by Neil Hunter
Whatever it was had placed his friends in harm’s way. Ballard had to get them away from their captors in order to save their lives and find out what the hell was going on.
He sat his horse and watched the riders take the slope, finally reach the top and vanish from sight. It was only them he moved himself, coaxing the chestnut out of the trees. He kept his rifle handy. If and when the time came there would be no hesitation when it came to using it.
He had his friends to rescue.
And he had Chey and Tula to make a settling for.
Ballard had spent enough time with the Apache to fix his mind on what needed doing for them. What had happened at Colter’s ranch had set this whole thing in motion and the men who had led that raid, drawing Tula from his safe haven to make his own vengeful ride, were just as guilty for his death as were the pair of bounty hunters and Turkey. Like the ripples created in a stream by a tossed stone, the expanding circles drew in all who were part of it. Ballard’s obligation was pushing him on, taking him towards the time when he would face the men responsible. He did not anticipate enjoying what lay ahead, but he would do whatever became necessary to complete the circle.
Ballard reached the spot where the riders had moved out of sight. He was able to pull his horse behind a fall of splintered rock and see the wide plateau they had reached. He had taken his time, slow-climbing the slope and now he let the chestnut rest. He eased from the saddle, took his canteen and tipped water into his hat for the horse to drink before he slaked his own thirst. He could feel the heat on his back. Heat waves distorted the air.
Even so he was still able to see the group way ahead of him now. They were moving slowly and from the route they were taking Ballard could figure they were aiming for a jagged rise of granite and sandstone. It had to be where they were going. There was nothing else that could have attracted them. Something, somewhere, in the high rocks was their destination.
Ballard watched them. He had jammed his hat back on his head, gaining a little cool comfort from the damp cling.
‘Where the hell are they headed?’
The chestnut made a gentle sound, alerted by the sound of his voice.
‘Horse, it’s got me puzzled right enough.’
From the depths of Ballard’s subconscious he recalled something that went way back. At the time it had been little more than a few words during a conversation he had had with Colter across a camp fire when they were out scouting for the army. Nothing more than a reference Colter had made when the need for them to ride into the Sandia Mountains had come up. It had only been a passing mention that concerned Colter’s grandfather and some vaguery about a long-lost Spanish hoard of gold and silver. It wasn’t the first time one of those old legends had cropped up. The southwest had its share of missing treasure. Wealth that had been lost in the empty canyons and rocky escarpments. Hardly any of them ever came to anything. By morning the talk had been forgotten, dismissed as little more than a fanciful tale. Colter himself had never mentioned it again and neither had Ballard.
So was there more to that forgotten talk?
Had Colter’s grandfather passed along information to some supposed hoard? Information that someone had taken as true and was now forcing Colter to lead them to it?
‘End of the day, horse, there has to be a reason why all this is happening.’
The chestnut chose to ignore Ballard’s question and he began to wonder himself if maybe it was the heat getting to him.
He kept his watch on the distant group. Saw them turn in and start the long, torturous climb up the first of the rocky slopes that would take them ever higher. Ballard realized he wasn’t going to need to keep such a close eye on them. He could allow a really big lead to develop before he set off. The way they were going would lead them to high slopes, with nowhere else to go. In truth he could follow them at his leisure. Ballard knew he wouldn’t let that happen. His friends were still in a tricky situation. Their captors could turn on them at any given moment. Ballard didn’t want to be too far away if things turned nasty.
He gave it another hour before he mounted up and took the chestnut out of cover and picked up the trail. The hard ground didn’t offer too much in the way of visible tracks. There were a few faint marks left by the passing horses. Ballard knew where he was going without a heavy trail. His quarry was climbing, moving into the maze of rocks.
Ballard patted the chestnut’s neck. ‘Let’s do this.’
~*~
Behind Ballard, out of his sight, another small group of riders were closing in. They move with familiar ease, making little impression as they rode. Almost like a passing wind they moved from cover to cover, almost as if they were not really present, bringing themselves closer. They were waiting for their time.
