by Tim Champlin
If there was one thing his late mother had taught him, it was to never look back. Whatever happens, keep going ahead, she’d urged him. Do your best, and don’t be afraid to take chances. He would keep going for now. These convicts, after spending four years in lockup with little opportunity for exercise, wouldn’t be hardened to the trail. They’d be susceptible to heat, dust, and hardships. Buck smiled grimly to himself. He was tougher than they were, and he aimed to prove it. Water was the main problem. It was very heavy to carry, sloshing around, and easily lost through accidental spills or punctures of the full leather skins slung across their packhorse. They likely had enough to last another day, allowing the minimum for their horses to survive. No water for washing—only for drinking—until they could find more. Normally a fastidious man, Rankin had long ago discovered that going dirty and unshaven for days on end was the worst part of this work.
His immediate problem was what direction to take from here. The inexperienced men boiling the coffee would look to him for leadership. They were a long way out on this trackless dry lake bed, with low mountain ranges spiking up in the distance. Would the convicts have headed for the shelter of the mountains when the storm blew up, and would they have been able to reach them? Rankin had a general map of the region in his head. To supplement that, he had two tools at his disposal—a pair of field glasses and a pocket compass.
He reached into his shirt pocket and extracted a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles with smoked lenses. As far as his posse knew, they were for protection from sunlight. In actuality, they were prescription lenses.
Uncasing the field glasses, he brought them to his eyes, adjusted the focus for distance, and carefully scanned the playa. But he was forced to remove the spectacles to get the eyepieces close enough to his head for a good view.
If the escapees had been caught out by the storm, there was no sign of them now—only foreshortened distances of nothing. It was growing lighter by the minute as the edge of the sun peeked over the horizon. Rising heat waves had yet to distort detail of the mountains. Only a few scrub mesquite bushes clung tenaciously to the parched soil. No other vegetation, no animals, no men—a dead planet as far as he was able to see. He lowered the glasses. He’d have to rely on his hunches, based on experience.
His leg began to ache, so he dropped to one knee to ease the pain. It must not distract from his mental calculations. As near as he could recall, the convicts and their hostage had a three-hour head start. Figure four, to be safe. The armed breakout had occurred during the noon meal at the prison. According to eyewitnesses, they jumped a guard, took his gun, and shot their way into the warden’s office, where they captured a woman clerk for a hostage. Using her as a shield, they forced the guards to open the gate. From there, the escapees stole three saddled horses tied in front of a hardware store, then relieved the store owner of several coated canvas bags and filled them from the watering trough in front. Forcing their woman hostage onto the third horse, they galloped straight east out of Carson, making for the vast, open desert.
Buck tried to put himself in the place of the convicts. In the rush to get away, he would have galloped for a couple of miles before slowing the winded horses. Then what? As the adrenaline ebbed, and they realized they were safe for the time, they probably walked their mounts for a couple of hours while watching their back trail for pursuit. This assumption was confirmed by the very obvious hoofprints the posse picked up in the soft crust at the edge of the vast playa. How far would they have traveled before the storm caught them in late afternoon?
A minimum of twenty miles, maximum of thirty, he figured. The trail led in a straight line due east. Blowing dust and darkness had finally shut down pursuit. This morning, the trail was obliterated. The convicts’ head start should put them roughly eighteen miles ahead, Buck estimated—over the horizon and out of sight, even on a completely flat, featureless plain where fifteen miles would be the normal visual distance of a man on horseback. But, would they continue in a straight line, knowing they were leaving a trail obvious to a blind man? Yes, they would, assuming they wanted to put as much distance between themselves and Carson as possible. Now nature had come to their rescue by erasing their back trail.
If anyone happened to catch up to them, the fugitives still had a woman hostage as a last resort. At nightfall, when they wanted to camp, they’d look for the hidden shelter of a mountain canyon. Rankin figured the night wind fiercely blowing the dust had caught them in the open before they could reach the mountains, just as it had the posse. He decided, lacking any evidence of a direction change by their quarry, to continue heading due east.
