by Lanyon, Josh
“Yep, but Salt and Royale found them holed up in Senex Valley.”
“And in the ensuing fight, the bandits and Salt were killed.”
“‘Ensuing fight,’” she mocked. “I could listen to you for hours. Do you write like you talk?”
“You wouldn’t want to concentrate here, would you?”
“In the ensuing fight,” Melissa informed me, “all three bandits were shot to pieces, along with good old Barnabas Salt.”
“And was the gold recovered?”
Her expression went totally blank.
“Yoo-hoo,” I prompted. “The ill-gotten gains: whatever happened to them?”
She snapped back into life. “Never mind that box.” She disappeared into a dusty recess and reappeared dragging another box over. The friction of the stone floor tore the deteriorating box apart. Newspapers spilled everywhere. “Fuck! Try these. This is the time frame we’re interested in.”
Evelyn Wood couldn’t have speed-read any faster through those brittle, yellowed pages. The kerosene lamp threw flickering shadows that danced against the wall like Zuni spirit helper figures. I kept watching them out of the corner of my eye.
“Try to be careful, can’t you? These are historically valuable.”
“I am being careful.” I nodded pointedly as a piece of page broke off in her hand. Just like old times. “Maybe we should get some help.”
“There’s no time. He knows how close we are. He’s liable to split any minute.”
He. We both knew now who we were after though neither of us had put it in words yet.
“Without the gold?”
“Maybe he’s found the gold.”
Maybe. Maybe not. What was it about gold that drove men to leave their homes and families, to risk everything — to commit murder — on just the promise of it? Gold fever, they called it back then. In the 1800s it had been an epidemic; now and then there was still an outbreak.
“What happens if we can’t find anything?” Melissa asked after a silence of some time.
“I don’t know. Even if we find the right article it isn’t proof. We have to use that information to confront him.”
“You think he’s going to fall apart because we shove an old newspaper article in his face? We’ve got to do more than that.”
I should have listened to her, but my attention was caught by the article before me.
BANDITS SLAIN IN SHOOT OUT proclaimed the banner headline. In the faded old-fashioned typescript I read how Abraham Royale and Barnabas Salt had been set upon by the three notorious Mexican bandits who had robbed the Sonora stagecoach line only days before. A gun battle had ensued (that word again), and all three miscreants had been slain, saving the honest taxpayers the expense of hanging Juan Martinez, Eduardo Marquez, and Luis Quintana. Tragically Barnabas Salt, Royale’s long time partner in the Red Rover mine, had also been killed. The search for the stolen booty continued.
I lowered the paper. A moth was bumping against the lantern, a soft desperate sound as it fought to immolate itself. Melissa stared at my face and then eased the paper out of my hands.
While she read, I worked it out. The bandits had hidden their loot in an abandoned mine, but the mine’s previous owners, working nearby, had spotted them, or somehow become suspicious. There was a fight and everyone ended up dead except for one man. One man who chose to keep the hard-earned gold of his neighbors and friends for himself.
“What should we do?” Melissa asked when she finished reading.
“I think it’s time to call the cops.”
“The cops!” She looked outraged. “You said yourself this isn’t proof. The last thing we need is Barney Fife stumbling around in this.”
“Melissa, there’s enough here to give them a start. It implicates someone other than Kevin.”
“We don’t need the cops for this!”
My nerves on edge, I snapped back, “For what? What did you have in mind? A citizen’s arrest? He’s killed two people so far.”
“Your buddy Riordan —”
“Don’t drag Jake into this.”
She lowered her head, her hair falling across her face in a veil. At last she murmured, “Okay, you win. I’ll call the cops from upstairs.” Then she stood, backed up and ran for the stairs, shooting up the rickety staircase like a scalded cat.
A moment later the door to the cellar banged shut.
It took a nanosecond for the full implication of the sound of a slamming door — and the sound that followed: a key turning in a lock — to register.
