The Secret of Lodestar

by Tim Champlin

  “Where’s your wounded buddy?” Charvein yelled back. “I want to give him a matching bullet.”

  “Likely slipping around to put a slug in your back!” Stepenaw crowed. “He’s got a mighty grudge to settle with you.”

  Another few seconds of silence.

  “Why don’t we call a truce and parlay?” Sandoval suggested, quietly. “Let’em know I’m not Boyd.”

  “That your horse, mister?” Stepenaw called.

  “Yeah. You want him? I’ll sell him to you.”

  “Then you was lyin’ about your horse being shot out from under you.”

  “I just found this horse running loose, but he’s for sale,” Charvein yelled back. Then, under his breath to Sandoval he said, “He might be trying to keep us busy talking so Weasel can sneak up on us. I don’t see any sign of him.” He glanced around at the interior of the old dry goods store. The wooden counter blocked his view of the back door.

  Sandoval shoved his rifle barrel through the broken window and fired off a shot, cocked and fired, and then a third time. The echoes of the blasts faded down the empty street and were swallowed up in the vast stillness.

  Picking up his cue, Charvein yelled, “We got a little firepower, too!”

  After a pause, “This ain’t getting’ us nowhere!” came Stepenaw’s shout from across the street. “We need to know where the rest of the gold is, so’s me and Weasel can get our share. That’s all we want. Then we’ll head outta here and leave you be.”

  “Did he just say the rest of the gold?” He looked at Sandoval. “They musta found some of it.”

  “Let’s call a truce and sort this out.” Sandoval glanced up and down the empty street, then toward the back room of the store, as if Weasel might be sneaking in to ambush them.

  “I’m game,” Charvein said, handing over the white shirt he’d retrieved from the horse’s bridle. Sandoval tied it by the sleeves to his rifle barrel, thrust it out the window, and waved it back and forth.

  “Flag of truce!” Charvein shouted through cupped hands. “Want to come out and talk.”

  A short silence, then, “All right. No guns. Meet in the middle of the street.”

  “Call Weasel out where we can see him,” Charvein added.

  The wounded man apparently heard them, and he stepped out from between the barbershop and the bakery directly across the street.

  Could these two be trusted to come unarmed? Did either of them have a hideout gun? Charvein was more concerned about Weasel than Stepenaw. They’d have to chance it, since this Mexican standoff could last the rest of the day. Charvein and Sandoval had no water or food and were not equipped for a protracted siege. Not only that, but Lucy could hear the gunfire and might take it into her head to seek them out.

  “Okay, come ahead and we’ll do the same,” Stepenaw yelled. “Leave your guns and show your hands.”

  Charvein unbuckled his gunbelt and set it on the floor. Sandoval propped his rifle against the wall.

  The four men advanced into the sunlight and approached one another in the dusty street. The wind had died.

  The pair of escapees looked even rougher than they had the previous night, showing puffy, bloodshot eyes, unshaven jowls, matted hair. Weasel looked peaked and was grimly silent. He held his wounded arm with his free hand, cradling it in his makeshift sling.

  “Who the hell are you?” Weasel demanded, staring at Sandoval. “And where’s Boyd?”

  “Reckon he took off,” Charvein said. “And, from the looks of things, he took your horses, too.”

  “You ain’t answered my question,” Weasel said, staring at Sandoval.

  “No comprende,” Sandoval replied with a shrug. “I am Carlos Vasquez. I come to this town to work an old claim. I ran into this hombre who said he needed my help to return to Virginia City.” He affected a heavier Hispanic accent than normal.

  “That your horse, yonder?” Stepenaw asked.

  “Sí.”

  “Figured it belonged to a breed, from the looks of the saddle,” Stepenaw said, nodding at his deduction.

  Charvein looked sideways at Sandoval, who retained a poker face.

  “Which way did Boyd go?” Weasel asked. “We got business with him.”

  “After he cut me loose, he disappeared into that dust storm in the dark. I didn’t ask no questions; I just lit a shuck.”

  “Well he dropped this on his way out,” Stepenaw said, patting the side pocket of his jacket. “I don’t have no gun,” he added, sliding a hand in his pocket and pulling out a small gold bar. “Reckon that SOB was lying all along about not finding the gold. He got us drunk, then slid out, but dropped one of the bars in the dark.”