What about the woman hostage? He knew her only by sight. She was young and slim and did clerical work in the warden’s office. He assumed she’d be able to keep up and endure whatever these convicts could endure, provided they didn’t mistreat her.
The smell of coffee brought him back to the present, and Buck rose from his kneeling position and turned back to the small campfire. Bacon was beginning to sizzle in the frying pan.
Late that afternoon, Buck held up his hand to halt his slow-moving posse. He uncased his field glasses and focused on something a few hundred yards ahead. It wasn’t a rock or a plant, but neither was it moving.
While they were halted, he dismounted to ease the stiffness in his leg. He would lead his tired horse for a time. The other four did the same.
When they finally got close, Buck recognized the dust-covered carcass of a horse or mule. Shreds of hairy hide remained, but scavengers had done a thorough job of stripping the body of anything edible. Even the disarticulated bones had been gnawed, probably by night-roaming coyotes or wolves from the nearby mountains. This animal hadn’t been dead more than a couple of days, Rankin estimated, walking around it and nudging the skull with his toe. Flies and maggots were still working. He squatted by the skeleton to take a closer look. A bullet hole in the temple? Of course. It figured. The rider had shot his horse rather than have it die of thirst. A saddle that lay nearby might provide a clue. But it contained no name or initials, and any saddlebags were missing. There was nothing unique about the saddle that might tell something of its ownership. It was well worn and could even have belonged to a livery.
He straightened up and looked around. The kill was too old to be one of the mounts that had carried the escapees. Somebody else was out here on this lonely playa, apparently in dire straits as well. Only a few tracks—wolf or coyote—were evident, made since the wind had erased all other traces.
“Water the horses while we’re stopped,” he directed.
The men poured their hats full of the precious liquid from the skin pouches. This had the added benefit afterward of cooling their heads with the wet felt.
When they were done, Buck swung into the saddle and motioned them forward. He didn’t need his compass to ride directly away from the westering sun. He had no idea if they were on the trail of the escapees or not, but he never let on to his men; better to keep them thinking he had the observation and tracking instincts of an Apache. Or maybe they were too tired to even care what he was doing, since they hadn’t spoken for the last two hours. In truth, he was able to detect, now and then, an indentation that looked unnatural, out of place. Several times, he reined up, dismounted, and went down on hands and knees to examine what could have been a dust-filled hoofprint. The last time he did this, he struggled to his feet hoping his men would mistake a sober mien for a wise and thoughtful attitude. In reality, he wondered if he’d just taken a very close look at a natural hollow scooped out by the erratic wind then filled by blowing dust. He climbed back into the saddle, aching leg weighing a hundred pounds, and continued as if oblivious to the curious looks of his posse.
The sun made a silent, fiery exit below the distant mountains. Almost immediately, the air began to cool. With the drop in temperature, a slight breeze began to blow, the heavier, cooler air from the mountains sliding downslope to replace the superheated air in the wide, dead valley. The gentle breeze
felt pleasantly cool at first. Then, it began to increase, until it was picking up dust and stinging grit. By the time dusk had faded into complete darkness, no stars were visible. The air above and all around them was filled again with blowing dust.
Buck pulled up his bandanna to cover his mouth and nose, tugged down his hat brim, and hunched forward in the saddle, determined to ride it out for several more hours to make up for lost time.
He hadn’t counted on his four men whining and complaining they were tired, hungry, and thirsty and wanted to camp.
“Wait until we get across the playa into the shelter of the mountains,” Buck growled at them, raising his voice to be heard above the increasing gusts.
But within the hour, even he had to admit defeat in the face of another nightly onslaught. They pulled up in the middle of God-knew-where and made another camp with no fire, watered their horses, took a long drink themselves, pulled off their saddles and blankets, and made as good a shelter as possible. The horses stood with heads drooping, rumps toward the buffeting wind. The men had to wipe the dirt from the animals’ nostrils with damp rags. Then they put handfuls of grain into nosebags and strapped them on so the bags would help filter the blowing dust.