~*~
‘No games, Ben,’ Horn said. ‘Are we near?’
As much as he wanted to stall Colter knew it wouldn’t be his wisest move. He sensed Horn was reaching the end of his patience. If he lost control now the result could be fatal. Rachel and McCall were under the gun right now and Colter knew how close they all were. The men siding Horn were getting as jittery as their leader. Of looks could have killed Colter would have been dead from the scowls they were sending his way.
‘He asked you a damn question,’ Hamish Campbell snapped. ‘You better come up with the right answer.’
‘Sooner or later,’ Guthrie said, ‘you need to make your mind up.’
‘If we’re close, Ben, tell him,’ McCall offered.
Colter sleeved sweat from his face. Raised a hand and swept it across the rock face they were riding level with. He knew exactly where they were. The spot they wanted lay no more than a quarter mile along.
‘Close now. You’ll have your damned gold and silver soon enough.’
‘Now don’t you be fooling with me, Ben,’ Horn said. ‘You point me there right now or I’ll put you down, gold or no.’
Colter eased his weary horse forward, allowing it to tread carefully across the loose surface. He knew Horn was riding close behind him, the pistol in his hand pointing at Colter’s spine.
Heat burned from the wide sky. Bounced off the high rock face. Even the air they breathed was hot. Colter could feel his shirt clinging to his back, sweat soaking through the material.
He took a look over his shoulder, past Horn to where Rachel and McCall rode in line. Rachel caught his stare and even under the restricting gag he knew she was smiling at him. She sat her saddle upright, defiant, and the sight of her gave him hope.
‘Take a long look,’ Horn said peevishly. ‘Might be your last.’
If Colter could have achieved something, anything, he would have launched himself at the man.
Colter faced front again. As he took his horse over a stony rise in the way he recognized one of the markers his grandfather had mentioned. A splinter of weathered granite with a formation that made it stand out. Despite his situation he felt a rise of anticipation. He brought the image of the map into his mind. The directions and the location Josiah Colter had detailed. It was all fitting. Spreading out in front of him and Colter knew they were close now. He concentrated on the rising rock face, the granite weathered and shimmering with heat.
Any time now.
He should be able to see the entrance to Father Corozon’s cave.
Unless some freak event had occurred. A rock fall. Some natural change that could have blocked the entrance. Here on these high slopes, weather, disturbances, any of them could alter the appearance. Colter scanned the rock face. He knew he was close. The map had indicated so. Colter didn’t even consider his grandfather’s map to be wrong. Up to this moment everything had been as he described.
Had he, Colter, misread the map?
He was sure he had not. Admittedly it had been a long time ago. Memory could play tricks on a man. Was that what had happened here? A lapse in his recall?
He heard the metallic sound as Horn eared back the hammer of his Colt.
‘Time’s running out, Ben,
same as my patience.’
‘Put a slug in his goddam leg,’ Ransome said. ‘Jesus, Nathan, I’m sorely tired of this hombre playin’ us for fools.’
‘I’ll take that under consideration,’ Horn said.
Thompson pushed his horse up to where McCall and Rachel sat. He slid his pistol from its holster and leveled it at the Texan.
‘The hell with consideration, Horn, time something was done apart from talking. I’m sweating like I’m about to melt here an’ tired of listening to you yappin’. Let’s see if a slug in this here Texas boy jogs Colter’s memory.’
He made to dog back the hammer.
When the shot came it was not from Thompson’s gun. The sound reverberated from the rock wall. The slug slammed into the side of Thompson’s head, penetrating his skull and pitching him from the saddle. As he fell horses went wild, panicking at the gunshot. Already nervous from the steep climb and uneasy in the simmering heat they jostled and banged into each other, riders cursing as they attempted to pull them back under control.
‘Get them calmed down,’ Horn yelled.
He had to put away his own gun so he could use both hands on his reins.
