The Secret of Lodestar

by Tim Champlin

  Time dragged like a flat-sided wheel. Weasel was stretched on his blanket, unconscious. Stepenaw began to nod, then drooped to an awkward position, lying on one arm, still holding his cup. Boyd continued to sip his coffee, half-closed eyes watching, catlike.

  The cave grew darker. The fire collapsed into ash-covered coals, winking a red eye every few seconds as the light air fanned it. Charvein could no longer see Boyd.

  An anguished moaning, almost humanlike, rose and fell outside, the wind and grit scouring the canyon. The sound was punctuated by Stepenaw’s ragged snoring and snorting.

  Sometime later, in spite of his restricted position, weariness stole over Charvein and he dozed off to strange, disjointed dreams. He dreamed Sandoval was calling him, and he tried to answer, but the wind drowned his voice. That scene faded, and he heard the woman crying. She had again been captured, and the men were getting uproariously drunk to celebrate. Charvein tried to go to her rescue but didn’t have his gun, and he couldn’t lift his arms or legs.

  He gasped and woke himself with a snort, clammy with perspiration as the dream vanished and the reality of the ropes reappeared. He took several deep breaths to calm himself, doubting he’d be able to recapture sleep. He desperately needed to shift his position to stretch his arms, legs, and back.

  Suddenly, his heart missed a beat. He’d sensed something moving within a foot of him—probably some animal taking shelter in this cave. He had opened his mouth to yell out a warning to Boyd, when a hand was clamped over his mouth, stifling his shout. He struggled.

  “Shsst! Keep still!” Boyd’s voice whispered urgently.

  Charvein stopped struggling and waited.

  “I’m cutting you loose,” the voice said, close to his ear.

  Boyd fumbled for the bound wrists and ankles. Charvein felt cold steel slide under the ropes, and in a few seconds, they were slashed and fell away. Boyd gripped his arm, helping him up. Charvein leaned over with a sudden attack of dizziness as blood rushed out of his head. Boyd waited, then led him in the blackness along the wall to the entrance. What next? Was he being taken outside to be shot? If Boyd wanted to kill him, he could have done it with a silent knife thrust while he lay bound.

  They walked ten steps from the cave entrance, while the wind tore at their clothes and hair. No need now to talk in whispers.

  “What’s this?” Charvein asked, feeling a gunbelt thrust into his hands.

  “Get out of here and don’t come back,” Boyd said in a barely audible voice. “Your gun’s not loaded, but there are cartridges in the belt loops. You’ll have to do without your rifle. I’m taking it, since those two have my Sharps.” He was silent for a moment and Charvein averted his face from the flying grit that whipped around them. Boyd stepped closer and raised his voice slightly to be heard. “Get out of town with that woman. I can’t spare any animals. You’re on your own.”

  Charvein wanted to question the man, to ask the reason for this rescue. But he knew. Boyd owed nothing to his former partners who’d disarmed and tortured him, kept him a virtual prisoner. And there was no telling what the two drunks inside the cave had planned once morning came. This was Boyd’s revenge—and his escape.

  With that, the voice ceased, and Charvein squinted into the darkness that had swallowed up his benefactor. “Wait! Which way is Lodestar?” No answer. “Shit!” He quickly buckled on his gunbelt and paused a half minute to load his Colt. The prevailing wind was from the southwest, so the town had to be somewhere to his right. He moved out thirty steps from the canyon wall, then bore right to give the unseen cave entrance plenty of clearance. He felt secure. Befuddled with drink, the two were likely still deeply asleep. He smiled. Boyd apparently knew his former partners well; their weakness for whiskey made the escape easy.

  He tied a bandanna across his nose and mouth and felt his way forward, stumbling over rocks and small bushes, making slow progress. But then he worked his way back to the nearly vertical canyon wall, keeping it to his right to be sure he didn’t walk in circles. After two falls, his injured head was throbbing. How far had he gone? How much farther? In the darkness and windblown dust, time and distance could not be measured. Would the two outlaws awake to find both him and Boyd gone and start a hunt? After tripping and scraping his hand, Charvein rested on one knee. Weasel had a broken arm, and the two of them had taken on a load of booze. Even if they came to, they’d likely be too hungover to mount a useful search in the dark. Boyd had two mules and might also steal the escapees’ two mounts and Lucy’s horse, setting the pair afoot. Charvein grinned at the thought. He, himself, had only his two feet, but they were encased in Apache desert moccasins.