  Charvein was stunned. “You think he had the bars stashed in his saddlebags in the cave last night.”

  “Dunno.’Tain’t likely, since the damned stuff weighs over a hundred pounds. Besides, we searched his saddlebags when we first jumped him the other day. All I know is this is one of the gold bars we took offen that train five years ago. See this mark? That’s what was showed at our trial and got us sent to the pen.”

  Charvein had serious doubts about where the bar had come from, but he chose not to voice them. “Where’d you say you found that?”

  “Right outside the entrance to the cave.”

  Charvein nodded.

  “We ain’t got time to palaver,” the big man said. “You, breed… we’ll shave some slivers offen this bar and buy that horse from you.”

  “I’m not sure he is for sale, señor.”

  “I ain’t askin’ you; I’m telling you.”

  “You are not armed, señor.”

  “I could bust you in two with one hand. I don’t need a gun,” Stepenaw growled. “But we ain’t got time for all that. Boyd’s gettin’ away with the rest of the stash while we’re talkin’. Here, Mex, take some o’ this gold. It’s more good metal than you’re likely to find combing through the tailings around these old mines.”

  Charvein gave a quiet nod.

  “Bueno, señor. I accept your offer. But my horse, he is very tired. He cannot carry two of you.”

  “No matter. We’ll take turns. He been fed and watered lately?”

  Sandoval shook his head. “No, señor.”

  “Shit. Well, we have to climb that hill for more water anyway, afore we start out. We’ll find some forage along the way.” Stepenaw looked glum. “Boyd took off with the gold and all the animals—his own two mules, our two horses”—he counted on his fingers—“and the horse that woman was riding. He’ll have a fresh mount all the way to Virginia City.”

  “We’ll never catch up to him,” Weasel whined.

  “Would you rather sit around here and starve while he hightails it?” Stepenaw asked. “Ain’t the gold why we come here? Why we busted out? You wanta let him get clean away? He’s likely laughing his ass off right now.”

  Anger brought the color back into Weasel’s face. He eased his arm out of the sling, unwrapped the crude bandage, and looked at the swollen, angry wound.

  Charvein cringed at the sight of the red streaks radiating up the forearm.

  “Damn the gold! I gotta find a regular sawbones to tend this arm. It’s begun to mortify.”

  “All the more reason to get outta here and head for Virginia City. That’s likely where Boyd’s goin’. If we can’t catch up to him across the playa, we’ll find him in town,” Stepenaw said. “We’ll get him, the gold, and have your arm treated.” While he spoke, he’d taken out his clasp knife and was whittling off gold shavings. After a minute, he hefted the pile of shavings in his hand. “Here ya go. About three ounces there, I’d judge.” He continued scraping more small pieces and added them to the pile. “Make it four. That’s roughly sixty dollars.” He reached out and dropped the gold into Sandoval’s extended hand.

  “Treat him with kindness, señor,” Sandoval quavered in an old man’s voice, looking at the tired horse.

  “We can’t go to Virginia City,” Weasel said. “Boyd is a free man.
But we’re wanted by the law. I ain’t about to land back behind those walls. I’ll die first.”

  “You might croak anyway, without you get that arm fixed,” Stepenaw said bluntly.

  “Let’s go,” Weasel said, turning away.

  Stepenaw backed up, continuing to face them. “We still under a flag of truce?”

  Charvein nodded.

  “You won’t shoot at us while we’re leaving town?”

  “We’ll hold our fire if you hold yours,” Charvein said.

  The big man moved warily around them toward the horse still tied at the hitching rail. Jerking the reins loose, he led the sorrel away and joined Weasel, who had retrieved his gunbelt, and handed Stepenaw the big Sharps.

  “Thank God they’re leaving,” Sandoval breathed as the pair disappeared into a side street toward their water source on the hill beyond. “Let’s get our guns. As soon as they’re gone, you can take Lucy and my mule and burro and start for Virginia City.”

  “Virginia City, hell!” Charvein muttered. “Thought I’d hit a dead end and was about to give up. But now that I know Boyd has the gold, I’m back on his trail.”

