tears ran down his stubbled face and dropped onto Bass' closed eyelids. Lincoln's shoulders shook as he sobbed, realising that this dead black man whom he had known for three days was the only friend he had ever had.

  He used his Bowie, a tree branch and a flat rock to dig a shallow grave. He emptied Bass' pockets, pulled out the arrow and the Indian's knife, took off the cartridge belt and holster, and wrapped the body in a groundsheet. He piled the sandy soil over it and worked for two hours heaping rocks on top of the mound. When he had finished he was sweat-soaked, dirty and dropping with fatigue. His left hand was paining him from clawing out and lifting rocks. He strapped the weapons to Bass' saddle after stowing the pipe, a few coins and the map in the belt pouches. He mounted and, leading the other horse, turned south towards Mexico.

  19

  Three months later in Durango, Mexico, Wesley Lincoln prepared a package to be posted to Matilda Bass, care of Reverend Sewell of Brentwood, Alabama. Not having written anything since his schooldays, Lincoln laboured hard over the composition of the accompanying letter:

  Dear Matilda Bass,

  I had the honour to be a friend and business associate of your brother Jubal. He was a fine man but I regret sadly to tell you that he is dead since three months back. We were partners in a small silver mine in the south-west here and in a fair way of business when Jubal got himself killed in a fall-in. After this I was in no mind to continue and I sold the mine. The money enclosed is Jubal's half of what I got. It is 1,380 dollars.

  Jubal didn't talk much about his life before he went west. Just mentioned Joshua Clay who he worked for and you. He did not suffer. He told me to tell you to be careful and to go north. Jubal Bass was my friend and I miss him greatly.

  Yours respectfully

  Abraham Wiley

  Lincoln had the uncomfortable feeling that Jubal would have made a better fist of the letter, but it was the best he could do. He wrapped the banknotes in several layers of newspaper before placing them and the letter inside a heavy envelope which he sealed with gum. The currency was Union issue, Arizona not having participated in the war and therefore not subject to the confusion of Confederate money. He printed the address in bold capitals and took it to the postal depot from where it would travel overland to Brownsville, and by ship up the east coast to Alabama. It would be some time before Matilda Bass would get her money.

  After burying Bass, Lincoln had travelled hard and fast, crossing into Mexico at San Luis and moving south through Sonora. Although he relaxed once he'd got over the border and felt comfortable in Mexico where he could speak the language, something told him to keep moving. He wore the pouched cartridge belt night and day and kept most of the money in it. He sold the second horse and lived on the proceeds, not spending any of the stolen money until he reached Durango. He spent several aimless days in a dusty mining town south of the Chocolate Mountains while his horse recovered from a bout of colic. In a tattered copy of the El Paso Herald left behind by another traveller, he read about the theft of the payroll from the Gila River silver mine. Almost no detail in the newspaper story was right. His name was given as Lester Lincoln and Bass was described as 'near to 50 years old'.

  Sure going to be hard to catch that Lester, Lincoln thought. He contemplated going west to the coast and moving back up into California, but Bass' advice still carried weight with him and he continued south into the heart of the country. He dreamed about Jubal often when camped out in the Sonora foothills, and when he awoke he could never recall whether Bass had been black or white in the dream. Somehow it didn't matter. When he reached Durango he judged it was time to stop, send the money to Alabama and take stock of what he was doing. Bass' map showed the countries south of Mexico—Gautemala, Honduras, Nicaragua—and he sure didn't figure on going all the way down there.

  The thirteen hundred dollars, give or take a few, in his money belt weighed heavily on him. He took a room in the Durango Centrale Hotel and worried about the lock on the door. He wondered whether he should put the money in a bank, but he distrusted American banks, let alone Mexican ones. When he considered how easily he and Bass had lifted the mine payroll, he found it impossible not to believe that there were desperadoes in every town eyeing the banks like vultures watching a sick calf. He read the papers and discovered th
at while land was cheap in Mexico, title was uncertain. Juarez, the President, seemed to have an uncertain grip and the provinces were continually falling under the sway of bandits and warlords who took what they liked and gave away what they didn't want. After a few months in Mexico, Lincoln felt more American than ever before in his life.

  This attitude got him into arguments in saloons, and caused him to lose his temper—and money—in card games. He grew a beard as Bass had suggested but had been unable to gain weight. He had no appetite for the hot, spicy local food and he was too wary to drink enough beer to put on fat. His horse ate oats, got little exercise and put on condition. Lincoln took a few rides out into the barren mining country but found it depressing. He hung around the town. He sought the company of Americans and looked out eagerly for American newspapers. He sold the horse and saddle, carelessly signing his real name to the bill of sale. He sold the shortened shotgun and Bass' pistol and ammunition to a gunsmith and spent most of the proceeds in a three-day carouse in a Durango whorehouse where he danced, drank a lot of champagne and could not later remember the pleasure he'd had, if any. Hungover and remorseful the next day, he recognised that he was homesick.

  Thirteen, no eleven hundred dollars'll buy me a hell of a lot of land around Snakehole, Lincoln thought as his head throbbed and his vision blurred. If I stay here all I'll get is the pox or a knife fight and six feet two of Durango clay. He forced himself to get off his bed and wash his face in the tepid water from the basin. He stared at his image in the clouded mirror tacked above the bureau. The dark beard failed to conceal the deep grooves in his cheeks and his light eyes seemed sunken under heavy brows that gave his face a sceptical, even defeated look.

  'Goddamnit,' he said, 'I'm going back to America.'

  He forced down a greasy breakfast of tortillas and eggs and bought a carpetbag in a store a short walk from the hotel. He packed his meagre belongings and checked out. The Mexican rail-road system was slow and unreliable, but Wesley Lincoln was resolved to be patient. He would ride the iron horse into Texas, buy a tough, desert pony and work his way back to Snakehole as Abraham Wiley. The war was finished, a new world was beginning and to Texans, Lincoln recalled, Arizona was nothing but rocks and snakes and Indians. No sheriff, marshall or Texas Ranger would care what a man had done so far to the west.