“She gave up on bettering herself through Kelly and me,” said Kelsey, “and that’s when she turned to Gary Davis.”
“We look at women a mite different here in the West,” Dallas said. “You don’t have to put on airs to be considered a lady, and gettin’ your hands dirty don’t make you less of one. Here you can ride astraddle, fire a gun, or rope a steer, and still be as much a lady as them highfalutin gals back in St. Louis or New Orleans.”
“Then you’re not ashamed to be seen with a pair of female muleskinners?” asked Kelsey.
“Ma’am,” Arlo said, “once we’ve found Hoss Logan’s mine or give up ever findin’ it, we’ll back up our brag. You and Kelly can get all dressed up in your finery, and we’ll take you to that dance in town. It’s held every fourth Saturday night, and I reckon we’ll have to fight every cowboy and miner there just to get a dance for ourselves.”
By the time it was light enough to see, the four of them were following the eastern rim southward, seeking some point at which they might descend. They had gone well past the canyon in which the Indian attack had taken place so that when they went over the rim they would be less likely to be seen by Davis and his bunch. Being on foot, they used the jagged rent in the side of the mountain, barely wide enough for their bodies, which afforded them purchase for their hands and feet.
“Once we’re down this mountain,” Dallas said, “I hope we can still find the death’s head peak. Damn shame we couldn’t go down the rim closer to that canyon where the Davis camp is. We’d be more in a direct line with the peak we’re tryin’ to reach.”
“It won’t matter where we go down this mountain,” Arlo said. “We still won’t be able to travel a straight line. Not unless we come up with some way to fly. While the tops of these peaks are mostly bare rock, the vegetation along their flanks and between them may be hell to get through. We may have to fight our way through three miles of chaparral, cactus, and greasewood just to gain less than a mile as the crow would fly.”
“I can believe that,” said Kelly. “I’ll never forget that first day Gary Davis dragged us around here on your trail. Never have I been scratched and clawed so badly. Whatever other problems we may have, I don’t think we’ll have to worry about discovery.”
“One of the few advantages of leavin’ the horses and mules behind,” Dallas said. “Anybody looking for us won’t expect to find us on foot.”
“Even with all the ugliness, there’s some beauty,” noted Kelsey. “Look at the little plants with the white blossoms and spotted leaves.”
“They have a strange name,” Arlo said. “Even if I could remember it, I couldn’t say it. The Pima Indians use those spotted leaves for a poultice that cures rattlesnake bites.”
They eventually found a way down the side of the mountain that would have been totally impossible on horseback. Fortunately, Arlo and Dallas had brought their lariats.
“This is almost straight down,” said Arlo, “so steep that even a muleskinner’s boot might slip. Kelly, you and Kelsey are going down first, and each of you will have a rope looped around your middle. Dallas and me will follow, takin’ up the slack until you reach the bottom.”
“Ah don’t reckon a cowboy’s boot ever slips,” Kelsey said mischievously, “but if it should, let go of the rope.”
They took the descent slowly, and there was no trouble.
“Coming back,” said Kelly, “if you want to knot those ropes together and raise me up to the top of the mountain, I won’t complain.”
“We’d do it in a minute,” Dallas said, with a grin, “but they’d never reach that far. Damn it, I told Arlo before we started this search for gold, every cow wrassler ought to carry at least three lariats all the time, just in case.”
They laughed, relieving the tension of the perilous descent. From there on, however, it proved no laughing matter, as Arlo’s prediction of rough terrain became altogether too accurate. They hadn’t covered a dozen yards when there was an ominous rattle that froze them all in their tracks.
“All of you stay where you are,” Arlo whispered.
The rattle ceased, and so well did the deadly reptile blend into its surroundings, none of them saw it until it slithered away, disappearing into a jumble of broken rock that had at some time in the distant past tumbled down from the mountain rim high above.
“Gary Davis would have shot him,” Kelly said, “or tried to.”
“Fool thing to do,” said Arlo, “for several reasons. If you don’t crowd them, they’ll go on their way and leave you alone. But you can’t say that for the Apaches, and in these mountains, a single shot can draw them from miles away.”
They continued on, climbing over huge masses of rock, fighting their way around all those that were impractical or impossible to climb, striving not to frighten a dozing, unseen rattler. There were dense patches of chaparral—thorny thickets—to avoid. Huge upthrusts of lava rock were a deep lavender, with bright green, yellow, and orange patches of lichen.
“Lord,” said Kelsey, “I’ve never seen a land that’s so frightening and at the same time so strangely beautiful. The saguaros are so stately … so majestic.”
Directly ahead of them was a four-armed giant that stood against the blue of the sky like an enormous green candelabrum.
“That one’s more than thirty feet high,” Arlo pointed out. “I talked to a gent once that spent all his time studying them, and he said one that’s topped thirty feet is about a hundred and fifty years old. That means this old boy was just a sprout when George Washington and his army whipped the British.”
“My God,” said Kelly, “they grow awful slow, don’t they?”
“I reckon you’d grow slow, too,” Dallas said, “if you just got water maybe once or twice a year.”