Even Buck suffered the long, miserable night with only brief snatches of sleep while the endless hours of windy darkness ground away at their endurance.
FIVE
Is there no honor among thieves? Charvein wondered. Apparently not among these thieves. He’d been listening to Stepenaw and Weasel applying aggravating discomforts, mixed with outright torture, to Denson Boyd for more than a half hour. Boyd howled and cursed them, while he continued to deny any knowledge of the cached gold.
Charvein decided it was time to slip away. He’d heard and seen enough for now. It didn’t matter to him what these escapees did to Boyd. Marc’s job was to find out where the gold was hidden. To that end, all he had to do was lie low, wait, and watch. He rose from a crouch on stiffened legs and started to move away. His foot was asleep, and he kicked a rusty can that clattered against some empty bottles. To his ears, the noise was deafening. He froze.
Sudden silence inside the saloon. “What the hell was that?” Stepenaw said.
“Ah, just the wind blowing trash around outside,” Weasel answered.
“Ow! You bastard! You’re breaking my finger!” Boyd yelled. “I tell you I don’t know where the gold is. I can’t tell you what I don’t know. Ahh! I get loose from here, I’ll break your damn head!”
Charvein, holding his breath, tried again to turn without making any noise in the tight space between the buildings. The butt of his rifle scraped the wooden wall of the saloon.
“Dammit, there’s sumpin’ out there, I tell ya!” Stepenaw said. “I’m gonna look.”
“You’re hearing ghosts,” the Weasel said.
“Ghosts don’t bang on walls and rattle tin.”
Charvein took advantage of a sudden gust of wind to limp toward the alleyway, circulation beginning to return to his tingling foot.
Just as he emerged from between the buildings, the back door of the saloon opened. The wind caught and slammed it, crashing, back against the building.
Charvein’s heart skipped a beat, and he jumped inside a shed that looked to be a combination tool shed and stable.
Stepenaw thrust his head out the back door and looked up and down the alley. Then he stepped out and, gun in hand, walked toward Charvein’s hiding place, poking his head into the outhouse, then into the open back door of the mercantile. The wind gusted, blowing dust and rolling tin cans from a trash pile. Stepenaw shielded his face against the flying grit but continued his search, glancing in the back doorways of vacant buildings. The next building was the shed. Charvein held his breath, clutching his rifle. There was no back door or window for escape.
Stepenaw yanked open the sagging door and thrust his head inside the shadowed interior. Charvein, standing to one side, slammed the butt of his rifle against the big man’s head. Stepenaw fell like a thick tree. Charvein looked out but saw no one. He leapt over the fallen man, sprinted across the alley, and ducked between two buildings. Running around to Center Street in front, he paused to catch his breath and let his heart rate slow.
Charvein moved back toward the saloon, hoping he hadn’t given himself away. The gusting wind, banging a shutter and rattling a tin shed, covered any noise he made. But it was daylight, and he had to remain out of sight. Crouching by the edge of the porch, he watched the saloon. In less than five minutes, Stepenaw staggered out into the main street from between the buildings, a hand to his temple.
“Savage!” he cried. The stiff wind whisked away his words. “WEASEL!” he roared, then flinched at the effort, gripping his head with both hands as he stumbled up onto the wooden walk in front of the saloon.
Weasel came out the door. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“Somebody hit me.”
“Who?”
“I didn’t see him.”
“Probably a ghost.”
“You think a ghost did this?” He pointed at the gash on the side of his head. “Look at that knot!”
“You likely fell and hit your head.”
“You calling me a liar?”
“No, no. But you could be mistaken. We’re alone in this town. Maybe you tripped and banged your head on something and just thought somebody hit you. You’re just stunned and don’t remember things real clear.” Savage, in spite of his assurances, glanced up and down the street.
