by Tim Champlin
EIGHT
Charvein swallowed hard and struggled to get a grip on his emotions. There had to be an explanation for the sound. “I’ll check it out,” he said, snatching his Colt Lightning pump from where it leaned against the wall. “This time I’ll take more firepower.” He checked to make sure the magazine was full. “If I’m not back by daylight, come looking.”
“Daylight?” Lucy said. “It’s still two hours till dark.”
“I plan to be back well before the west wind begins to howl. Oh, one more thing…” He selected a full canteen from the several full containers on the floor. “Save me a bite of supper.” He grinned, then faded into the bosque that screened the entrance. He paused outside, waiting for the sound to come again. It did—this time a longer, more drawn out shriek than before. Somehow, it didn’t strike Charvein as a natural sound. Possibly two mountain lions fighting? Hunting cats were silent. A couple of short squeals, and he got closer to figuring the direction—somewhere above and to the west of where he stood. Would he have to scale that mountain again?
Then the sound stopped. He skirted the base of the mountain, searching for a less severe incline. Ten minutes later, he discovered a wagon road that wound in a gradual ascent. He followed the overgrown, rutted road. The chilling feline squalling had stopped. If it was a large cat, it had apparently moved on.
The sun’s rays slanted long across the parched earth. A warm, westerly breeze washed over him. He labored up the wagon road, his thighs burning from exertion. The wind dried his sweaty shirt and brow.
He paused for breath near the summit. The headframes of two mines came into view. The nearest one suddenly produced the nerve-chilling shriek. Charvein’s heart jumped, and he dove to the ground, rifle at the ready. The noise died, then came again in two short bursts. He listened. It sounded mechanical. Seeing nothing, he climbed to his feet and crept forward, staying out of sight behind a huge pile of spoil. Fifty yards away stood the tin-sided building he’d seen earlier. Through gaps in the ruined structure, he saw the three outlaws working. The breeze brought indistinct voices. Their horses and mules were picketed nearby.
Then he saw the source of the screeching noise—a rusty pulley through which the men had rigged a thin cable. The greaseless sheave squalled in protest when forced to work after years of idleness. Evidently, they’d managed to find empty buckets and enough cable to reach the water in the deep shaft. The end of the cable was attached to the saddle on one of the pack mules.
Charvein felt a sense of relief, more for the animals than for the men. Once the outlaws had recovered from their thirst, they’d be harder to deal with.
He was impatient for the sun to dip behind the distant mountains; its rays shone directly into his eyes. He uncorked his canteen for a long drink and considered his next move. Now that water was no longer their main concern, the outlaws would turn their attention to finding food, then the gold. That hoard of precious metal had become the great mystery. Boyd must have thought it was hidden wherever he and his partners had stashed it. Yet it was no longer there. Charvein couldn’t begin to guess where it had gone. He was not familiar with Lodestar or the area surrounding it. Had Boyd actually found the ingots and moved them to another hiding place so he could have it all? That would be consistent with his character. But had Boyd known the whereabouts, he likely would have revealed it under the tortured grilling administered by his former friends. Charvein concluded that Boyd was just as baffled by the gold’s disappearance as the others.
Marc moved to the other side of the pile of spoil to get a better view of what the men were doing, since the noise and the voices had stopped. The animals still cropped the sparse vegetation, but the squealing pulley hung idle, and he saw no sign of the three men. He squinted into the setting sun.
“Hold it right there, mister!” came a sharp command.
Blinded by the sun, Charvein leapt to his right. Pumping a round into the chamber of his rifle, he fired. A scream of pain. A slug kicked up dirt inches from Charvein’s foot. He couldn’t see his assailant. Firing again, he dove for cover behind the pile. Blinking rapidly didn’t clear the orange disks from his vision.
A bullet sang past his ear. He fired twice more as fast as he could pump the slide.
“Sumbitch shot me!” Weasel screamed.
“You ain’t hit too bad or you couldn’t yell that loud,” Stepenaw’s voice said. “Let’s get him alive.”
