Ghost Bandits of Sonora (Elizabeth Crowne)

by Robert Isenberg

  “My word,” pronounced Elizabeth. “Have you ever seen anything like it?”

  Robins bit his lower lip. “Never. And good riddance.”

  Elizabeth turned to Sparrow. He was far behind them, lingering by the entrance. He drew his pince-nez from his breast pocket and clipped the lenses to his nose. The pharmacist only gazed, his brown eyes twinkling in the dim light.

  “How about you?” Elizabeth asked. “Look familiar?”

  Sparrow raised a crooked finger. A thought was crossing his mind. He scoured the darkness with his lamp, then pointed. “What’s that over there?”

  They all turned toward a corner of the chamber. Here, the dramatic textures faded, and the walls turned smooth. Not far from the swirling patterns, the surface looked like any other rock face.

  Suddenly, Elizabeth saw it. Pictures.

  Thick black pigment was painted starkly against the scarlet stone. It was a menagerie of animals, prancing across the sedimentary canvas. Bears mingled with deer; lizards bore curled tails; wild pigs sported spiked manes; birds flapped angular wings; snakes coiled around turtles; buffalo roamed past monstrous insects. Human figures were sprinkled throughout, their profiles made of sticks, dots, zigzags, and stripes. Their arms curved, locks of hair stuck out. Faces were shaped like moons and suns; body parts were composed of wheels, X’s, and flowers. The images bloomed like an overgrown garden, shape after fantastical shape. The strokes were thick and confident; there was no sunlight to fade them. Elizabeth imagined they were as crisp today as when they were first created.

  “Petroglyphs,” breathed Elizabeth. She turned to Sparrow. “You wouldn’t happen to know what they mean, would you?”

  “Unless I’m wrong,” he answered reverently, “the last man to read these markings died a thousand years ago.”

  “Hohokam?”

  “Could be.”

  “Hohokam,” scoffed Robins, his eyes averted. “More like regular hokum, I’d wager. Just a bunch of childish pictures. Ain’t no rhyme or reason to it.”

  Elizabeth ignored the Deputy. She hovered closer, and one section caught her eye. She leaned into the weathered scrawl.

  “What do you think this is?”

  Suddenly, she saw it—another light.

  It sliced into the room. Not a lamp, but a beam. It quickly crossed the walls and swept over their bodies.

  Elizabeth whirled around. She narrowed her eyes at the blotch of light behind them. It bobbed slightly, as if held by an unsteady hand.

  A flashlight, she thought. Someone else is here.

  “Who’s there?” Elizabeth called out.

  The flashlight changed direction, and she heard the scuffle of feet. Boots slid over rock; hard footsteps receded into the shaft.

  “Damn it!” Elizabeth cried.

  Before the men could react, Elizabeth was sprinting across the chamber. She pounded through the entrance and barreled into the mine. When she reached the intersection, she saw the light again—and the silhouette of a man, racing deeper into the shaft. Light bounced along the wooden walls, brightening one set of beams, then the next.

  “STOP!” she screamed. “STOP WHERE YOU ARE!”

  Elizabeth raised her Colt .45. She closed one eye, aiming at the floor—a long, diagonal shot. She pulled the trigger.

  Sparks exploded from her weapon. The blast echoed painfully in all directions. She saw a puff of dust as the bullet grazed the railroad bed. She heard a youthful yowl—male, but not masculine. The strangled voice of pure terror. And then, all at once, the flashlight flickered out.

  Elizabeth panted. She tried to see beyond her orb of light. Nothing stirred.

  She heard scampering behind her. Sparrow and Robins emerged, running as fast as their riding boots would allow. They slid to a stop, their weapons held high.

  “Did you see him?” Robins bellowed.

  “Hardly.” Elizabeth scowled. “He’s at least a hundred feet ahead. Turned out his light. Any idea what’s down there?”

  “Trouble,” said the Deputy. “But not much else. One room. But we didn’t dig very far before we left the place for good.”

  We.