  “What?” Sandoval’s eyes went wide.

  “I was hired to do a job, and it won’t be done until I find out where Boyd is going with that stash of gold bars.”

  FIFTEEN

  “Let me come with you,” Lucy pled. “I can ride the burro. I won’t be any trouble.”

  Charvein continued with his preparations, dragging the double-rigged saddle to the center of the cavern, piling three full canteens next to it. “Lucy, I was planning to take you straight back to Virginia City, but I’ll have to put that off a few days. Boyd has about a six-hour head start on me as it is. And he’s trailing fresh mounts. I’ll be lucky to catch him. This might turn into a long chase. And I won’t expose you to that.”

  “Not much chance you’ll overtake him this side of Carson or Virginia City,” Sandoval commented.

  “He’s not likely to head for town just yet—not packing all that stolen gold. But as long as the wind doesn’t wipe out his tracks, I can trail him wherever he goes. I’m not carrying extra weight or trailing extra horses that I’ll have to find provender for.”

  Sandoval looked doubtful. “If he left a couple hours before daylight, the wind has probably scoured away most of his tracks.” He shrugged. “But, if it’s any help, we’re due for a change. Those winds aren’t usually ripsnorters more than three days in a row. And there’ll be a three-quarter moon tonight.”

  Charvein added a twenty-pound sack of oats and a nose bag to his pile. “You’ll be safer here,” he told Lucy. “And I can travel faster alone. I’ll be back for you.”

  “When?” She looked doleful.

  “Not sure. Depends on Boyd, mostly. He’s strong and resourceful. He’s determined to keep that gold at any cost. And he’s armed with my rifle and his Colt. I’ll need some grit and some luck to get him.”

  “You said you didn’t have to arrest him—only discover where the gold is and report to your boss,” Sandoval said, stuffing small sacks of beans and coffee into the saddlebags.

  “True enough. If I can get close enough to catch sight of him, I’ll hang back. That’s what I was trying to do on the way out here. And you know how that turned out. Wish I could somehow make myself invisible. But, ‘If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.’”

  “What?”

  “Old expression my father used.”

  Sandoval looked thoughtful. “If I were the one packing a hundred twenty pounds of gold bars, I’d sure be in a hurry to find another safe place to stash it. You just can’t go among men in towns with that much gold—especially stolen gold—on the back of a horse or mule. Somebody’s going to find out about it for sure. Then your life won’t be worth a sliver of that gold Stepenaw gave me.”

  “If I had any money, I’d buy your mule and rig from you.”

  “It’s yours on loan only,” Sandoval replied. “That way I know you’ll be back.”

  “The only way I won’t keep my word is if I’m dead.” He heaved the saddle to his shoulder and started toward the mule picketed just outside the cavern entrance. Sandoval’s quick, sure hands were there to help.

  “How long should I wait before I can assume you’re not coming back?” Lucy asked.

  “You’ll know.” Then he paused to look at her tear-streaked face, her disheveled dark hair hanging down, the dark shadows under her eyes. He calculated time and distance in his head. “Give me at least a few days—no more than ten.”

  “Life was uncertain in medieval times,” she said, almost to herself. “And it’s uncertain now. In Walter Scott’s novels the hero always lives, and the maiden is always rescued and lives happily ever after.” She smiled ruefully. “Real life is not like those novels.”

  Charvein felt suddenly sorry for her—an innocent, naïve woman caught up in a brutal kidnapping, then subjected to treatment her previous life had ill-equipped her for. “Well,” he said gently, walking over and taking her hand, “we’ve already had two rescues—one of you and one of me. Now all that remains is for me to track this robber and the gold, then come back here to take you home.” He smiled and pulled her close in a reassuring hug. “Then it’s up to you to live happily ever after.” He could feel her heartbeat quicken as he held her close.

  He stepped back, taking satisfaction in the new glow of hope on her face.

  He snatched the reins of the mule loose from a big mesquite bush and mounted.

  “Remember, Stepenaw and Weasel are also on Boyd’s trail,” Sandoval cautioned. “Neither of them will hesitate to gun you down. And the big man has that long rifle.”

  “The stars aren’t aligned for me to die.”

  “Wish you’d change your mind and take this young lady back to Carson City. She can have this burro with my blessing.”