I rocketed up the stairs in her wake yelling Melissa’s name with all the sound and fury I could muster. As I reached the top step she called through the wood, “Just be grateful it’s not a fruit cellar!”
“Open the goddamn door!” I pounded my fist on the door. Solid oak; it was like punching stone. I wasn’t getting out that way, not without a Roman Legion at my back. “Melissa, don’t be stupid. Melissa!” I rattled the doorknob.
The sound of her footsteps died away.
I ran back down the stairs, which shook under the force of my feet. A quick scan of the cellar didn’t offer much in the way of escape routes. There was no other door. There were a couple of small rectangular windows about ten feet up, probably street level.
Looking around for something to stand on, I spotted a trunk in the wavering lantern light. With some shoving and tugging, I got the trunk positioned beneath one of the windows. I hopped on top of it and found myself still two feet too short.
I jumped down, searched the corners, disturbing the spiders in their webs, and came up with a milk bottle crate. I placed the crate on the trunk and gingerly climbed back up. The crate wobbled crazily on the curved lid of the trunk. Crouched, I balanced surfer-like, straightened slowly and rested my hand on the windowsill.
Wiping a swath with my fist, I stared through the dirty window. I could see the street bathed in sunshine and the tires of cars whizzing past. I pried at the rusty latch.
No good. The damn thing could have been welded shut.
I was mad enough to punch through the window, but not stupid enough. I needed something that wasn’t my fist to break through the glass. A sledgehammer would be good, but that was too much to hope for. What kind of cellar didn’t have a handy crowbar or even a broom?
I was thinking about taking my shirt off and wrapping it around my hand when a face loomed into the window, one eye blinking through the circle of clean.
I nearly fell off my perch. When I had steadied myself and looked again, the face was gone from the window.
“Hey!” I shouted. “Help!”
Leaping down, I unbuttoned my shirt, swaddled my hand and clambered back up. The crate rocked and I teetered like Gidget Goes Berserk. Trying to stabilize my weight, I clutched the window sill and with my free hand feinted cautiously at the glass. With the second punch my fist shattered the pane. Most of the glass flew streetward, the rest of it dusting my face and shoulders. I shook my head, blinked carefully. Wiping the glass out of the window frame, I rested both hands on the sill and hauled myself up.
Though it looks easy enough in movies, it ain’t so easy in real life to pull yourself up and wriggle through a small square window. It took a lot of writhing and squirming — not to mention swearing — before I managed to scrape through the window and crawl out to the sidewalk.
“You are an abomination and shall be put to death, your blood upon your head,” the Reverend John Howdy shrieked into my sweating face.
I blinked up at him.
“How’s that?” I huffed at last.
He proceeded to tell me how.
Half listening while I took inventory, I decided that all my parts were in working order. I sat up, brushing off the glass and cobwebs.
“You — you!” he spluttered.
I ducked back from the fiery breath of the little man bending over me.
“Breaking and entering, you buggering spawn of Satan,” he cried. “I’m calling the police!”
“Breaking and exiting,” I retorted, getting to my knees. “And calling the police is a good idea. Send them to Pine Shadow ranch.”
I could hear him hollering for the law as I limped off down the street.
* * * * *
There was no sign of Jake at the ranch.
His car was packed with his gear; my suitcases were packed and sitting just inside the door. He was dead serious about our leaving on schedule. Mobil-I-zation had begun.
Dust covers blanketed the furniture once more, the shutters were closed and fastened, the thermostat was off, the fridge was empty.
“Jake!” I called, walking through the silent rooms.
There was no answer. Something felt wrong.
“Jake?”
Walking out on the porch, I froze mid-step at the distant crack of two gun shots.
It could have been hunters, but I knew it wasn’t, and can’t quite describe the sick chill that spread from my gut to my heart.
“He’s not dead,” I said aloud.
Nothing contradicted me. The cowbell chimes clanked in the breeze.
