The Secret of Lodestar

by Tim Champlin

  Charvein nodded. “I can’t stay here long. I must keep them in sight from a distance.”

  Sandoval dug out the food.

  Around a mouthful of beans a few minutes later, Charvein said, “Why do you stay here alone with your animals?”

  “Because I find them better company than most of my own kind,” he replied.

  Charvein took this as a mild rebuff to mind his own business, so he let the subject drop. He finished his meager meal in silence. Then he sat down on the floor and pulled off his boots. His wrinkled white feet appeared to have been boiled. Broken blisters stung. “You got any socks I can buy?” he asked.

  “No, señor. But these might fit you.” He went to a box along the wall, opened it, and rummaged inside. Returning, he tossed over a pair of moccasins. Charvein ran his hand over soft doeskin of the thigh-high footgear. The soles were made of tough, thick rawhide. “Apache n’deh b’keh. How did you come by these?”

  “I have not always lived in Lodestar,” Sandoval said.

  Charvein tugged the moccasins on and stood up, then turned down the tops, tying them just below his knees. He immediately reveled in the comfort. “Don’t need any socks with these. How much?”

  Sandoval frowned. “This is not a store, señor. Those are a gift from me to you.”

  “In addition to saving my life and giving me food and water, you are taking care to be sure my feet are not ruined,” Charvein marveled.

  “The best kind of footgear for the desert.”

  A strange man, but generous. “You did not make these yourself?”

  “Those required the skill and patience of a Mimbreno squaw.”

  “Thanks. These feel much better than those worn-out boots.” He walked a few steps. “They make no noise, and they’re light and comfortable.” He picked up a full canteen and took a long drink. He hoped Sandoval was right about this cold water not containing any dangerous chemicals. It didn’t even taste of rust, as he had half expected. “Mind if I take this with me?”

  Sandoval gestured at the haul they’d just made. “There is plenty more.”

  Charvein turned to leave, then came back and propped his rifle against the wall. “I have my six-gun and knife, if I need them. Less weight to carry.”

  “When will you return?”

  “By dark, or sooner, depending on what they do.” He hesitated, not wanting to sound as if he were giving orders to his benefactor. “We are downwind of those men and their horses and mules, so your animals will catch their scent.”

  “I will keep them quiet. Vaya.”

  Charvein slipped outside, peeked through the thick brush to be sure he was in the clear, then turned away from town and skirted the bulge of the hill before he began to ascend the steeper side of the mountain, toward the hoisting works at the summit. If these men couldn’t find the gold, their next move, obviously, would be to search for water.

  The climb was steeper and more difficult than he’d expected. He was glad he’d elected to leave his rifle behind, since he had to use both hands to grasp low-growing mesquite and sage to help pull himself up, his moccasins slipping in the loose, rocky soil, the full canteen banging against his side. Twice he paused for breath before reaching the top.

  Crawling the last few yards over the lip of the summit, he spotted the derelict tin sheds housing the hoisting works of four mines, stretching along the spiny crest of the mountain range. Apparently, rich veins of ore had been discovered below the unpromising Nevada mountain.

  He got to his feet. The prevailing west wind brought the sound of voices. How close? He had only enough time to scrabble back and flatten himself in a thick patch of mesquite before Stepenaw and Savage trudged over the crest about thirty yards away. They had come up a more gradual slope and didn’t have to crawl. Nevertheless, they were puffing and blowing from their climb and failed to look in his direction.

  “We’ll cut you loose,” Weasel said to Boyd who was being led by a loop of rope around his neck, “if you promise not to give us any trouble.”

  Boyd’s hands were still tied in front of him.

  “How the hell can I give you trouble?” Boyd snarled. “You got my guns.” He took a deep breath. “Okay, I promise.”

  Weasel untied Boyd’s hands. With obvious relief, Boyd then slid the loop off over his head.

  “You ain’t holding no grudges, now, are ya? After what the big man done?” Weasel asked.

  “Anything I got against you boys, we can settle later,” Boyd said, rubbing his wrists. “Right now, we’re all in the same fix. If we don’t find water pretty quick, we’ll be leaving our bones in Lodestar.” He wiped a sleeve across his mouth, then spat. “Nothing but cotton,” he said.