The clatter of boots running over rocks.
“I told you that warn’t no ghost. Ghosts don’t shoot real bullets.”
“Shut up and help me!” Weasel screamed.
Charvein’s sight was clearing, and he looked frantically for cover. He still had the pile of spoil between himself and the three. He fired around the edge twice more, trying to keep from exposing himself. His slugs slammed the side of the tin shed.
“Get down!”
While he had them ducking and Weasel wounded, Charvein bounded away, sprinting back down the wagon road. Within seconds, the bulge of the hill was protecting his back. His cover was blown, but he couldn’t worry about that now.
Panting, he slipped and slid down the hill. In case they pursued, he didn’t want to lead them to Sandoval and Lucy. If he could stay out of sight, they’d never track him over this rocky soil, especially with darkness coming on. He ducked and dodged, and made for a deep, narrow canyon choked with boulders where he could pick them off from a fortified position. Slipping into a cleft between the boulders, he breathed heavily while scanning the hillside. No one in sight. He proceeded to reload the rifle from his cartridge belt.
After several minutes he caught his breath, convinced he’d not misjudged these men. They had neither the courage nor the motivation to hunt him down. They didn’t know who he was or why he was here. Even Boyd, who’d ambushed him, didn’t know who he was. All they knew was that someone had taken their hostage, slugged Stepenaw, and left moccasin tracks. He had to assume Weasel had gotten a look at him just now, but Charvein had made him pay, clipping the man with a blind, lucky shot.
They now realized he was no ghost, that he was a stranger spying on them—that they’d have no peace until he was eliminated. Charvein smiled to himself. They were probably more confused than ever. Well, he’d keep them that way as long as he had his wits and weapons about him.
He eased out of the cleft and sat down with his back against a warm boulder, positioned where he could still see up the darkening hill. Sandoval had surely heard the shots, and Charvein hoped the man had sense enough not to come looking to see if he was in trouble.
Dusk grayed the shadowed canyon, pulling the blanket of another night over Lodestar. Nature continued to do what she’d always done—bake this remote corner of the planet with unforgiving sun, then blow dust over it by night.
As Sandoval had predicted, the night wind began to pick up. Although he couldn’t feel it in his protected position, Charvein could hear it gusting across the hilltops above.
How bad was Weasel wounded? Charvein pictured the men working to fill their water containers before windy darkness closed down their operation and they had to get their animals to cover off the hilltop. They probably considered Charvein only a minor distraction they’d deal with later.
Finally deciding he was safe for the time being, Marc worked his way out of the rocks into the sandy wash in the bottom of the canyon. Greasewood and clumps of mesquite choked the canyon floor where rare runoff provided enough underground moisture for these desert plants to gain a foothold. The silence contrasted with the moaning wind above. He jogged along in the gathering dusk, planning to make a wide circle around the base of the mountain back to Sandoval’s hiding place.
To avoid leaving footprints in the sand, he jumped from rock to rock. Glancing down at the last second as his right foot descended, he saw the thick body of a rattler coiled on a flat rock. He twisted in the air to avoid stepping on the snake, but too late. His weight landed on the rattler. With blurring speed, the head struck. Falling
sideways, Charvein yanked his Colt and fired in one smooth motion. A sharp pain shot through his ankle as he came down awkwardly. The side of his head banged a boulder, shooting a spangle of lights across his vision before he blacked out.
NINE
Lucinda Barkley was finally beginning to feel human again. The terror of her abduction at gunpoint from the warden’s office in Carson City, then the long, brutal horseback ride into the desert with little water and her hands bound to the saddle horn, followed by the fearful, suffocating dust storm—the whole nightmarish ordeal had caused her to despair. Exhausted, dehydrated, and benumbed, she’d nearly resigned herself to death by the time she and her captors had reached this ghost town.