  Elizabeth prickled at the pronoun. That one syllable confirmed everything she had suspected but not asked: Robins used to be a miner. He’d burrowed into this mountain, helped shape these very walls. This was the truth she had waited for, the key to Robins’ fear. It wasn’t naked superstition, but months of hard labor in these lonely burrows. We didn’t dig very far. This slip of the tongue prompted a deluge of questions.

  Robins suddenly spoke. “He ain’t armed.”

  “What?”

  “If he was,” Robins reasoned, “he would’ve taken his shot. While our backs was turned. He’d be crazy not to.”

  “Would you bet your life on it?”

  Robins cocked his head sideways, his neck crackling. He considered this, then shrugged. “Brings new meaning to Blind Man’s Bluff, don’t it?”

  With that, Robins advanced. Elizabeth’s heart skipped as she watched the Deputy saunter into the shaft. His narrow hips rotated with every step. She wanted to follow, but she hesitated. What if the Deputy was wrong? What if the intruder was armed? Wasn’t he just inviting a barrage of bullets?

  “Ladies first,” said Sparrow.

  Elizabeth jerked her head toward the pharmacist. Sparrow’s sardonic smile irked her even more. She pursed her lips and took five rapid breaths, and then she marched forward, after the Deputy.

  Never in her life had Elizabeth felt claustrophobic. Tight spaces had little effect. She had ventured into the gamut of tombs and catacombs, ripped her way through cobwebs as thick as quilts, hiked through the densest rainforests, and survived without sunlight for days at a stretch. She would sooner shudder at a black cat than the confines of a crawlspace. But this mine was somehow different. Stuck between the two men—Robins in front, Sparrow behind—Elizabeth disliked the slender corridor, the misshapen tracks, the corroded beams that held their ceiling in place. The shaft felt makeshift, the hasty creation of expendable men and their jackhammers.

  She watched Robins. The lawman ambled with the same long-legged gait as he did on Main Street. Yet Robins moved slowly, like a prowling coyote. The vacuous space ahead of him blossomed with lamplight. Then, suddenly, a figure emerged.

  He was a young man, huddled behind an old barrel. His arms were wrapped around his bundled legs—an upright fetal position. His body trembled, and he pressed his face into his knees. Elizabeth could hear the high-pitched trill of his panicked breaths. He wore a simple cotton shirt, the sleeves rolled up, and his khaki trousers were held up with thick suspenders.

  Before she could fully appraise the stranger, Robins had already slipped his gun into its holster. He crouched low, tipped his Stetson back, and pensively groped his mustache.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he declared.

  “Do you know him?” Elizabeth murmured.

  “I’ll say.” Robins shook his head. “It’s the city slicker I threw in jail the other night.”

  The young man looked up. He squinted into the three blasts of light. He looked from one invisible face to the other. He croaked, but he couldn’t summon words. At last, he stuttered, “P-p-please don’t hurt me!”

  “Aw, hell.” Robins straightened out and spat at the wall. “He ain’t no bank robber.”

  The youth’s brow furrowed. “B-b-bank robber?”

  Elizabeth sighed. This was all wrong. Mine Number One was empty. There was no camp, no supplies, no bandits. All they had chased down was a nosy tourist, and for no reason at all.

  And yet, this seemed right. The cave, the glyphs, the shape of the rock—they meant something. What was she not seeing? Why was this puzzle not coming together?

  Suddenly, a voice penetrated the stillness.

  “ELIZABETH!”

  She heard her name echo over and over—Elizabeth, Elizabeth, Elizabeth.

  All four of them turned their heads at once. Far behind them, from the ve
ry darkness they had just passed through, the feminine voice resounded with fear.

  “Maude.” Elizabeth curled her hands around her mouth. She cried out, “Maude! We’re coming!”

  Chapter 7

  When Maude heard the gunshot, she was filing her nails.

  She hadn’t planned to. Her nails looked just fine. And for the first lonely minutes, she was content to sit on an old crate, holding her chin in her hands. But there was only so much waiting a girl could do. She spent some time pacing in circles. She stole some sips from Elizabeth’s canteen. Eventually she found a bent nail sticking out of some old timber and passively tried to pull it out. At times like this, Maude wished she owned a watch, if only to see how much time she was wasting.