  An hour passed, and the night wind slackened. Although he couldn’t be sure, he took this as a sign dawn was approaching. He was right. Dim light stole into the canyon, like the infusion of clear water into a jar of cloudy liquid. At first Charvein could dimly make out the rugged canyon wall, then boulders strewn along the sloping floor. The light seemed to come faster. Before long he could distinguish details of shrubs and see ahead where the canyon flattened out. Beyond that, Lodestar’s abandoned buildings thrust their rectangular shapes above the settling dust.

  He yanked down his bandanna and paused to get his breath. He wondered if Boyd would give up his quest for the stolen gold and return to Virginia City, waiting until Stepenaw and Weasel were gone before returning. With the town of Lodestar again empty—as far as he knew—he could return to search for the stolen stash.

  Charvein knew his mission was finished. Boyd was gone, and the gold was still missing. He’d find Sandoval, borrow his mule and sufficient water to escort Lucy back to Carson City, then report his failure to his employer in Virginia City. It was as simple as that. Of course, in his escape from Lodestar, he might have to defend them both against Stepenaw and the wounded Weasel. But, considering all he’d been through so far, he was confident he could handle the two of them.

  FOURTEEN

  Sandoval crept toward the cave entrance in Nightwind Canyon. He was gambling that the wind direction would prevent the horses or mules from catching his scent or sound and raising an alarm.

  Cat-footing to the very mouth of the cave, he paused to look and listen. Faint, ragged snoring reached his ears. No light from lantern or torch, but he did catch a whiff of wood smoke. If anyone was on guard, he was inside. Where were their horses? Evidently they felt secure in their assumed isolation. He resisted a foolhardy impulse to rush inside, gun blazing. Even with darkness and surprise on his side, a rescue attempt was too risky. He’d wait for a better chance.

  Instead, he completed his silent task and faded away toward Lodestar. Familiar with every boulder and gully in the area, he jogged with swift confidence down the rugged canyon.

  The wind was sounding the bell in the tower of San Juan Church. He liked to think it was the ringing of the Angelus at six in the morning, but it was not yet six. He missed hearing the Angelus rung at six in the morning, at noon, and again at six in the evening. The wind rang the bell when it wished, and it was not the pattern he’d grown up with—three sets of three taps each, then a full minute of loud continuous ringing. But, in his solitude before anyone came to Lodestar, he often found himself pausing to say the traditional prayer when the bell rang, “El Angel del Señor anuncio a Maria. Y concibio por obra del Espiritu Santo. Dios te salve, Maria. Llena eres de gracia…” The angel of the Lord declared unto Mary and she conceived of the Holy Spirit. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee… Old habits died hard.

  An hour later he climbed the outside stairs to the second floor of the old hotel and felt his way to a room along the hall. Striking a match, he located a broken chair and dragged it to a south-facing back window. As soon as he sat down to await daylight, weariness nearly overcame him. He’d slept little since first finding Charvein unconscious on the edge of town. How long ago was that? One day? Two? The hours seemed to run together in a continuous stream, broken only by a quick nap here and there. He stared, unseeing,
through the window into the blackness.

  He’d been here four years now and recalled being lonely only once or twice. Mostly, his loyal animals—God’s innocent creatures—were enough companionship for him. Lodestar’s formidable isolation was the reason he’d taken up his hermitage here. Now the town was awash in strangers, and he was being forced to deal with them by accommodating himself to the pace of a world he’d left behind.

  In spite of his confident words to Lucy, a heavy lump of dread lay in his stomach. He suspected Charvein had died of his wounds. Normally, he was optimistic and didn’t worry about things he couldn’t control, accepting whatever happened without question. Perhaps Lucy’s anxiety was affecting him. He’d wait to see who emerged from the canyon in the morning.

