by Tim Champlin
Sandoval’s hooded eyes went wide.
Charvein forced himself to wait until the sputtering, smoking fuses had roughly eight seconds to burn. Then he rose to his knees and hurled the first packet of red cylinders as far as he could through the open front door. The second bundle followed quickly.
“What the hell was that?” Boyd yelled.
“Under the pew! Get it out! Dynamite!” Rankin screamed in panic.
Charvein grabbed Sandoval by his good arm. “Run like hell!” He fired over his shoulder and saw Rankin stumble and fall out the doorway.
Sandoval was already on his feet and sprang ahead of Charvein, sprinting down the street away from the fire and the church.
A sudden surge of energy propelled Charvein after him, a clock ticking in his head.
They were less than fifty yards away when the dynamite blew.
TWENTY-FIVE
The church erupted in a thunderous roar of heat and light. The ground shook; they dove into the dirt. Stone fragments and shards of glass whizzed overhead. The concussion shattered the remaining windows in nearby buildings.
They crawled behind a horse trough and covered their heads. A hail of shattered rock and splintered boards rained down around them. Although semi-deafened, Charvein thought he heard the sound of a bell. He sneaked a look. The remaining pieces of wall and roof were collapsing in on one another, sliding and grinding to a halt as the wreckage settled into a pile.
They lay with arms over their heads for several more seconds. “Damn!” Charvein breathed as they got to their knees and then stood up.
Sandoval seemed to have forgotten the pain in his arm as they numbly walked toward the pile of smoking rubble that, a few minutes—and many years—before had been a church. Lighted by the nearby fire, a monstrous heap of rock and wood and tile lay smoking, clouds of dust rising. The force of the explosion had blown down the nearest burning building, squelching the leaping flames. A few yards away, the wooden fence was ablaze, but the fire overall had lost its ferocity. The demolished church created a gap in the row of buildings, a firebreak against slowly advancing flames that had no wind to fan them. It appeared that the fire, lacking more fuel, and with fewer sparks flying upward, was destined to burn itself out in a few hours, confined to the destruction of five buildings.
“You reckon they’re under there?” Charvein asked, finally, as they stood mesmerized by the smoldering heap before them. Debris was scattered out beyond the circle of light cast by the burning buildings.
Sandoval nodded, staring about him, a strained, vacant look on his dirt-streaked face. “Maybe in too many pieces to find.” He made the sign of the cross. “A fitting burial—in the house of God with a gift of gold.”
Until that moment, Charvein had forgotten about the gold. He saw no sign of the bell, but he recognized a corner of the belfry that had fallen straight down atop the roof and lay mostly buried.
“Let’s find Lucy,” Charvein said, still feeling stunned and hardly able to talk or think. “Then we’ll get a look at that arm,” he added, noting the drying blood streaking Sandoval’s left sleeve.
They circled the rubble and started toward the alley. Before they’d gone thirty feet, Lucy came limping toward them. She came up and silently hugged Charvein. Then, turning toward Sandoval, she said, “You’re hurt.”
“No more than you,” he replied, slipping his good arm around her shoulders.
“I feel fine,” she said, belying her pale, pinched look. “I never knew dynamite had that much power.”
“I used it all,” Charvein said.
“Were those two men inside?”
“Yes.”
“I’m so relieved the danger is past. My knees are weak,” she said, sitting down on the ground. “But I almost feel sorry for them.”
“They probably didn’t know what hit them.” Charvein was still trying to come down from the surge of energy and excitement; maybe later he’d feel something when it all began to sink in. For now, he had to assume Boyd and Rankin had died instantly in the blast. He recalled firing a parting shot at Rankin, who tried to bolt out the door just before the dynamite went off. The man had pitched forward, probably hit, so it was likely his body, or what was left of it, was under the rubble that covered the front steps.
“Let’s go back to my cavern,” Sandoval said. “I feel shaky.”
Jarred out of his reverie, Charvein said, “We’ll tend your arm, sleep, and then see about rounding up the livestock come daylight.” He put out a hand and helped Lucy to her feet. “Lean on me,” he said as they started down the street. “We’re a sorry-looking bunch,” he chuckled, touching the dried blood on his scalp wound. “Beat up, filthy, bloody, and exhausted.”
“Hold that lantern closer, Lucy,” Charvein said a half hour later, resting his unsteady hand on Sandoval’s arm as he probed for the slug with the point of a thin-bladed knife. The lead wasn’t deep.
“I think it bounced off the floor before it hit me,” Sandoval said, grimacing.
“Sure looks that way,” Charvein said, finally flicking the distorted bullet out into his hand. “You got any carbolic?”
“In that small chest by the wall, with some herbs I’ve collected,” he said, his face glistening with sweat in the yellow light.