“Somebody clubbed me, I tell you! We’re not alone here.”
“Okay, okay. Come on inside and let me take a gander at it. We’ll leave off working on Boyd for now and go have a look around, but it’s a waste of time. There’s nobody else here—unless it’s something that ain’t human.”
“You keep laughing at me, I’ll smash you into a grease spot.”
“I ain’t laughing at you,” Weasel said fawningly. “But remember, if it weren’t for me planning the breakout, you wouldn’t even be here now.”
“Yeah,” the big man replied, gingerly touching his bruised head with his fingertips, “but if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have thought of taking that woman hostage. That’s the only reason we got out of Carson City alive.”
“You’re right. Let me have a look at that gash. Your head’s so damned hard, nothing short of a boulder could hurt it.”
The two men disappeared into the saloon.
Charvein caught his breath. He felt relieved Weasel didn’t believe anyone was in Lodestar. He waited a few moments, then cautiously crept away. Staying in the shelter of the buildings, he loped back toward the tunnel where he’d left Sandoval. He slid behind the brush concealing the entrance to the tunnel. The burro and the mule were there, but Sandoval was not. Charvein stepped toward the opening where the tunnel extended into the mountain. Hearing a noise, he flattened himself against the wall. Sandoval emerged from the tunnel carrying several canteens of water slung on straps from his shoulders.
Charvein relaxed. “What’s this? Going on a trip?”
“No, señor. I am only bringing the daily supply of water for us and the animals.” He set the half dozen canteens on the stone-and-dirt floor. “Would you like me to show you where the water is, in case you need to get some yourself?”
“Yes.” Charvein wondered why the man hadn’t carried a light into the dark tunnel.
“This way,” Sandoval said, handing Charvein three large canteens and picking up two empty metal buckets as well.
They had walked in blackness for at least a hundred paces when a faint spot of light appeared in the distance. As they approached, Charvein began to make out an indirect light shining down a vertical shaft from above.
Sandoval stopped, and Charvein moved up beside him and peered down. Three feet below where they stood was a shiny, unruffled surface.
“Clean water,” Sandoval said. “No quicksilver, no dead animals, no dirt except what might blow down from above in a hard dust storm.�
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Charvein wondered how Sandoval knew this for certain. “Do the other shafts have clean water, too?”
“Some do, but it is down deep. The top of this shaft is not at the crest of the mountain like the others are. The water in those other shafts would be difficult to reach because all the lifts are broken or rusted. Those men out there—if they even knew water was down here—would need many ropes tied together to reach it.” He smiled in the dim light. “And I have taken most the buckets to use myself.”
Sandoval put the canteens in a net and tied it closed at the top with a cord. Charvein noted a two-pound chunk of iron in the net to make it sink. The Mexican lowered the net into the water by the slender rope. Air bubbles roiled the surface as it sank and the canteens filled. An ingenious way to fill several containers with narrow necks in a hurry, Charvein thought.
When the bubbles stopped, the two men hauled up the net with its cargo of fresh water and capped the canteens.
“Why don’t you use a torch or lantern in here?” Charvein asked as they felt their way back in the dark.
“I need both hands to carry this,” he replied. “I know this tunnel. Long ago, I ran out the rats. Besides, a light would only alert anyone who might be looking down the shaft, or a stranger waiting to ambush me in my cave.”
Sandoval seemed to have thought of every contingency. But then, what else did he have to do but think? His answer had been cautious but not fearful. Yet, given the fact that Charvein and four other strangers had found their way to this deserted town, maybe Sandoval had good reason to be careful. Except for an occasional trip to town, he was entirely on his own here.
While Sandoval watered his animals, Charvein related what had happened. “I’ll leave them alone for a short time until they decide to make a move,” Charvein concluded, thinking aloud.
“Bueno,” Sandoval said. “So now, let us eat. There are beans left from last night. It would not be wise to make a fire while they are here.”