There was prickly pear, its flat, oval lobes studded with lethal spines. Other cacti littered their path, including fishhook, pincushion, hedgehog, and the most diabolical of them all, the jumping cholla. Among the larger growth they came across sage, chaparral, coffeeberry bush, wait-a-minute bush, and greasewood. An occasional paloverde and some mesquite were also in evidence, and a single tree that Kelly and Kelsey had never seen before.
“Ironwood tree,” explained Dallas. “It’s so heavy it won’t even float and so hard there ain’t an ax or saw in the world that’ll cut it. So hard, the Indians use it to make arrowheads, and they have to shape it with fire.”
“From what Uncle Henry told us,” Kelsey said, “we expected the two of you to be just simple cowboys. Now we find that you’re …”
“Not as dumb as you thought we was,” Finished Dallas, laughing.
“Are we any closer to the mountain?” Kelly asked.
“We’ve come less than a mile,” said Arlo. “Distances out here can be deceiving. It’s a lot farther than it looked from our mountaintop, and we’re going considerably out of our way getting to it. Remember, there were five peaks, and from a distance they all seemed to be in line, shoulder to shoulder. The one we’re looking for, the middle one, is somewhere east of the others.”
“We got us a good camp up yonder on the rim,” Dallas said, “and I’d be the last to suggest we give it up. But I think once we find the death’s head mountain, we’d better be looking for a place to spend some nights. I ain’t believin’ Hoss Logan fought his way through this mess of thickets, broken rock, and cactus every day.”
“Remember,” said Arlo, “Hoss wouldn’t have been dodging claim jumpers as we are. He could have traveled more in a straight line. I wouldn’t be surprised if there are passages beneath these mountains, one connected to the other. Neither would I be surprised if Paiute knows most or all of them. We lost our edge when he ran out on us, and for that reason, I’d have to agree. We do need to search for a second secluded camp so we don’t have to make this killing hike every day.”
Gary Davis and his bunch rode down the canyon, with Yavapai and Sanchez in the lead. They were bound for the peak that the Mexicans hoped might be the one referred
to in the map. R. J. Bollinger was riding alongside Davis.
“I don’t trust these Mexican varmints,” hissed Bollinger.
Davis said nothing. He didn’t trust Bollinger or the Mexicans—or for that matter, Barry Rust. Yavapai and Sanchez were useful for their knowledge of the Superstitions. And for now, he needed all their guns for possible defense against the Apaches, but once he had the gold, he’d rid himself of the lot of them.
It was dark when Sheriff Wheaton returned from his ride into the Superstitions. When he reached the livery, he dismounted and began unsaddling his horse. That was where Herk Peterson, the assayer, found him.
“This might be bad news. Sheriff,” said Peterson.
“Ain’t often I get any other kind,” Wheaton sighed. “I’m listenin’.”
“While you was gone,” said Peterson, “these jaspers rode into town from the south. Seven of ’em, and a real hardcase bunch if I ever saw one. Holed up at the Wagonwheel Saloon. They all got tied-down Colts, and the leader is a gent name of Cass Bowdre. They hadn’t been here two hours when he come over to the assay office, askin’ questions.”
“And I reckon he learned plenty,” Wheaton said.
“Not from me,” said Peterson. “Hell, Sheriff, after them seven other gents hiked in from the Superstitions this mornin’, with news of an Injun attack, dead men, a dead woman, and all them that was swallered by the mountain, there ain’t nothin’ else bein’ talked about. Some of them that survived the Injun attack, them that brought the news, they been over there in the Wagonwheel gettin’ drunk. Old Boswell’s been down there with a whole raft of questions, diggin’ up a story for his paper.”
Wheaton let out a breath and headed for the Wagonwheel Saloon, forgetting about the supper he had been anticipating. He had heard of Cass Bowdre. The man was a stone-cold killer, but he had always gone free on pleas of self-defense. The men riding with him would be of the same stripe, or worse. Wheaton hoped this undesirable lot would just ride on, and he believed he knew what their destination would be when they did. Peterson had figured them right. Old Hoss Logan had raised more hell in death than in all the years he had lived. God only knew how many more would die in the Superstitions before the Logan gold was either found or given up for lost.
Arlo, Dallas, Kelly, and Kelsey paused beneath a paloverde, seeking brief respite from the vengeful sun. They were at last in a position to see the mountain they were trying to reach.
“God,” Dallas said, “up close, it looks even worse. There might not be a way into it.”
“Right now,” said Kelsey with a sigh, “I’d trade the gold for a long drink of cold water. Or even warm water.”
“We’re going to find a source of water,” Arlo said, “before we so much as think of anything else.”
“You and Dallas seem so … resourceful,” said Kelly. “When you came into the Superstitions, why in the world didn’t you bring any canteens?”
“Because Hoss never carried one,” Arlo replied. “There’s water in the Superstitions, if you know where to look. In this heat water evaporates fast. Even if we could carry it, we’d each need at least a gallon a day just to replace what we lose. And a gallon of water weighs ten pounds.”