  Charvein, lying concealed by the thick patch of mesquite, wondered where their female hostage was. He pictured her still trussed up in the saloon below. He wondered if they’d given her even a taste of sarsaparilla to wet her mouth. She had to be as thirsty as they were.

  “Let’s get to lookin’ down these shafts,” Weasel said.

  “Yeah,” Boyd said. “I’d forgot till an hour ago these mines flooded when they dug to groundwater. Put’em outta business and made Lodestar a ghost town within a year.”

  “The water must still be down there, like in a well,” Stepenaw said. “Don’t reckon it’s drained off anywhere.” A makeshift bandage was wrapped around the big man’s head under his hat.

  Charvein recalled how hard he’d popped that head with the butt of his rifle and wondered that Stepenaw was still walking around.

  “Well, Mother Nature mighta sucked it back up’tween the rocks.”

  “Crap!” Stepenaw said. “Let’s go look.”

  They trooped toward the nearest tin shed. Rusted machinery showed through where a couple of the tin sides had blown off.

  Charvein noted that the two escapees were armed with handguns, but they had not hauled Boyd’s big Sharps up the steep hill. If it came to a fight, it would be his one Colt and the element of surprise against their handguns and sense of desperation.

  Even after the men were inside what was left of the tin shed, they were still within sight, and Charvein couldn’t creep away without being noticed. He could hear them talking and caught a word here and there as they tried to see down into the shaft.

  “. . . too dark,” Stepenaw said.

  “Try… chunk o’ iron,” Weasel said.

  A few seconds of silence.

  “Thought I heard a splash,” Boyd said.

  “How the hell we gonna get it? Must be two hundred feet down.”

  They fell to discussing how long their lariats were if all strung together.

  Charvein was only half-listening as he cast about for a way to escape unseen. Somehow, he had to distract their attention. If they came back out of the shed, they’d walk within twenty yards of where he lay. He looked around on the rocky ground and selected a fist-size rock. The small shed attached to the rear had probably served as the office for the mine superintendent. While the three clustered at the hoist near the shaft, their backs to him, he drew his legs up under him in a crouch, then stood. Shrugging his shoulders, he limbered up his arm, wound up, and heaved the rock in a high arc at the tiny adjoining tin shed nearly fifty yards away.

  SIX

  Charvein flattened himself within the patch of mesquite a second before the rock clattered onto the sloping tin roof. It hit and bounced, rolling off the back with a thunderous racket.

  Startled, the three men froze. Stepenaw and Savage whipped out their pistols.

  Two seconds of silence. “What the hell was that?” Savage said.

  “I told you we weren’t alone here,” Stepenaw said. “I told you.”

  “Shut up and listen,” Weasel snapped.

  Silence except for the wind.

  Charvein held his breath.

  “Reckon we better find out if that was some wild critter,” Savage said, taking a step forward.

  Stepenaw waved his gun at Boyd. “You first.”

&
nbsp; “Probably something blew off the top of this dilapidated shed,” Boyd said calmly, taking the lead at gunpoint.

  The three cautiously advanced on the closed door. Stepenaw held up a hand, and they paused. The big man kicked a booted heel against the dried wooden door. It slammed open into an attached rear office.

  The instant it crashed inward off its frame, Charvein leapt to his feet and dashed toward the crest of the hill. He was downwind, and the outlaws’ attention was focused away from him. Keeping an eye on the trio until the last second, he jumped over the edge out of sight, bounding nimbly down the steep slope, moccasin-clad feet bouncing from soft ground to rock as fast as his eyes could pick up the terrain below. Making no more noise than a mountain goat, he traversed the incline and reached the bottom in less than a minute.

  Glancing back once, he sprinted toward the shelter of the nearest building at the lower end of Center Street, where he halted, panting, to be sure he hadn’t been observed. Now that they knew water existed in the bottom of the shaft, they’d be busy devising a way to reach it. They’d fail to discover the source of the diverting noise, which would further baffle them. Hopefully, it would start another argument.