I turned and went back inside to call the sheriffs. I don’t think I really heard what the person on the other end of the line said. I was probably instructed to stay put, but the moment I hung up, I climbed the hillside behind the house, jogging past the scorched marijuana field, shearing through the trees, and slipping and sliding down the pine needles of the mountainside overlooking the camp in Spaniard’s Hollow.
Or, rather, where the camp had been. The kind of mass exodus that generally precedes the appearance of giant ants from outer space seemed to have taken place. I prowled the mauled grounds. Giant yellow squares indicated where the tents formerly sat, but the tents and the generators were gone, and the only vehicles parked by the tarn were Melissa’s white pickup, a Land Rover and another car. I figured the Land Rover was probably Dr. Shoup’s, since he lay face up beside it.
“The very man,” Miss Buttermit had said. I had thought at the time that Shoup must be in on the caper too, but now I wondered.
I squatted down beside his body. Felt his throat for a pulse.
Even dead, he had a supercilious expression at odds with the wound in his chest.
I guess you do eventually get hardened to violent death, or else I was too worried about Jake to feel much of anything for anyone else.
Shoup was stone cold, so the shots I’d heard had not been the ones that did him in. Rising to my feet I squinted at the sun glittering on the tarn, the dazzle stinging my eyes.
Why would Jake come back here? We were supposed to be getting the hell out of Dodge; why would he head back to the camp? It was so typical of that beef-witted lout to go off half-cocked, thinking he had all the answers when he only knew part of the story ....
After a despairing couple of moments it occurred to me where they must have gone. Now I had another choice to make. I could wait for the sheriffs; I could follow them down the stagecoach tracks; or I could try to beat them to the Red Rover mine by cutting across the mountainside. The wrong decision could cost Jake’s life.
If he wasn’t dead already.
I went bounding back up the mountainside without regard to my neck or heart. My shoes slipped over stones and dried grass. My heart pounded hard but it was mostly with the adrenaline rush. Hell, I figured if my pump hadn’t given out by now, it was probably good for the duration. Just so long as it saw me through getting Jake back in one piece; that was the bargain I was offering God.
By now I had worked out most of the details, like why Livingston, who everyone agreed was as straight and true as the needle on a compass, had to die the minute he got wise to what was happening at the site.
As for my former caretaker, Harvey must have been playing how-does-your-garden-grow on the mountainside and seen Livingston shot. Ever a lad with his eye to the main chance, he must have tried to cut a deal. My guess was he had threatened blackmail, probably claiming he held some incriminating evidence like photos. That would explain why his trailer had been searched a couple of times. I suspected there never was any evidence, but either way, the blackmail scheme had backfired. Livingston’s body had been planted in the barn to incriminate Harvey, and Harvey himself had been killed and dragged off to look like he’d rabbited.
While I climbed, I reconnoitered. Maybe I should have taken the time to search for one of my grandmother’s guns. What happened when I did catch them up? I didn’t have a gun, and I didn’t exactly have a plan; the force of my personality was not going to get us far.
I stepped wrong and went down on my knees. As I knelt there, panting and perspiring, I heard a sound. A minor explosion that resembled … a sneeze.
My heart lit and soared like a Roman candle; I’d recognize those tormented sinuses anywhere. Crawling a few feet, I peered through the bushes. And sure enough, a few moments later I glimpsed the top of three heads through the trees branches shading the trail below; Jake’s gilt hair shone like a knight’s helmet.
He was alive.
I crept forward as quietly as possible. Melissa was walking on Jake’s right; Marquez followed close — though not too close — behind. He carried a rifle aimed at their backs. I’d have bet money on a 30.06 load.
“Hurry it up!” His voice carried in the still air.
I didn’t envy his task; even from my hiding place it was clear from their rigid body language that Jake and Melissa were waiting for the first opportunity to turn on their captor. Marquez knew it too, if his strained white face was anything to go by.