Ben Colter took the advantage, hauling in on his own horse’s reins and turning it in a tight circle. With uncharacteristic hard action he rammed in his heels and forced the horse forward, bringing it alongside Horn’s. Horn reacted, his face taut with anger and he struck out at Colter. He missed his chance as Colter slipped one foot from the stirrup, raised his leg and slammed his boot into Horn’s side. Horn gasped as he felt a rib crack under the blow. He slid out of his saddle and pitched to the ground, hitting hard.
Colter left his own saddle, dropping to a crouch over Horn. He snatched the pistol from Horn’s holster.
McCall saw his chance. He swiveled in his saddle, kicking his feet free and without a moment’s hesitation launched himself at the rider crowding him. The man was Carter Ransome. He had just about brought his own feisty animal back under control when McCall slammed into him. Both men slid over the horse’s back and crashed to the hard ground. McCall had landed more or less atop Ransome. With his breath driven from his body Ransome found he was in trouble as the Texan hauled off and rammed a big fist into his face. The blow rocked Ransome’s head and he tasted blood from the tear in his mouth. He barely felt the second punch.
McCall pulled the Remington .44 from Ransome’s holster, pushing away from the man’s limp body. He came upright, conscious of the threatening bodies of milling horses around him.
He heard someone yell. Swung around and saw an armed rider pushing in towards him. The man’s pistol fired and McCall felt the slug burn across his left shoulder. It was a passing shot but still had enough impact to push McCall back a step. He pulled on the Remington’s hammer and put a shot into the rider. Saw him rear back as the slug hit high on his left side. Before McCall could fire again the rider’s head was snapped to one side, bloody debris bursting from his skull as a slug from the unseen shooter struck.
‘Rachel,’ Colter yelled.
‘Get her out of here,’ McCall called out.
Colter hauled himself back on his horse and as Rachel leaned in towards him and he caught hold and pulled her from her saddle, hugging her close. He spurred his horse away from the melee. Hanging onto Rachel as she threatened to slip from his grasp, he let the horse carry them well clear before he reined it to a slithering stop. Allowing her to slide to the ground Colter joined her and turned to face the conflict some distance behind her.
Rachel, despite her bound wrists, reached up and pulled the neckerchief away, working her stiff jaw. She had no time to catch Colter’s attention as he reached out and pushed her to one side, then took the pistol he had taken from Horn and raised it, two handed. When she followed his move she saw Joe Guthrie heading for them, rifle in his hands as he leaned over his horse’s neck. His rifle cracked, the slug missing by a wide margin. He was shooting from the back of a moving horse and his aim was off. He raised the rifle again, fired, and this time his shot was closer, spanging off the rock close to Colter’s feet. There was almost a smile of triumph on Guthrie’s face as he levered and prepared to fire a third time. Colter held his ground, the pistol in his hands steady. He fired twice, very close shots and they both found their target. Guthrie stood up in his stirrups, shock on his face. His rifle flew from his hands. For a moment it seemed he was going to stay on the horse, then he arced back, losing his grip and went over backwards. He hit the ground with an audible thump. His riderless horse kept going, swerving to one side as it passed Colter and Rachel.
McCall, towering in amongst the milling horses, caught movement and saw Ransome, on his knees, reaching behind for the backup pistol he carried in his belt. It was a short-barreled Colt. He brought he revolver round fast in McCall’s direction, snagging back the hammer. The Remington in McCall’s hand flashed smoke and flame. He fired twice. The .44 slugs hammered home—one in Ransome’s throat, the second over his left eye. Ransome fell on his back, kicked in protest before he died.
Of a sudden it became silent. Horses starting to calm down and nothing seemed to happen for a time.
Colter slid his knife from the sheath on his belt and sliced through the bindings on Rachel’s wrists. She shook the rope free, flexing her hands.
‘Hello, Mister Colter,’ she said in a hushed tone.
‘Mrs. Colter,’ he replied. ‘Been a busy few days.
~*~
McCall pushed by the horses and stared towards the cluster of boulders where the unseen rifleman was concealed. He was not surprised when he saw Chet Ballard step into view, still holding his weapon.
