The Secret of Lodestar

by Tim Champlin

  “His bullet busted my damn arm!”

  “Too bad it wasn’t your flappin’ jaw.”

  Weasel muttered something, then said, “Better be a damned good reason you’re treatin’ him like an invited guest.”

  “There is,” Stepenaw said. “See those moccasins he’s wearing? He’s the one took our hostage, so now we got him for a replacement.”

  “If he lives, that is,” a third voice said.

  After a moment, Charvein realized it was Boyd speaking.

  “If he don’t wake up, then he’s food for the buzzards,” Stepenaw said.

  Charvein could hear the big man moving around. He peeked through his eyelashes and saw sparks swirling upward as someone stirred the campfire.

  “Reckon we oughta see to him. He ain’t no good to us dead,” Stepenaw said.

  “Gawd! This arm o’ mine pains me. Loosen this wrap some; I think there ain’t no blood getting to my fingers.”

  Charvein sensed someone approaching.

  “You sumbitch!”

  Charvein gasped as a boot toe caught him in the ribs. It took all the willpower he had not to move or cry out.

  “Here, now!” Stepenaw thundered. “Leave him be. He’s our insurance. If you can’t take a little pain, you should never’ve joined up with us in the first place.”

  “I want to find out who he is,” Boyd said. “He sure as hell looks familiar somehow. I’ve seen that face somewhere lately.”

  Charvein wondered how long he should fake unconsciousness. He’d almost given himself away when Weasel kicked him. He wasn’t afraid of being in the hands of the enemy as much as he feared the effects of the serpent’s fangs. Was poison coursing through his body even now? But he felt no numbness or pain. The men would surely have mentioned it—unless they’d heard his shot and come upon him when he was already out cold, and hadn’t bothered to identify his injuries.

  “Well, I reckon this flesh-and-blood man proves there’s no ghost in this town, like you two believed.” Boyd snorted a laugh.

  “There’s lots of things in this world you don’t know nothing about,” Weasel shot back. “Lots o’ things nobody understands. There’s a spirit world out there we can’t see.”

  Boyd chuckled, which seemed to infuriate Weasel.

  “The Injuns live close to the land and animals, and they know about such things!” he ranted.

  “You reckon this fella’s Injun?” Stepenaw wondered. “He’s wearing them moccasins. They look to be Apache.”

  “See that growth of whiskers?” Boyd said. “He ain’t no Indian. If anything, he’s a breed. Reckon most of that dark skin is from sun and dirt.”

  Charvein identified the pain in his head as radiating from one very sore spot high on his left temple.

  “I’m starved. Let’s eat,” Stepenaw said.

  Charvein sniffed the aroma of roasting meat and his stomach growled. Maybe it was time to quit faking unconsciousness. He opened his eyes again. Acrid smoke was drifting near the ceiling, stirred by a breeze from the mouth of the cave. He moved and rolled over on his side, with a groan.

  “Well, he’s back to life,” Stepenaw said.

  A red, unshaven face appeared in Charvein’s vision. He pushed himself to a sitting position, and closed his eyes while a wave of dizziness passed. He felt hung over and remembered why he’d quit drinking ten years ago. He got to one knee then, unsteadily, to his feet.

  “Don’t try nuthin’,” Stepenaw said, taking a step back and drawing his Colt.

  “He’s not armed, remember?” Boyd said.

  “Don’t matter. He’s a slick one.”

  “You still think he’s some kind of ghost, don’t you?” Boyd chuckled. “Does a spirit bleed? Look at that cut on his head.”

  Charvein instinctively touched his head with his fingertips. A tender, walnut-size lump, with crusty blood. The muzziness he felt must be the result of a mild concussion, he guessed. He hoped his skull wasn’t cracked. “Where’re my guns?”

  “Unloaded and stashed safely away,” Boyd replied. “Anybody who can blast the head off a rattlesnake had best not be playing with loaded guns. Somebody might get hurt. And that somebody might be us.” He gave a tight smile as his eyes squinted at Charvein through the smoke. “Reckon your head’s a mite harder than that boulder,” Boyd went on. “Figured you for a goner when we first gathered you up.”