  “Later. I’m burning daylight. Keep her safe till I get back.” The mule trotted quickly down the slope out into the open.

  There was no need for caution now that everyone else was gone from Lodestar. Charvein rode down Center Street and out onto the playa, feeling better than he had for some time. His head still ached dully, but he was fed and carried plenty of water for himself and his stout mule, who was well rested and ready for work.

  The sun lacked three hours of noon, but its midsummer rays burned through the back of his thin cotton shirt. He’d lost his own hat but had borrowed an old felt from Sandoval. He thought of the man who’d become his close friend and confidant. Whenever all this was finished, he vowed to find out more about Sandoval than just his name. He claimed to be mostly Incan—and looked it. What had he done, where had he been, before taking up lodging as Lodestar’s only resident?

  As Charvein had feared, last night’s wind had blown away, or filled in, all tracks on the soil of the ancient dry lake bed. All, that is, except the most recent, made since daylight—the hoofprints of the stray horse. A separate set of boot prints showed Stepenaw, the heavier of the two, walking. The trail led west, in the general direction of Carson City or Virginia City. The two men were probably more than an hour ahead of him, roughly four miles or so, he estimated. He squinted ahead across the glare of the dun-colored playa. No sign of them. Lost somewhere in the shimmering mirage. His mule trotted steadily; he’d probably catch the slow-moving pair by early afternoon.

  Charvein scanned the terrain for even the slightest signs of several horses that might indicate where Boyd had gone. Drawing the mule to a walk, he searched the ground carefully. He wondered if Boyd would have risked his own life and the lives of his horses and mules by starting out in that dust storm. Boyd was armed and well mounted and had nothing to fear, except the forces of nature. He wouldn’t even have been able to hold a direction in that darkness and blowing dust. Would’ve made more sense for him to hole up in a protected barn to await the coming of light and calmer weather. But nothing about Boyd’s action seemed to make sense. It was possible he’d not gone west from Lodestar
at all. Perhaps he was headed south or east, or north. But there was nothing in those directions for many miles—no human habitation and very likely no water this time of year, even in the low desert mountains. No. In all likelihood, his route was westerly.

  As Charvein rode across the empty playa, puffs of dust rising from the mule’s plodding hooves, he began to wonder if his zeal had carried him on a fruitless chase.

  He caught movement out of the corner of his eye: the circling vultures he’d seen earlier, but now more—perhaps twenty—wheeled against the brassy sky. If something was already dead out there, why hadn’t they landed and begun their quarreling feast? Maybe too many of their kin were already at table and no room for the rest. Charvein wished he knew more about the habits of these scavengers. But buzzards and vultures had always repulsed him, and he ignored them when he could.

  On impulse, he reined his mule away from the tracks he was following. Might as well see what the birds were after. Probably a coyote or some other small animal that had given up a harsh existence.

  Distance over the flat, featureless surface was deceiving, and it was an hour before he arrived. He found a saddled horse, standing with its head drooping. Charvein guided his mule close, and the animal didn’t react or move away. Dried blood caked his left flank and rump. A half dozen big vultures were on the ground several yards away, awaiting their chance. They began to move, and two of them flapped away at Charvein’s approach.

  He dismounted and poured water into his hat for the animal to drink. The horse sucked it empty and nuzzled him for more. Charvein poured him another quart. That was enough for now. But it seemed to revive the horse.

  He mounted the mule, trailed the horse by its reins, and started again. He’d gone no more than a hundred yards when his stomach contracted at the sight of a man lying partially covered in dust. He reined up and dismounted again, ground reining the mule and tying the horse’s reins to the saddle horn.

  The prone figure moved slightly, and Charvein knelt quickly at his side, uncorking one of the canteens. He supported the man’s head and dribbled water over the parched lips. At first, there was no reaction, but then he began to swallow, and Charvein was careful not to let him choke. The big man’s shirt was caked with dried blood from at least two wounds. It was apparent he had lost a lot of blood. Charvein leaned over to shade the man’s face. He blinked and appeared to focus. Charvein tipped up the canteen again. “Easy, now. Not too much.” Was he too far gone to hear, or understand? “What happened? Can you tell me who did this?”