How the hell had both Jake and Melissa managed to fall into Marquez’s clutches? But wasn’t it just typical of these damned “A” personality types, always thinking they knew best, always thinking they could handle whatever cropped up?
On hands and knees, I slunk forward. I had to get ahead of them. That was our best chance. But if I stood up, Marquez would spot me and probably start shooting. He was scared and desperate, so there was no predicting.
And in the clear mountain air even the sound of a snapping branch seemed to carry a mile. I could go back and wait for the sheriffs. It was probably the smartest thing to do. It was obviously the safest — and I was sure it was what Jake would have wanted me to do. I also knew it was not what Jake would have done were our positions reversed.
I moved the branches aside, listening tautly.
Reassuringly, Jake’s voice floated up. He sounded calm, even conversational. “You don’t have the gold then? You just think you know where it is.”
“It’s there.”
“It’s been over a hundred years, pal. Anything could have happened to it.”
“If someone else had found it, it would have made history. Royale’s wife didn’t find it; she died in poverty.”
“That’s my point,” Jake said. He was doing the cop thing: keep ’em talking; it distracts and builds a bond whether the bad guy wants it or not. “If the gold was there someone would have found it before now.”
“Before my great great grandfather was murdered by Royale and Salt he sent my grandmother a letter saying the gold was hidden in the mine.”
A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, I recalled Dr. Shoup saying only a few days earlier. How right he had been.
“Royale could have moved the gold before he died,” Melissa said scornfully. “Which means you’ve killed two people for nothing.”
“Shut up and walk!” Marquez sounded harassed. Clearly he was making it up as he went. What had gone wrong, I wondered?
The bushes were thinning. Dropping to my belly, I made like GI Joe, creeping along over the hard ground. This is another thing that looks a lot easier in the movies than it is in real life. In real life dragging yourself over rocky ground without making any noise is a slow and painful business. And as quiet and careful as I was being, I was still afraid they could hear the shift and slide of stones, the snap of twigs. I could sure hear them.
But slowly, surely I gradually pulled ahead of the trio in the road below. A f
ew more yards of this and it would be safe to stand again. The dragging along on elbows was painful; my hips felt bruised.
Suddenly it occurred to me why it was so painful: I still had Melissa’s cassette player in my pocket.
As this realization sunk into my tired brain, I felt a spark of hope. Vigor renewed, I humped along, scraping myself raw over rocks and pinecones and tree roots.
The voices behind me faded. Scrambling to my feet, I ran like hell across the hillside, and then down through the trees.
I reached the mine a scant two minutes before they appeared down the track. I had just enough time to prop the cassette player in the ‘V’ of a pine branch. Hands shaking, I pressed play and slid up the volume, praying the recorder didn’t fall off its perch.
Up close the chanting sounded so obviously synthetic, I couldn’t imagine how it had fooled anyone, but as I moved away from the sound, it got creepier. More believable.
Inching down the hillside, I hid behind a thicket, sweating and trying to get my breath.
It didn’t take long before I heard their voices.
“So if Shoup was working with you, why kill him?” Jake was saying reasonably. As they drew even with my hiding place I could see Jake’s eyes rake the hillside, the road, looking for his chance. For a second his eyes seemed to find mine in the thicket I hid in, but his expression never changed.
A bruise darkened his forehead, but he was okay. He was alive and on his feet, and I planned on him staying that way. I felt around on the ground for a tree limb long and thick enough to use as a club.
“Because he finally figured out I … had disposed of Dan — Dr. Livingston. And that scum ball, Harvey.”
“Disposed of? You mean killed?”
Melissa said, “You mean murdered? Because that’s what it was. Cold-blooded murder, you bastard.”
“Shut up!” Marquez shouted.
“Yeah, shut up,” Jake growled. “You’ll hurt his feelings.”
Melissa stopped walking. “Do you hear that?” Her head jerked from side to side in disbelief. “What is that?”
About time too. I was beginning to think the three of them would never shut up long enough to hear the ghostly voices soughing on the afternoon wind.