  “Didn’t mean you boys no harm,” Charvein said, trying the stupid, innocent, conciliatory approach first.

  “Like hell!” Weasel snapped, holding his forearm.

  “I was trying to get a look at you up at that old mine,” Charvein continued, “but the sun got in my eyes. Thought you was about to blast me, so I let loose. Instinct. Couldn’t even see what I was shooting at.”

  “That story won’t wash, mister,” Stepenaw growled, still holding his Colt level. He thumbed back the hammer, as if expecting Charvein to spring at him.

  “Did the snake get me?” Charvein asked to change the subject. He ran both hands down his pants legs.

  “Watch it!” Weasel warned. “He could have a hideout gun in the tops of them moccasins.”

  “I searched him,” Boyd said. “He’s clean.”

  Charvein raised his hands away from the moccasins.

  “You’d know it by now if that rattler got you,” Boyd said. “You been out a good two hours.”

  “Where are we, anyway?” Charvein asked.

  “One of the caves in Nightwind Canyon,” Boyd said.

  For the first time, Charvein became aware of the wind buffeting the small bushes just outside the cave entrance. An eerie, undulating howling came from without, like someone blowing into the neck of an empty bottle, only a thousand times louder.

  “Don’t reckon it’s called ‘Nightwind Canyon’ for nothing,” Charvein said. “Sounds rough out there.” He took a deep breath and then scrubbed a hand over the stubble on his cheeks. “I appreciate you boys looking after me, but I’m feeling some better now, so I won’t trouble you no further. I’ll just take my guns and be on my way.”

  “You ain’t going nowhere, mister; we ain’t done with you,” Stepenaw said. “Just have a set-down over there by the wall and get comfortable,’cause I got some questions I want answered.” He motioned with the Colt.

  “Wish you’d let the hammer down on that thing nice and easy,” Charvein held up both palms toward the outlaw. “I’d hate for it to go off, accidental-like.”

  “So would I,’cause if it goes off it won’t be no accident.” The big man attempted a grin, showing tobacco-stained teeth.

  Charvein eased himself to the hard floor and leaned his back against the rock wall, glancing longingly at the irregular cave entrance several yards away. It might have been a mile away. Should he continue to play dumb? Were these men killers as well as armed robbers and escapees? He’d have to be cagey. Desperate men do desperate things, and he assumed they were capable of murder. He’d try to placate them, and lie his way out of this. They might be gullible enough to believe some cock-and-bull story made up on the moment and just let him go as harmless. Trouble was, he had no practice lying, never having had a poker face. Besides, if they needed a hostage in case of pursuit, they’d hold him prisoner regardless.

  “Time for talk after we eat,” Boyd said, a little too amiably. “Since you supplied the vittles, you want a bite?”

  It was then Charvein realized that the small chunks of white meat they’d spitted on sticks over the fire were roasting rattlesnake.

  He shook his head slowly. “Feeling a bit sick just now from this knock on the head,” he said, truthfully. If they were eating the snake he’d shot, and nothing else, they must be short of grub. What would be their next move, come daylight? “As long as you’re being so hospitable, I could use some of that coffee, though. Might ease this headache.”

  “I’ll give you a goddamned headache!” Weasel muttered, continuing to glare at him.

  Boyd poured a tin cup of steaming coffee and handed it to
Charvein.

  The men used their belt knives to spear and eat the hot bites of rattlesnake.

  In the few minutes of silence as supper proceeded, Charvein sipped the bitter brew and listened to the night wind howl its strange lament. Sandoval had said Nightwind Canyon was less than a mile from town. But which direction? West or southwest, Charvein thought. Even if he could somehow slip outside into the darkness, he didn’t know which way to run or dodge to elude pursuit. Just now, he didn’t feel like trying a break. Most likely get shot for his trouble. Weasel, especially, would have no compunction about pumping a bullet into his hide—if he got a chance. For the moment, Charvein concentrated on devising a cover story to explain who he was and how he happened to be here. It had to sound convincing. Even if they didn’t believe him, he’d keep up his bluff and stick to his story.