Sitting atop a pile of blankets in Sandoval’s cavern, she sipped at a canteen while she smelled the delicious aroma of cooking beans and meat. She was so dried out she didn’t think her body could absorb enough water. Never again would she scorn water as the meanest of drinks. What had happened to her was hardly short of a miracle, she reflected. A stranger had appeared from nowhere and rescued her. When this man, who called himself Marc Charvein, had entered the saloon, he looked rougher than any of the others, and she feared some dark, bearded savage in high moccasins had come to slit her throat.
Perhaps it was her schooling in literature of the Middle Ages and the Renaissance that caused her to be so beguiled by European troubadours, wandering minstrels, the romantic intrigues of the French royal courts. Her head was full of poetic images of masked balls and handsome strangers who sang for their supper. Thus, it was against this backdrop that she compared her present adventures. She quickly put out of her mind the recent modern brutalities and hardships and pictured herself as a fair maiden in distress who’d been rescued by a handsome knight. In anticipation of returning home and regaling her friends with lurid tales of this experience, she polished details of the abduction, the ride, the hardships, the rescue. In actuality, with a shave and a bath, Marc Charvein would be quite handsome and could pass for a knight of centuries past. He even had a French name. She sighed, put her head down, and leaned forward on her knees. Oh well, perhaps she’d find the man of her dreams someday. She’d even settle for the man of someone else’s dreams, if necessary. That’s the way it worked in the French courts of old. Employment in Carson City was not her goal; San Francisco was, then maybe Paris. Time was flying, and she was a spinster at twenty-five.
She was still weak, but her appetite had returned, and she watched the Mexican move silently about the cavern, preparing food. She wondered about him. She’d spoken only a few words since her rescue, concentrating on drinking, obeying orders, and recovering her strength. This Sandoval said even less. What was he doing out here by himself in this deserted town? Her curiosity burned to know his story.
Sandoval stirred the pot that was imbedded in a layer of glowing coals at the entrance of the cavern. Then he scooped out a large spoonful of bacon and beans, folded a tortilla onto it, and handed the tin plate and spoon to her.
“Thank you.” Her stomach growled at the aroma. She hadn’t tasted food in nearly two days and nights.
Sandoval filled a plate for himself but suddenly stopped and cocked his head to one side. Setting his plate on the ground, he slid his long, open-top Colt from under his poncho and disappeared outside into the thick mesquite.
Sudden alarm lanced through Lucy’s stomach. What was that noise? Several explosions?
A minute later, Sandoval returned, stony faced. His hooded eyes were fathomless. A slight flare of nostrils in his aquiline nose gave her the only clue to his emotion.
“What is it?” she ventured.
“Gunshots.”
She waited for him to go on, and he finally said, “Several shots. Up the mountain. Not all the same gun.”
She felt her eyes widening, her stomach tensing. What had happened? Was Marc in a fight with those men? Was he injured or—God forbid— killed? She set her food on the ground beside her.
Sandoval padded to the mouth of the cave again and paused alertly.
“Go see about him,” she urged. “Don’t worry about me. Just leave me one of your guns.” She was proud of the words that seemed to flow out of her without reflection. She was indeed growing braver and more self-confident as a result of this whole ordeal.
It was the first time she’d seen any indecision on the part of this dark-skinned man. He looked at her, then back toward the entrance. Finally, he said, “If he has not returned by sunset, I will go look.” He sat, cross-legged, and began to eat.
Lucy resumed her meal, not quite as hungry as before. An aura of danger and death was their silent supper companion.
When they finished eating, she heard a single, sharp report, this time much closer than the previous shots.
“A pistol,” Sandoval said, getting up. “It is dusk. I will go see.” His look seemed to plead for her understanding.
“I’ll be fine,” she repeated, forcing a smile. “I won’t be caught unawares again,” she added, thinking of her sudden capture during the prison break. She glanced toward the Henry rifle leaning against the wall.
Sandoval retrieved the rifle, then pulled his cartridge-conversion Colt and handed it to her, butt first. “This shoots true,” he said. “Use it if anyone comes in besides me or Charvein. Just cock the hammer here and pull the trigger.”