  The wind gusted with increased fury, shaking Lodestar like a terrier shaking a rat. Above the creaking wooden beams, banging shutters, rattling tin cans, he heard the familiar mellow tones of his personal wind chime—the heavy clapper lightly tolling the bell in the church belfry. He smiled. He’d come to regard himself as Lodestar’s mayor, banker, saloonkeeper, merchant, guardian, and caretaker. All things that happened here were his business and his concern.

  Leaning forward on the windowsill, he rested his head on his folded forearms. Slipping into a doze, he felt relaxed for the first time since he could remember. All this turmoil had benefited him in one way—it had driven from his mind the crushing mental anguish he carried every day.

  He slept. It was a light sleep, with his subconscious alert—not a condition guaranteed to allow complete rest. But it sufficed—and kept him safe.

  Sometime later, the lessening of the wind and clatter outside brought back his consciousness. He raised his head and carefully wiped away the gummy residue matting his eyelids. Squinting through a cracked pane, he noted the coming of daylight in the light brown haze.

  Something moved. He blinked and tried to focus on the distant speck, wishing he had a pair of field glasses. For a long minute he watched the moving figure approaching from the distant mouth of Nightwind Canyon. It wasn’t a wolf, coyote, burro, or cat. It was upright—a lone man. Sandoval slid his rifle over the sill and lined up the buckhorn sight with the front bead on the end of the barrel.

  Charvein saw the first rays of the rising sun glint off something in a window of the hotel. A pane of glass? A gun barrel? Forgetting his fatigue, he dashed behind a nearby boulder. Pistol in hand, he watched for several seconds. Whatever it was disappeared. It had been there and then was gone. Probably nothing to worry about. He cautiously continued on toward the back of the row of buildings.

  Less than three hundred yards away, he saw a man come around a building, loping toward him, waving. He stopped and squinted in the morning sun. Sandoval! Relief flooded over him.

  Two minutes later the men met.

  “By God, am I glad to see a friendly face!” Charvein said, gripping his friend by the shoulders.

  “What happened? You’re not hurt?”

  “Let’s get out of the open,” Charvein said, taking his arm and hurrying around the hotel. “I expect the two of them will be after me shortly.”

  “Two?”

  Charvein briefly summed up the events of the night. “I’ll take the woman and get out of town. Can I borrow your mule, or your burro?”

  “Yes. Let’s go,” Sandoval said, obviously relieved. “What about those two? And where has Boyd gone?”

  “Can’t answer the last question. I reckon he’s hightailed it back to Carson or Virginia City. If he took their horses, we’re stuck with those no-goods.”

  Sandoval gripped his rifle and stared back toward Nightwind Canyon.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t leave until we take care of them, one way or another,” Charvein assured him.

  “How much of a head start do you have on them?”

  Charvein shrugged. “They were still passed out drunk when Boyd and I took off our separate ways. They’re likely hungover and hopping mad right now. Fact is, they could be right on my tail this minute.”

  “Your head okay?” Sandoval asked, pointing at the blood on Charvein’s shirt collar.

  “Think so. Still have a headache from busting that boulder with my head.” He attempted a grin. “They said they heard my shot at the snake and came to investigate.”

  Sandoval nodded. “That’s where I spotted them—picking you up and loading you on that mule. Followed to see where they took you.”

  The men rounded the corner of the hotel to the boardwalk in front.

  “Lucy is alone,” Sandoval said. “I told her I’d be back at least by daylight. We’d best go now or she might come looking for us and get herself in trouble.” He stepped off the boardwalk into the street—and stopped dead. “Damn!”

  A horse with an empty saddle snorted and plunged away from them, tossing its head. “That one of their horses?”

  Charvein looked at the spooked sorrel, dragging its reins in the dust. “Nope. Never saw that animal before.”

  The two men looked blankly at each other.

  The saddled gelding stopped thirty yards away and turned to face them. A torn shirt hung from one side of his bridle.

  “Someone on the playa,” Sandoval said. “The sun and dust have claimed another victim.”