  Boyd finished the last of his snake and wiped his fingers on his trousers as he sat cross-legged on the stone floor. “Now, then, why don’t you tell us about yourself, mister, and why you’re in Lodestar.” His voice was civil, almost courteous, but Charvein recalled the .50-caliber slugs that had killed his horse and nearly himself. This man was capable of anything and could afford to be civil; he was in total control. A strange situation. The two escapees had tortured Boyd. But later, in their common need for water, had called a truce and given him back his pistol but apparently not the long-barreled Sharps. Now Boyd had assumed his natural position of leadership. In truth, he appeared much smarter than the other two. Yet, technically, Boyd was still their prisoner.

  Charvein bluffed an attitude of friendly eagerness to tell his story. “Lost my job as a carpenter in Gold Hill,” he began. “I was riding across the playa, thinking to do some prospecting in these mountains. Figured there might be some likely looking ore hereabouts.” He paused and touched the lump on the side of his skull that was throbbing. “I’d heard about this ghost town. Even if I didn’t strike any good prospects, I aimed to work over the tailings at the old mines. They’re bound to’ve missed some nuggets here and there in these big operations.” He tried his best to look muddled. He’d finished his coffee but was still thirsty. His full canteen still lay beside him, so he uncorked it and took a long drink.

  “Ahhh!” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Quit stalling!” Boyd snapped.

  “Well, as I said, I figured there must be some bits of ore scattered around that these big mines missed years ago when they moved out. Ya know, not enough to support a commercial operation, but plenty good enough to keep a poor fella like me going.”

  “You already said that.”

  “Yeah, well… I was riding across the playa couple days ago headed this way and some sumbitch dry-gulched me—shot my horse and damn near got me, too. Some robber, I reckon. Don’t know why anybody’d think I had anything to steal.” He pretended not to notice Boyd compressing his lips. The man’s eyes narrowed as if trying to read the truth behind Charvein’s pose.

  Charvein dropped his eyes and continued. “Damn near died in that dust storm—just like the one blowin’ outside right now.” He gestured toward the cave opening. “Didn’t think I was gonna make it. Never been that thirsty. Lost my direction and…”

  “You’re windier than that damn storm,” Boyd said. “Get on with it.”

  Charvein nodded. “Finally passed out. When I woke up at daylight I found myself right on the edge of this town. Dumb luck, I reckon.”

  “Where’d you get food and water?” Boyd interrupted.

  “Searched these old buildings and found a bottle of sarsaparilla. Shot a jackrabbit…”

  “Where’d you get that canteen of water?”

  Charvein thought fast. “Carried it with me. The last of six I started with. The only thing I salvaged off my dead horse, besides my pistol and rifle.”

  “How you figuring to survive?” Boyd asked.

  Charvein shrugged. “Live off the land as best I could. I raked over a few piles of spoil, but didn’t have no luck finding any good ore. Then I hid when you boys hit town. Didn’t know what to expect. Thought maybe you was the ones who shot at me earlier.” He slid over this statement as if it were a remote possibility. “I saw you boys getting water outta that mine from the hoisting works up top the hill there and decided I’d slip up and spy on you—you know—to see if I could tell if you was friendly and all. I had to find more water and a way back to Virginia City. Looked like you might be my only chance. Then, this skinny fella jumped me and I was blinded by the sun, like I said, and I just fired. Got scared and ran off, figuring you’d shoot me. Well… you know the rest…”

  For a minute, the three men stared silently at him. The wind roared down the canyon, mournfully howling past the cave opening. Had his story carried any authenticity? The part about the ambush was true, so maybe they’d believe the rest of it.

  “Now you gonna tell us the part you left out?” Boyd asked. He drew his revolver and placed it suggestively in his lap. Charvein could see the chambers were empty. His former partners didn’t trust Boyd with a loaded weapon. It was now Boyd’s turn to bluff.

  “What part?” Charvein tried to look bewildered.

  “How you stole that woman outta the saloon.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t get your drift. What woman?”