Charvein doused the wound but left it unbandaged, then did the same for Lucy’s calf muscle wound. He thought about trying to clean it completely with burning black powder but quickly gave up the idea. Years ago, during his time in the cavalry, he’d seen an arrow wound treated this way. The fletching had been broken off the protruding arrow, a groove cut along the top of the shaft, and black powder poured into the groove. At the instant one man touched a match to the powder, another drove the arrow on through the arm with the butt of his pistol. The powder flashed and burned as the arrow carried it through the wound. But this required skill and coordination to make it work properly. Lucy had no protruding arrow.
Charvein kept these thoughts to himself as he finished treating his two patients. “Sit there and rest while I get a fire going.” He gathered a few dry sticks and broke them up. “Lucy, empty a canteen into this pot. We’ll have a stew with beans, jerky, onions, and peppers, and anything else we can find.”
He proceeded to build a small cooking fire inside the circle of stones at the entrance to the cavern. “I’ll be right back,” Charvein said, setting the blackened pot on the spider to boil. “Want to take a look around.”
He slipped out through the screening mesquite bushes and walked a few yards into the blackness, sniffing the dry night air and listening to the silence. A faint odor of burning wood reached his nostrils, and a red glow was still visible a few hundred yards away in town. Why was he being so careful? Force of habit, he guessed. After all, the three of them were now the only human occupants of Lodestar, a town that had seen a lot more violence than this in its heyday.
His mind still worked on practicalities. The explosion had likely spooked the animals even though they were far enough away to be unharmed by it. They’d probably run off toward the playa or the hills. But the sparse bunchgrass near town would bring them back close enough to be rounded up come daylight. He felt sure of it.
He returned to the cavern to find Lucy stirring a stew that was giving off a wonderful aroma. Sandoval lit a second lantern and turned them both up bright so the inside of the cavern took on a cheery aspect.
Shortly, the stew was done. They dished it up and folded some tortillas to eat with it.
When they finished, the night was far gone. Charvein put away the remaining stew, but even before he finished washing the dishes in a bucket of water, both Sandoval and Lucy were sound asleep on their blankets. Fatigue was dragging at him as well, and he had to keep moving, or he’d be asleep, too. For some illogical reason, he felt someone needed to be alert and on watch. And since he was the strongest and had suffered only scratches, he elected himself.
Leaving one lantern lit and turned low, he reloaded his Colt and stepped outs
ide. The fire in town was dying, visible only as a red glow a quarter mile away. Turning east, away from town, he saw a lighter gray streak along the horizon. The earth was turning, coming around again to bathe the battered old town in another day of light. Small, nocturnal animals would cease hunting and seek their burrows to sleep away the heat of the day. Nature continued her cycles. He walked a few steps, listening to the peace and silence.
Something bulked dimly before him—an old ore wagon that had rolled its last mile. He put his hand on the seven-foot-high rear wheel—a rusty iron band still holding the massive rim and dried spokes together. Walking to the front of the wagon, he sat down on the tilted tongue and leaned back against the rough timber of the box.
The light on the horizon slowly brightened into a rosy pink. He closed his eyes, the tension draining away. Was it possible for a man to sleep for two days without waking? He thought he could.
Bang!
The explosion jolted him awake. Something heavy fell against him, a sharp point raking his chest. He scrambled away, clawing at his holster. A man slumped over the wagon tongue, then rolled off to lie, faceup, on the ground. A red stain slowly spread on Buck Rankin’s tattered white shirt.
Charvein, instantly alert, took in the scene. In full daylight thirty feet away, Lucy lowered the long Colt, a wisp of smoke curling from its muzzle. He swallowed twice, his mouth dry, but couldn’t speak. His heart was racing.
“I woke up and came looking for you,” she said in a steady voice. “Lucky I did.”
“The blast didn’t get him after all,” Charvein said, hoarsely, glancing from her to the body on the ground. “And my shot missed, too.”
Rankin’s clothes were singed, his face bruised. Charvein stooped and checked to be sure the man was dead, then picked up the big Bowie knife that lay nearby. Only then did he realize he’d been cut. The left side of his shirt gaped open, and he was bleeding from a shallow slice down his rib cage. Blotting the wound with his shirt, he looked up and saw her standing with the heavy gun dangling from one hand. “I owe you my life,” he said simply.
“I was here at the right time.” She began to tremble, and the big pistol fell to the ground.
Charvein retrieved it.
“Are you all right?” she asked, her voice shaking.
“I’m okay. Just a scratch.” He shoved the wide blade under his belt, thinking what might have been.
They turned toward the cavern. Sandoval came running toward them, Colt in hand.
“It’s done,” Charvein said, waving him to a halt. “She got Rankin just before he got me.”
“What about Boyd?” Sandoval asked. “Did he also escape the church?”
“I don’t think so. He was deeper inside. Rankin was the only one I saw get out the front door before the blast.”
“We must be sure.”
The three of them moved silently toward the ruins of the church, the two men with guns drawn, carefully surveying the town in the morning light.