  When all else failed, Maude opened her bag and raked through its contents. She frowned at its disarray—makeup and handkerchiefs and myriad odds and ends, all jumbled at the bottom of her canvas tote. Why did travel always make her belongings so cluttered? What was it about the simple act of leaving one place and going to another that made it so impossible to organize?

  The file emerged. She examined it, this small, beautifying tool. The handle was crafted out of silvery metal, and the file jutted out like a knife blade. She touched the rough surface, and then she scrutinized her fingers. Black grit had sneaked beneath her nails, and the idea of filing them now seemed moot. Then again, what else had she to do? The four horses stood nearby, their bodies as still as statues. Every few minutes, one of them would lower a head or poke the ground with a hoof. Their nostrils flared, and their eyes looked pitifully at Maude, eager to roam free. Otherwise, the scene was eerily still.

  Maude raked the file across her thumb. Getting started was always the worst part; the friction of file and nail made her shiver. But then she fell into the rhythm, and a fine powder accumulated along her cuticle. She finished, blew the nail clean, and grinned.

  Not terrible, she thought. Nine to go!

  Then she heard the shot.

  Maude had heard guns before. That powerful crack was unmistakable. But coming from the mine, the sound chilled her. It issued from the dark entryway, then resonated in the stagnant air. One formidable blast, deep within the mountain’s bowels. Then—nothing.

  Maude rose to her feet. She stumbled forward, until she stood among the horses. Her mind reeled: What should she do? What was happening in there? Was it a gunfight? A warning shot? Was Elizabeth cornered? Wounded? Taken captive? Had someone simply shot the padlock off a doorway? Or was the whole trio lying in a bloody heap?

  She listened, but nothing followed. How long should she wait? Except for the cheep of an unseen bird, the silence was maddening. She felt herself turn toward the animals. She had to do something. She had to act. Before she could talk herself out of it, Maude opened the flap of Robins’ saddlebag and rifled through his gear. She pushed aside cans, tools, and a coil of rope. And then, to her surprise, she found it—a fourth helmet, topped with a lamp.

  Maude pressed her hand against the saucer, just as the Deputy had done. She hit the striker, and blue fire burst around her fingers. She yelped, and the helmet slipped from her grasp, smacking the ground. Maude cursed, then picked the helmet up, relieved to find the humble flame still burning. She pulled the hard hat over her head and adjusted the strap.

  Don’t think, she thought. Just go.

  And with that, Maude closed her eyes, sucked in her gut, and scuttered toward the mine.

  She was swallowed in absolute darkness. Maude gulped back her fear. The lamp was dim, and it barely lit the ground before her feet. She tiptoed between the tracks, staggering over stray pebbles. She felt off-balance, as if the smooth walls were shifting around her. After a hundred paces, Maude could scarcely believe the tunnel kept going. The gloomy scenery stayed the same; the straightness of the tunnel never wavered. Only the air seemed to change, cooling with every step. For the first time, Maude missed the hellacious heat, and her arms prickled with goose bumps.

  Then she saw a wall. She stopped in mid-step. For a moment, she stared at the plain stone barrier. Her mind raced: Could the shaft simply end? Did the shaft lead nowhere else? If so, where were Elizabeth and the others?

  But then she moved closer, and she saw the crossroads. Two tunnels emerged from the darkness. One led right, the other left. From where she stood, they looked identical—black holes wreathed in crusty rock. The only difference, as far as she could tell, was that the railroad tracks curved right. She listened, but neither tunnel yielded any sound. If anyone lurked nearby, they left no hint of their presence.

  Which way would Elizabeth go? Maude pondered.

  Then a more pointed question came to mind: Where would a pack of bandits be hiding?

  The question felt arbitrary, even to her. Should she follow the tracks, or take the tunnel less traveled? Since she was told to stay with the horses, did either direction matter? Even if Elizabeth had found trouble, what could Maude even do to help? What use would she be, unarmed and lit up like a Roman candle, a clear target for any passing gunman?

  “Oh, dear,” Maude whispered, regretting her impulse.

  Then, for whatever reason, she turned left.

  Maude ascended a small rise. She was grateful that her boots stuck firm to the rocky floor.