They trudged on. Then without warning, an arrow ripped into a saguaro a few paces ahead, another snatched off Dallas’s hat, and a third tore a gash along Arlo’s left sleeve. There was no time for talk. Dallas grabbed Kelly, Arlo got Kelsey, and the four of them went down. The only cover was a dense thicket of chaparral, and they wriggled into it.
“Dear God!” Kelsey whispered. “What now?”
“We wait,” said Arlo. “We don’t know how many we’re up against or where they are.”
“What … are they going to do?” Kelly stammered fearfully.
“Surround us,” said Dallas.
Knowing it for the futile gesture it was, Arlo and Dallas drew their Colts. It would be only a matter of time—a short time—until their adversaries crept through the brush and surrounded them.
“Oh, for our packs,” Kelly whispered, “where our pistols are.”
“If there’s enough of them to surround us,” said Dallas, “two more guns wouldn’t make much difference. They can fill us full of arrows before we even have anything to shoot at.”
“We’re in no position to fight,” Arlo said grimly. “We might get a couple of them, but they could slaughter all of us. We’ll have to put away our guns, try to look peaceful, and talk our way out of this.”
“I don’t speak a word of Apache,” said Dallas, “and unless you been holdin’ out on me, neither do you.”
“Thanks to the conquistadores,” Arlo said, “most Indians know a little Spanish, and I’m countin’ on that.”
There was no wind, and even in the shade of the chaparral thicket the heat soon became all but unbearable. Cautiously Dallas holstered his Colt and Arlo followed suit. Sudden movement might draw fire. Arlo spoke out.
“Bueno amigos, en paz.”
Dallas’s prediction proved accurate, for when the Apaches appeared, they seemed to converge from all directions. There were eight of them, every one with a Bowie in his hand, and they had the ominous look of a scalping party. None of them wore more than loincloth and moccasins, and only one had an eagle feather in his hair. It was their move. Dallas and Arlo said nothing, waiting. The eyes of the Apaches were on Kelly and Kelsey. Eagle Feather came close to Kelsey, running his fingers through her fair hair, which sparkled in the sun. The Indian said something, and his comrades responded with what seemed like bawdy remarks. Encouraged, the Apache took a handful of Kelsey’s hair, as though he intended to scalp her. Kelsey cried out, swung her small fist, and sent blood spurting from his smashed nose. The Indian stared at her in disbelief while his companions laughed. It was too much. With knives suddenly at their throats, Arlo and Dallas watched the Apache seize the front of Kelsey’s shirt and rip it open. The girl was now bare to the waist, but the Indians seemed to have lost interest in her. Their eyes were on Hoss Logan’s old silver-encased watch, which Kelsey wore around her neck on a leather thong. They seemed to recognize it.
The Apache who had made the discovery leaned close, as though listening to Kelsey’s heartbeat, but in reality listening to the ticking of the watch. When he backed away, another Indian took his place. Once they had withdrawn enough for her to do so, Kelsey pursued her small advantage. She snapped open the watch case, revealing the face of the instrument along with the old photograph of Kelly and herself. Again the Apaches crowded close. It was almost comical, the way they looked from the photograph to the girls and then back to the photograph. They talked among themselves, and while their captives understood not a word, they began to breathe easier. The Indians had clearly made a connection between the girls and Hoss Logan’s watch. Then, without a word or a backward glance, they were gone.
“Well,” said Dallas, finally, “now we know why Paiute left us the watch.”
“Yes,” Arlo said, “and we’ve learned something more about Hoss. He didn’t spend all those years in these mountains without some understanding with the Apaches. Whatever his medicine was, it’s strong enough to reach beyond the grave to protect Kelly and Kelsey.”
“I don’t know whether to be relieved or insulted,” said Kelsey, pulling the ruined shirt together. “When he ripped my shirt open, none of them had the slightest interest in anything except Uncle Henry’s watch.”
“Don’t feel too let down,” Kelly said. “This pair of cowboys did enough looking for every Indian in Arizona, and they weren’t looking at Uncle Henry’s watch. You’ve had your turn. Now let me wear it a while.”
“I’ll trade it to you for your shirt,” said Kelsey. “Mine has no buttons now.”
“These thorns are like needles,” Arlo said. “Take some of them and fasten your shirt together. They’ll hold until we get back to camp, and then I’ll let you have an extra shirt of mine. Now let’s move on to that mountain and find some water.”
Chapter 7
Yavapai and Sanchez led the way, with Davis, Rust, and Bollinger following close behind. The going got so bad at times that the men were forced to dismount and lead their horses and the pack mule.
“Dammit,” Bollinger complained, “there oughta be some better way of gettin’ there.”
“Per’ap there be,” said Sanchez cheerfully, “and you be welcome to look for it, Señor Bollinger.”
“Is that the one?” Davis asked, pointing toward a peak ahead of them.
“No,” said Yavapai. “That be what is call Weaver’s Needle. We not go so far.”
The mountain they sought, when they reached it, looked far less imposing than the one they’d just left. At its foot were jumbles of rock, a result of avalanches from the rim, and no evidence of any passage that might suggest a mine. They rode on, and when they eventually found water, it was but a shallow seep at the head of a narrow canyon. There was no natural shelter and no protection from attack.
Skeleton Lode Page 11