  “Let’s see if we can round him up,” Charvein said. “We need a good mount.”

  “Where’s your canteen?”

  “Still in the cave. I didn’t stop to take it when Boyd cut me loose.”

  “That horse must be thirsty.” Sandoval eased the canteen strap over his head. “I have a half gallon in here. Pull that rusty pan out of the trash pile over there. We’ll lure him with a drink.”

  Moving slowly, the men brought the pan into the middle of the street, and Sandoval, splashing loudly, poured most of the contents of his canteen into it. Then they backed away several paces.

  The horse came forward a few steps, nostrils quivering, eager yet wary. Charvein moved out of the animal’s peripheral vision as the sorrel lowered its head and began to drink. The two quarts was only a good taste; Charvein would have to be quick.

  While the horse watched Sandoval, Charvein eased closer until the horse sensed his presence and jerked his head up with a snort. But he was too late. Charvein leapt and grabbed the saddle horn. The horse plunged, lifting him off the ground, but when the horse came down, Charvein sprang up and threw a leg over the saddle. The startled horse bowed his back and bucked twice, three times, then whirled, trying to rid himself of this terrifying thing. But then he crow-hopped, stiff-legged, several times and stopped, obviously fatigued. He’d been startled, but he had been broken to the saddle by someone and so submitted to the rider on his back.

  Charvein reached down and retrieved the dragging reins, yanked the torn shirt loose from the bridle, then walked the animal over to a sagging hitching rail where Sandoval tied him securely. “Check the saddlebags. Might find out who he belongs to.”

  “Nothing but jerky, a razor, spare socks, and a plug of chewing tobacco. Some other odds and ends, but no name on anything—not even on this shirt.”

  “Ever seen a saddle like this?” Charvein asked.

  “Sí. It’s old.” He stroked the worn leather. “A stock saddle used by vaqueros in California about 1850. Long, slim saddle horn, deep seat, tapaderos.”

  “No conchos or fancy silver work,” Charvein noted.

  “No. This is a working saddle. Very comfortable. A man could sit one of these for many hours. It has seen much use.”

  “What do you think happened to the man who rode this?” Charvein asked, dismounting and stroking the horse’s nose.

  Sandoval squinted at the brightening sky. “Probably not far away,” he said, pointing. A dozen black vultures wheeled in a lazy, descending vortex less than a mile distant.

  “But for the grace of God… ,” Charvein murmured. “Shall we go to his aid?”

  “He has no more problems in this world,” Sandoval said, making the sign of the cross. �
�But we do.”

  Charvein followed his gaze to the lower end of the street. Stepenaw and Weasel. The big man raised a long rifle.

  “Get down!” Charvein grabbed Sandoval’s arm and pulled him back under the roofed boardwalk.

  The boom of Boyd’s .50-caliber Sharps blasted the stillness, and a lead slug shivered a window two feet to their left.

  The startled horse jerked back, but the reins held him fast to the rail.

  Stepenaw lumbered toward them, apparently unafraid of return fire. Weasel followed at an awkward run, firing a Colt with his good hand.

  Charvein kicked open a nearby door. “Inside!” he yelled, squeezing off two shots at the men who were out of effective pistol range.

  Stepenaw paused, yanked down the lever to open the breech, shoved in another long cartridge, and slammed it home.

  Sandoval scrambled inside the room and took up a kneeling position with his rifle at the broken window.

  Charvein threw two more shots in the outlaws’ general direction, then dove for cover as the Sharps boomed again.

  When Charvein looked up, he saw that the pair had dodged inside a saloon diagonally across the street. The octagonal barrel of the buffalo gun protruded from the edge of the saloon doorway. They were still sixty to seventy yards away.

  Charvein’s ears rang for several seconds after the last exchange of shots.

  Finally, Stepenaw yelled, “Hey, mister, you and Boyd might as well come on outta there. I got the big gun now and it’ll shoot right through that wall.”

  “He thinks you’re Boyd,” Charvein muttered, surprised. “They don’t know anyone else is in town. He figures Boyd and I left together.”