  Stepenaw sprang forward with a speed and agility that belied his size and backhanded Charvein across the face. He saw it coming at the last instant but couldn’t avoid the blow. His head snapped sideways. A bright light flashed. For a second he thought he might black out. But he pushed himself upright, his head spinning. He tasted salty blood.

  “Enough of that!” Boyd snapped.

  “That’s for slugging me in the head when I wasn’t looking,” Stepenaw growled as he stepped back.

  “Slug… you?” Charvein hoped his face showed total ignorance.

  “That improve your memory any?” Weasel gloated.

  Charvein now wished he’d taken time to rub out the prints of his moccasins on the dusty saloon floor. But there’d been no chance, since the men were returning. He and the woman had barely escaped unseen.

  “You can beat me all night, but I can’t tell you what I don’t know,” Charvein said. His head was really throbbing now. How much more could he take? They didn’t buy his story completely. It was going to be a long night.

  ELEVEN

  “He’s where?” Lucy’s voice carried a combined tone of hope and despair.

  “In Nightwind Canyon,” Sandoval replied. “One of the caves.” Noting her look of grief, he added, “I’m sure he is alive, or they would not bother with him.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how badly he is hurt, but he was still unconscious when they pulled him off the mule and carried him inside.” He watched her reaction. She seemed stricken, as if for an injured husband or lover. The women he’d known in the past had always baffled him with their emotional, inconsistent behavior. This one was no different. She barely knew Charvein.

  “Where is Nightwind Canyon?”

  “A mile or more southwest of here. Not sure why they camped there; they were already set up in the Red Horse Saloon. Probably better protection from the wind and dust.” He had another theory but kept it to himself.

  “Why do these men want him? Who are they, anyway? Why are they all in this ghost town?”

  Sandoval took these as rhetorical questions, since she’d been present when the men were arguing about the location of the gold and torturing Boyd to find it. She was only frustrated and angry and had to say something.

  “When you were a captive, did you hear them say where they were headed or why?” he asked.

  She shook her head slowly. “No… They seemed more worried about a posse coming after them and pushed hard to get far away from Carson to hide in the mountains.” She furrowed her brow. “No, wait… I did hear the one they call Weasel say something about Lodestar. I didn’t know then it was the name of a town. They mentioned they might run into their old partner. But I was so far gon
e with hunger and thirst, I wasn’t really listening to their conversation.”

  Sandoval motioned for her to take a seat on the blanket near the small campfire by the screened entrance to the cavern. It wouldn’t hurt to fill her in on what details he knew of these three men. He added a few small sticks to the fire and reflected on how he might have avoided getting involved in all this. His solitude had been shattered, and he could see no way it might not have occurred. In spite of his constant vigilance, unforeseen things happened. He was a fool to think his life here could go on uninterrupted forever. Of course, he could have left Charvein to die of thirst and exposure at the edge of town the other night. But that wasn’t his way. And he would still have the three outlaws to deal with. What was done was done.

  “I do not know if Marc Charvein told you any of this, but he’s tracking that man named Boyd, in hopes of locating the gold those three stole five years ago.”

  “Yes,” she nodded. “The warden was very upset when the governor pardoned Boyd a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Boyd was released early, so he’s not really a fugitive. But he could be arrested again if he’s caught with somebody else’s gold.” He poked at the fire and it flared up briefly, reflecting tears brimming in Lucy’s eyes.

  “So the two men who escaped and kidnapped me are Boyd’s partners and want their share of the gold.”

  “Yes.” He paused, at a loss for anything to say that might comfort her. “I hope Charvein makes up some story to cover himself.” He reached for a bottle on a rock shelf just inside the entrance. He yanked the cork with his teeth, then spat it to one side and took a long swallow. It went down smoothly, silently exploding in his gut. Cheap to make and entirely too available, he thought. He hadn’t taken a drink in weeks. Probably not a good idea to start now, but he justified it as medicine to calm his nerves and help him sleep. He silently offered a drink to Lucy, but she shook her head. He recorked the bottle and returned it to the shelf. “Charvein strikes me as smart. He’ll do what he can to keep them from discovering why he’s here. But I’m afraid no matter what he says, they’ll just use him as a convenient hostage.”