  Breathing heavily, Charvein jogged up Center Street toward the Red Horse Saloon, keeping close to the buildings, the false fronts of which shielded him from sight of the hill behind. This might be his only chance to free the woman hostage. Cat-footing up onto the boardwalk, he carefully peered around the open doorway. At first, he saw no one and assumed they had relocated her. But then a movement across the room caught his eye. The woman lay on the floor at the end of the bar, bound hand and foot to the brass foot rail.

  She was not gagged, and she opened her mouth as she saw him. But no sound issued from it. He must have been a sight, striding in, a sunburned wraith out of the sandy wastes of the Nevada desert, wild hair, a week of stubble on his lean cheeks, dirty clothes, gun and knife at his belt, wearing knee-high Apache moccasins.

  He put a finger to his lips to signal quiet as he padded to her side and slipped out his belt knife to slice her ropes and free her.

  “Water,” she gasped, touching the canteen that still swung at his shoulder.

  He slipped it loose and popped out the cork for her.

  Trembling, she grasped it with both hands and began to drink, sloshing it down the front of her torn dress in her haste.

  A few seconds later, she paused to get her breath, looking up at him with big eyes. Her white wrists and arms were scraped raw where she’d struggled against her ropes. She gulped down more water.

  “Easy!” he said, taking the canteen gently, but firmly, from her. “Let that settle. There’s plenty more.”

  “Thought I was going to die,” she whispered hoarsely, licking her lips. “Never been so thirsty.”

  “Can you stand?” he asked quietly, reaching down to help her to her feet. She leaned weakly against the bar. “They would have killed me,” she said, haltingly, as if learning to talk again after her mouth and throat were paralyzed.

  “Maybe from neglect,” Charvein said. “But not intentionally. You were their insurance.”

  She looked fearfully toward the door.

  “You’re right,” Charvein said, interpreting her look. “Let’s get out of here. They could be back any minute for their lariats.”

  “Why?”

  “They found water at the bottom of a deep shaft and have to figure out a way to get at it. If you’re still their prisoner, they might lower you down on one of those rusty cables with a water bag to bring it up for them.” He took her by the elbow and guided her toward the back door. She stumbled and would have fallen had he not caught her around the waist.

  “My foot’s asleep,” she explained.

  He was glad it wasn’t just general weakness; if worse came to worst, she’d have to be able to move quickly on her own.

  He’d expected her to be full of questions about him, or where he’d come from, but such was not the case. It was almost as if she’d been expecting him—a dashing prince who was late for their rendezvous.

  “Did they leave any weapons close by?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Don’t think so.”

  “What about that long Sharps rifle Boyd had?”

  She looked blank.

  “Never mind. Let’s go.”

  They went quickly into the alleyway, and he hurried her along toward the lower end of town, planning to leave her in Sandoval’s care.

  Suddenly he had another thought. “Wait right here,” he said, thrusting her inside a handy privy.

  “But I don’t have to use this,” she said, seemingly more lively as the water worked its restorative power.

  “Just hide there a minute,” he said, pushing the door shut.

  He stopped to listen. But the sound he heard was the low whinny of a thirsty horse tied in front of the saloon. He hoped it was only thirst as he dashed back to the saloon. Good; no one in sight, but he had to hurry. He snatched up the fragments of rope he’d sliced from the woman’s arms and legs. Let them wonder some more. The only evidence of his presence were a couple of distinguishable moccasin prints in a patch of undisturbed dust, and some dark spots of spilled canteen water on the dry boards. Let them think Indians were here—Indians with water. That oughta set their teeth on edge. He grinned.

  “. . . by God, you’re on about that again…” The sound of Boyd’s approaching voice startled him. He made for the back door quickly with the fragments of rope. Loping down the alley, he caught a glimpse of the three men trudging up the main street. Just as he’d thought, they were returning without trying to use the abandoned mine cable that lay strewn about on the summit.

  He jerked open the privy door and grabbed the woman’s arm, then tossed the pieces of cut rope down one of the long unused toilet holes.