Lucy limped on her wounded leg while Charvein supported her with his left arm around her waist. She was trembling.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded, blinking away tears. He guessed it was her instinctive action that had saved his life, but now the reaction was setting in.
They scoured the ground in a wide area around the pile of rubble.
“We are safe from Denson Boyd,” Sandoval said a few minutes later, toeing something in the dust among the scattered pieces of rock, splintered boards, and shards of glass.
It was a fancy, red-toed boot. Part of a leg bone protruded from the top.
Lucy took a quick look, then turned her pale face away.
To break the mood, Charvein said. “Tell you what, I’m going to carry buckets of water and fill a couple of these old wooden horse troughs. It’s coming up another hot day. When the sun warms that water, we could all do with a good bath. Wash some of the dust and blood out of our clothes, too.”
Lucy gave him a wan smile. “My dress is nearly indecent.”
“Don’t worry, Sandoval and I will stay in the cavern until you’re done.”
“I have a clean shirt,” Sandoval said. “If you don’t mind man’s clothing, I will cut off a pair of my pants. Might come close to fitting you.”
“Thank you.”
“I had much time to fill,” Sandoval added. “I made lye soap from wood ashes and animal grease. I’ll find several squares of it while you haul the water.”
TWENTY-SIX
Four days later, Charvein was tugging at the packsaddle rope on Sandoval’s burro. “I don’t know how to throw a diamond hitch, but I reckon this’ll hold well enough.” He glanced at Sandoval. “Wish you were coming with us.”
“I’m still a wanted man in Virginia City,” Sandoval reminded him.
“Surely not after what’s happened here.”
A sardonic smile crossed Sandoval’s beardless face. “Would you like to explain all this to the law?”
“Guess you’re right. We have a long ride ahead—plenty of time to come up with a plausible story for the sheriff and Ezra Pitney. Have to give’em a general idea of what happened. But I’ll leave out a lot of details nobody needs to know. The bald-faced truth is just too fantastic.”
“I’ll write it all down in my journal and keep it locked away,” Lucy said. “This is better than any tale of knights and ladies.”
The three of them had rounded up Boyd’s two mules. The animals were now fed and rested, ready to carry Charvein and Lucy back across the playa to Carson City, and on north to Virginia City.
“Thanks for the supplies,” Charvein said. “I’ve packed enough food for the trip. And those kegs of water should be plenty for us and the animals.”
Sandoval stroked the nose of his burro. “You may think you have enough water. But don’t be doing a lot of washing until you get home.”
“You are staying in Lodestar?” Lucy asked.
“Only until my arm heals enough to travel. Beyond that, quien sabe? If anyone asks, you can truthfully say you don’t know,” Sandoval replied. He took off his straw hat, tucked it under the sling of his wounded arm, and wiped his face with his sleeve. “My reason for coming here lies buried up in that graveyard. Buck Rankin and my past—both dead. Time to turn toward another horizon—before someone else comes here, asking many questions.”
“You have money?”
He nodded. “I saved a couple gold bars and will finish melting them into small nuggets. As you know, my needs are few. What I kept, I earned.”
“Call it a ‘finder’s fee,’” Charvein agreed.
Charvein held Boyd’s mule for Lucy to mount awkwardly from the right side, sparing her wounded leg. In place of the ruined dress, she wore an old shirt and pair of cropped pants that had belonged to the slender Sandoval.
Charvein turned to him. “You know the owner of that gold will be coming to dig up those bell clappers, and the gold cross inside the altar.”
Sandoval nodded.
“It’s good you smelted the ingots into another form. No exact accounting can be made.”
“The works of Providence are many and varied.”
“As soon as we’re out on the playa, you’ll be hard at it with a shovel, excavating that gold,” Charvein said with a wry grin. “Perhaps I should stay a day or two longer and dig it up. But I doubt your little burro, strong as he is, could carry another hundred pounds. If Ezra Pitney comes here and doesn’t find it, I’ll very likely go to jail for theft.”
Sandoval shook his head, somberly. “No need, amigo. My arm will not allow me to dig. Besides, I give you my word I will not touch it. That yellow metal has done its work. Without its help to buy supplies, I could not have survived here four years. And its presence was the means of exorcising my own devil. Now I am a free man.”
Charvein shook his head slowly. “You won’t be a free man long if you’re not telling the truth. I know Pitney. He finds that gold gone, he’ll hire the Pinkertons to track yo
u to the end of time.”
The bronze face relaxed. “Ah, Señor Charvein, you must really work at having more faith in your fellow man.”
Charvein stepped forward and embraced his lean friend in a one-armed hug, avoiding the wounded shoulder. “Is there nothing about Lodestar you’ll miss?”
Sandoval looked at the pile of rubble that had been the church. He blinked away a hint of mist in his dark, hooded eyes. “My wife’s grave. And… the wind ringing the Angelus, day and night—at all the wrong times.”