  Just when the ceiling started to crowd her, and this tunnel, too, threatened to lead nowhere, the walls opened up, and she found herself inside a vast room.

  Maude had seen so many things these past two years—ancient temples, remote villages, luxurious chateaux and steamers across the sea—that no timid Midwestern girl should ever expect to know. She had followed Elizabeth into mortal danger, been rattled and shocked and horrified more times than she could count. At Elizabeth’s side, she had marveled at the ever-expanding mysteriousness of the world. But nothing could have prepared her for the sight of that swirling stone.

  What compelled her to touch the rock? She couldn’t have said. She knew she should keep her hands to herself. But Maude was a tactile woman. She couldn’t help herself. She crept across the chamber, drawn to those undulating patterns. She extended her hand, hoping to feel the petrified ripples on her fingertips. She could hear her own short breaths in the silent vacuum.

  Suddenly, Maude stopped.

  She felt something. Lightheadedness. Vertigo. Her vision blurred. At first she blamed her eyes, or maybe the absence of light. She wiped her eyes with a finger, then blinked.

  Nothing changed. She swallowed hard. Everything around her still looked bleary. It wasn’t her eyes. It was something else. Something outside of her. Something around her. The chamber looked distorted, faded, as if she were perceiving it through brackish water.

  She turned around, hoping the details of the cave would come back into focus. But the colors and textures changed. They melted. She searched for the entrance, but she couldn’t make it out. She moved toward it, but her feet didn’t seem to move.

  The spirals vanished into a blur of orange and maroon. The floor beneath her feet dissolved into a puddle of color.

  Panic rose. Her body no longer obeyed her. She could barely feel her body. Through the numbness, she felt—warmth. But it wasn’t physical. Not like the heat of a fire. The warmth swelled inside her. Her heart and stomach radiated warmth, like a warm spring day; like receiving a letter from her mother; like descending in an elevator. She felt heady and light. Drunken elation. Centrifugal glee.

  Her mouth opened. She looked into the fading collage of colors and forms. Terror swept through her.

  She screamed: “ELIZABETH!”

  But the scream went nowhere. Maude imagined her voice as a physical shape—a blob of sound—evaporating into the air. Warmth tingled through her body; tiny fireworks exploded in her veins. Any sense of time and space leaked away. Her mind emptied.

  And then, just when Maude had lost all sense of herself, she spotted three silhouettes. They were flesh-colored. Human-shaped. Barely discernible. She knew one was Elizabeth. She could just tell. They were so close
. Only a few feet away. Yet Elizabeth was slipping into the darkness. A smudge among smudges.

  Maude tried to call out—Elizabeth! Help me!—but she made no sound. She could hear nothing at all.

  The air shifted. It was heavy and moist. She felt wetness on her face. Her clothes dampened. Her skin prickled all over. There were droplets of water; they struck her from above. The sprinkle thickened.

  Maude heard herself again—gasping.

  She felt the ground beneath her boots. She blinked, wiping water from her face. She looked up at a gray sky, a shroud of storm clouds.

  She was outside.

  Dark cliffs rose all around her. Rain poured everywhere. The torrents pummeled her, and she lowered her head. Water gushed past the soles of her boots. The air was sultry, painful to breathe. Her dark hair clung to her face.

  Maude looked around, frantic. But all she saw was a tree. Its branches bore no leaves. Its trunk curved like a scimitar out of the orange rock. Beyond that, there was only rain and more rain, drowning the landscape in its downpour.

  She didn’t know where she was. She had no idea how she’d come here. And she was absolutely alone.

  Part II

  Chapter 8

  Sylvester J. Kyd lifted his trousers from the floor and buckled his thick belt. He draped a well-worn shirt over his hairy shoulders, then grabbed a bourbon bottle from the dresser and swallowed hard. He wiped his cracked lips with the back of his hand, then plunked the bottle back into place.

  The girl shifted beneath the linens, her hands searching for the blanket’s edge. When she finally emerged from the pile of fabric, the girl’s black hair was spread playfully over her face. She sprawled across the mattress and stretched her skinny arms. Sunlight seeped through the windows’ narrow slats, slicing the bed with bars of light and shadow.