  They had to hurry now. There’d be an uproar when the men discovered her missing. Her circulation apparently restored, she had no trouble keeping up with him, even in her high-top shoes with the square, elevated heels. Her long dress was ripped up the middle to her waist, and more than a foot of material had been torn off the hem.

  When they passed two more buildings, he pulled her to one side, and they dodged between Lawson’s Mercantile and the Gold Nugget Assay office. He had to think one jump ahead of the outlaws. They’d probably come out the back door of the saloon. He didn’t want to be in full view in the alley.

  They held up, breathing hard, at the edge of the boardwalk on Center Street. The horses and mules still stood in front of the Red Horse Saloon, but there was no sign of the outlaws. Should they chance it in the street or on the boardwalk? If one of the men happened to step out front—Charvein swallowed—he and the girl would be easy targets. But they couldn’t just wait here.

  No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than he heard a shout and muffled cursing from the direction of the saloon. Time to go. It was now or never.

  Before he could move, Stepenaw and Boyd burst out the front of the saloon and started down the middle of the street toward them. Boyd was arguing with the big man, who paid no attention.

  “If you see her, don’t shoot!” came a yell from Weasel in the alley. “We gotta take her alive. She ain’t no good to us dead.”

  For some reason, they were making no effort to be quiet. Perhaps it was a ploy to make her panic and run out of hiding, like flushing quail. Why were they coming this direction? She could just as easily have escaped down the street the other way. No time to wonder about that. He and the girl had to hide—quickly. If only it were night. But it wasn’t.

  “Inside!” he whispered, shoving her ahead of him through the partially open door into the cluttered assay office. Where to hide? Behind the counter until the outlaws passed? No. If the trio decided to search the individual buildings, it would be all up with him unless he could somehow hold them off with his Colt. The men could easily see the scuff marks in the years of dust on the floor. He looked about quickly and stuck his head into
the adjacent office behind the front counter. A desk, two chairs, a rotted curtain falling down from the window, papers scattered around on the floor—between the desk and the rear window, a faded red carpet covered an eight-foot-by-four-foot space of floor.

  He sprang to the dirty window to scan the alley for the searchers, but caught his toe on the rug, nearly falling through the glass. Under the corner of the tacked rug his toe had jerked loose was an iron ring imbedded in the floor. He grabbed it and pulled. A heavy trapdoor, three feet by three came up on groaning hinges, further popping the tacks. Through the cobwebs, he could see only two or three steps leading down into the darkness.

  He hesitated. Audible voices now, coming closer.

  “Well, it’s this or fight,” Charvein said in a low voice.

  She nodded, eyes big.

  “Wait.” He yanked the curtain down and used it to smudge out the dusty tracks in the outer office, backing into where they stood. They’d see a big spot of cleaner floor, but at least not the same tracks as in the saloon. He tossed the curtain into a corner. “Better you go first,” he whispered, “so I can straighten this rug over the trapdoor. We shouldn’t have to be down there more than a few minutes,” he added, trying to allay her look of alarm.

  Even if he’d left no tracks, there were obvious signs of the coating of dust being disturbed—evidence somebody had recently been here. With any luck, the three men wouldn’t even come inside the assay office. He’d been lucky so far; maybe his luck would hold.

  He handed her down the steps, then followed, pivoting the trapdoor on its hinges and easing it down as he reached around to pull the rug back into place over it. The tacks still held the rug at the other end, so it was no trouble to get it placed correctly.

  Thump! He let the heavy door fall into place. Suffocating darkness closed over them.

  SEVEN

  He felt the woman clutching his arm tighter than necessary. They were standing at the bottom of the hole, only five steps from the top. The cellar—if that’s what it was—was not more than six feet deep. Not even the tiniest sliver of light leaked through the solid floor. The air was stale. What was the purpose of this underground place—a fruit cellar, perhaps? No. Not beneath an assay office. Could be a secure and secret storage vault for valuable samples, in lieu of an office safe. What kind of town had this Lodestar been that the office required such a hiding place? He kept his mind busy to avoid thinking of the musty air, the spiders, cockroaches, and any other vermin down here with him.