Unshaven, his clothes wrinkled and dust rimed, Ballard was still a welcome sight.
‘Son, the next time you have a notion to visit a friend,’ McCall said, ‘just keep it to yourself.’
‘That’s all I get for saving your hide?’
‘Took your time getting here.’
‘Had to find you first. Figured to move in close when I saw what was happening.’
McCall smiled. ‘I guess you made up for it with those shots. Hell, son, pretty sharp shooting.’
Ballard indicated the bloody spot on McCall’s shoulder. ‘I see you managed to get yourself shot again.’
‘Only a scratch. Hardly noticed.’
~*~
In the final confusion Nathan Horn had roused himself, ignoring the blood streaming from the deep gash across his face. He heard the sound of gunfire. The shrill sounds of unnerved horses and the clatter of hoofs on the rocky ground. He understood he had lost control. His men were under fire and he was close to being taken himself. As dazed as he was Horn understood the need to move. To get away from the dusty confusion. He wriggled sideways hoping to avoid any trampling hoofs. His hand brushed something. It was a discarded revolver. Horn grasped it and kept moving. A depression in the rocky surface allowed him some cover and he slid into it, the gathered his legs under him and moved away. It hurt to move, his damaged rib giving him considerable pain. Horn forced himself to put up with it. Pain meant he was still alive and alive he might yet achieve what he had set out to do.
~*~
‘Where’s Horn?’
Ben Colter stared around as he realized the man was no longer in sight.
‘I don’t figure he’s got far away,’ Ballard said.
It was Rachel who picked up on the prone figure crawling along the shallow depression yards away. Something snapped inside as she recognized the man and took long strides until she stood over him.
‘Here,’ she called out.
Horn pushed himself up on one arm, lifting the pistol he carried.
‘Not this time,’ Rachel said.
Her right foot kicked out, the toe of her boot catching Horn’s gunhand, sending the pistol spinning clear.
‘I knew I should have dealt with you… ’ Horn yelled.
‘No chance of that now.’
Horn saw Ben Colter looming over him.
�
��This is something I’ve been wanting to do,’ Colter said.
He reached own and pulled Horn to his feet, the rage in him giving him strength to stand the man upright.
Colter’s hands clenched into fists as he faced the man who had caused him so much grief. In that moment he recalled Chey and Tula. Both dead because of Horn’s actions.
And Rachel. Dragged across country like some human bait to draw Colter out. Forced to kill in order to save herself. Bruised and bloodied—but thankfully now safe. Colter couldn’t forget, or forgive, that more than anything.
It was all concentrated in the blow he delivered, his heavy fist crashing full into Nathan Horn’s face. It split his lips. Blood spurting. Horn’s head rocking back under the force of the punch. Colter followed with more, his blows cracking against Horn’s jaw, his nose, opening a raw gash over one eye. The beating sent Horn reeling, stumbling back, arms flailing as he made feeble attempts to ward off the relentless attack. He fell, crashing down on the hard ground. Colter bent over him, taking a grip on Horn’s shirt that was slick with his own blood. He hauled the man to his feet and dragged him to the mouth of the cave.
‘You still want it? Corozon’s treasure? It’s what this is all about…so let’s go and find what you want.’
Colter had seen the final marker on Josiah’s map. Almost a fold in the rock face that concealed the true entrance to the cave. The description was true and it led Colter to the dark opening that had most likely never been seen since Josiah had laid eyes on it in this secluded place. Colter, who had been expecting to find it, was still surprised when he actually laid eyes on it.
Colter literally dragged the stumbling, bloody figure of Nathan Horn and pushed him inside the cave where the Spanish hoard lay in a pile against one wall. Colter thrust the dazed figure in the direction of the hoard.
‘Take a look, Nathan. This is it. And you can have it all. Every last piece.’
Horn fell to his knees, sleeving blood from his eyes as he stared at the rotted bags that held the gold and silver. The contents shone dully in the light that spilled inside the cave. To one side lay the yellowed bones and brown robes that were all that remained of Father Ignacio Corozon.