“I know how to use it,” she said. Her father had made certain she was familiar with firearms before she sought a clerical job at the prison. He’d even bought her a derringer, but she’d neglected to carry it on that fateful day of the breakout.
Sandoval paused at the entrance and looked back. In the fading light, his obsidian eyes regarded her with what appeared to be more regret than concern. “Back soon.”
One second he was there, and the next he was gone, and an oppressive, fearful silence reigned. She gripped the Colt, took a canteen, and moved back into the dark tunnel.
Sandoval knew Lodestar and the mountains that flanked it on the southwest side. Through the gathering dusk, he made his way quickly across the sloping flank of the mountain, eyes and ears keen as a lobo’s, tracing the sound of the last shot he’d heard. He was certain it had come from a canyon just over a hundred paces from his cavern. He often hunted rabbits and other small game there and knew the area well. An uneasy feeling gripped him, and he’d long ago learned to trust his instincts. He crept forward past the old roadway to see down into the narrow defile, and dropped prone at the sight of two moving figures. Voices mumbled. Sandoval bellied forward and heard grunting as if the men were engaged in some kind of heavy work.
“That’s it. Heave!”
“Hang on. Hang on. Put it down. I ain’t got a good grip.”
What were they carrying? A big sack of something heavy, it appeared. Should he fire and scare them off? Too dark to tell if it was two or three. He thought two. Where was the third? Better not shoot, or the third man, who was likely standing lookout, could gun him down.
“Okay, I got his feet.”
With a start, Sandoval realized it was a body they were lugging. It had to be Charvein. If he was dead, were they hauling him to hide the body? But he might not be dead—only wounded. Darkness had snuffed Sandoval’s chances of ambushing them successfully. He might accidentally hit Charvein. He’d also expose himself to return fire.
He could hear, more than see, the men stagger up the slope with their burden.
“Come on, the mule’s only a little way,” a voice said.
Sandoval rolled to his feet and moved away, scuffing small rocks as he did so, but the two workers were so absorbed in their task, they apparently didn’t hear the stones rattling down the hill. The wind was beginning to gust.
He didn’t want to leave Lucy alone too long, especially with the third man unaccounted for. He’d follow the sound in the night to see if the men were camping on the summit, near the source of their water. Then he’d return. The night wind he’d predicted tore at his long hair and peppered his eyes with grit as
he crept cautiously up the old mining road, forty yards behind the men and the mule bearing the body of his new, and maybe late, friend.
TEN
Marc Charvein swam up from the depths of oblivion to the mumble of voices. He had no idea where he was or what had happened. While consciousness returned, he kept his eyes closed. The voices were familiar but were not those of Sandoval and Lucy. He recognized the nasal whine of Weasel. And, as the disjointed pieces of memory dropped into place, he knew he was in trouble. His stomach tightened, and he felt nauseous from the dull pain in his head. Lying on his back, he opened his eyes. Flickering firelight played across a rough rock ceiling ten feet above. Without moving his head, he shifted his glance toward the voices, but the sudden movement caused a sharp stab of pain behind his eyeballs. He closed his eyes, remained motionless, and listened.
“A waste of time and trouble haulin’ him all the way here,” Weasel said.
“You didn’t do none o’ the work,” Stepenaw replied.
“You’re takin’ better care of him than you are of me.”
Charvein imperceptibly moved his arms and legs—just enough to find out if he was bound. He wasn’t. How long had he been out? It was dark outside. He pressed his right arm against his side. As he’d expected, his gunbelt was missing. The last thing he remembered was bounding down the canyon, leaping from rock to rock. Then what? The snake. He’d tried to avoid landing on a coiled rattler. Twisting sideways, he’d lost his balance. As he went down, he got off a snap shot at the snake. Then he blacked out. Had the fangs struck him in the leg? He went cold with dread at the idea, but dared not move to check himself. He blocked out the thought and focused on the nearby conversation.
“. . . griping all the time,” Stepenaw was saying. “Worse than that woman we had with us.”
