Skeleton Lode

by Ralph Compton

  “Damn,” said Davis. “We’re in the wide open. Injuns can come at us from anywhere, includin’ the top of the mountain.”

  “But there be water, Señor,” Sanchez said. “If you wish to hide in the mountain, per’ap you return to him that take the señora and the señoritas.”

  “Hell, Gary,” said Bollinger in disgust, “are you that much of a damn greenhorn? The worst place a man can settle for the night is right at some water hole. We can water here and spread our blankets somewhere else.”

  “I’m fed up with you talkin’ down to me like you’re my daddy,” Davis growled.

  “Was I your daddy,” said Bollinger with a nasty laugh, “I’d take a switch to you. Reckon it wouldn’t be near as hard on you as havin’ me gut-shoot you.”

  “Before I leave these mountains,” Davis seethed, “I may do some gut-shootin’ of my own.”

  “When you’re ready,” Bollinger replied steadily. “Just try to remember my guts is in the front, not the back.”

  Disgusted at their bickering, Barry Rust wheeled his horse and rode back toward the mountain they’d been seeking. Davis galloped after him.

  “Where are you going?” Davis demanded.

  Rust reined in and kneed his horse around until he faced Davis.

  “By God,” said Rust, “I’ve had enough. How can I trust either of you when you don’t trust one another? I’m going back to Missouri.”

  He paused, expecting some objection, but there was none. Yavapai, Sanchez, and Bollinger had reined in a dozen yards behind Davis.

  “Go on,” Davis invited. “I’m sick of your whining.”

  Rust hesitated, uncertain. A bluff was only good until somebody called it. Now he had to fish or cut bait. He turned his horse and rode away. Gary Davis drew his Colt and fired twice. Rust slumped forward, his arms around the neck of the horse. One of the bullets had broken his spine. Spooked by the smell of blood and death, the horse galloped away, spilling the dying Rust from the saddle. Davis turned his horse, his Colt covering the men behind him. When he spoke, his hard eyes were on Bollinger.

  “It wasn’t to my advantage, havin’ him return to Missouri, and I feel the same about you. Keep that in mind.”

  “You double-crossing son of a bitch,” said Bollinger. “When I’m ready to ride, you won’t stop me. I aim to kill you before I go.”

  “What’s wrong with right now?” Davis taunted, holstering his Colt. “Are you afraid, mister fast gun?”

  But Bollinger made no move for his gun. Instead, he carefully took the makings from his shirt pocket and deftly rolled a quirly. Only then did he speak.

  “My time, my place, Gary. I’m like a kid waitin’ for Christmas. Just the thinkin’ of it, the lookin’ forward to it, is as pleasurable as the thing itself. I’m the cat, Gary, and you’re the mouse. I’ll kill you a thousand times before you finally die.”

  Yavapai and Sanchez looked at one another. These gringos were so malo loco, they had forgotten everything but their hatred for one another. Their eyes were alight with madness.

  “Madre de Dios,” said Sanchez softly, “when the time have come amigo, I think we have just one gringo to kill.”

  When Sheriff Wheaton elbowed his way into the Wagonwheel Saloon, he had no trouble recognizing Cass Bowdre. The man had just ordered drinks for two of those who had left the Superstitions after surviving the Indian attack. When Bowdre’s companions saw Sheriff Wheaton enter the saloon, they edged quietly away. Cass Bowdre was a big man, and none of it was fat. He was maybe thirty, black hair curling down over the collar of his denim shirt. A day’s growth of whiskers left his face with a blue tint. His nose had once been squashed flat, and it had never recovered. His rough-out boots were worn and run-over, and his Levi’s were faded white in places. An old black Stetson, dusty and sweat-stained, was shoved back on his head. The polished walnut butt of his tied-down Colt flashed in the light from an overhead lamp. But the sheriff’s eyes dwelt the longest on Bowdre’s hands. His nails were manicured, the fingers without callus or rope burn. They were not the hands of a working cowboy but the soft hands of a gambler. Or a killer.

  “I reckon you’re Bowdre,” said the sheriff. “I’m Wheaton, sheriff of Gila County.”

  “I won’t say I’m pleased,” Bowdre replied, “because I just ain’t that big a liar. So you’ve heard of me.”

  “Yes,” Wheaton said, “and I hope you’re just passing through, because you and your bunch ain’t welcome here. Tomorrow I’ll expect you to ride on and take your friends with you.”

  “Well, now,” said Bowdre, with a nasty half smile, “you’re in luck. We always like to cooperate with the law. Matter of fact, we got business elsewhere, and we do aim to ride out in the morning. Buy you a drink, Sheriff?”

  “No,” Wheaton said. The rest of Bowdre’s bunch eyed him from the corner of the saloon as he turned and left. Walking back to his office, he silently cursed Hoss Logan’s mysterious mine, the greed that drew men to gold like flies to honey, and the fact that the Superstition Mountains were within his jurisdiction.

  Shaded by a chaparral thicket, the shallow stone basin still held water from the recent storm, but the surface was entirely covered by thick green scum. When Dallas took a stick and swept the muck aside, water bugs skittered away. Arlo laughed as Kelly and Kelsey eyed me water distastefully.

  “My God,” said Kelly, “do you intend to drink that?”

  “It’s wet,” Dallas replied. “Close your eyes. Forget how it looks.”

  “In this country,” said Arlo, “the worse it looks, the safer it is to drink. Find a clear pool, and it may be so loaded with alkali that it’s unfit for man or beast. Or it may contain enough arsenic to kill you stone dead. Always look for tadpoles or water bugs, and be thankful when you find them. If they can live in the water, it’s safe for you.”

  “Belly down,” Dallas instructed, “close your eyes, and drink. The water bugs will get out of your way.”

  Thirst overcame their objections, and the girls drank. Dallas and Arlo took their turns and then the four of them moved on.

  “I can stand that once in a while,” said Kelsey with a shudder, “but let’s find some clean running water for next time. Without the bugs.”

  “We’re lucky we have fresh running water in our camp,” Arlo said, “and we have Paiute to thank for leading us to it. When we’re away from that, we have to take our chances. As well as Hoss Logan knew these mountains, any sign directing us to the gold may also lead us to a source of fresh water.”

  Somewhere to the north there were two shots.

  “That’s got to be one of the Davis bunch. Can’t be another Apache attack, or there’d be more shooting,” said Dallas.

  “They’re damn fools to be shooting at anything less than Apaches,” Arlo said. “Every Indian for miles will have heard those shots.”

  When they reached the mountain whose western face briefly reflected the death’s head at sunset, they got a rude shock, for it appeared unscalable.

  “Great God,” Dallas groaned, “it’s straight up.”

  “How did Uncle Henry get to that death’s head up there?” Kelly wondered.

  “He didn’t,” said Arlo. “He just discovered it. Strange as it seems, it has to be something the elements—wind and rain—have created over the centuries. A hundred years from now, it will likely be changed, becoming just meaningless shadows. I have a feeling that whatever message Hoss left for us won’t be on this side of the mountain. Let’s work our way around far enough for a look at the rest of it.”

  The sun was noon-high by the time they were able to see the eastern side of the mountain. There was a scattered mass of rock along the foot of it and, higher up, jutting shelves and ragged holes where the fallen debris had been torn loose.

  “Thank God it’s got some slope to it,” Dallas said. “It won’t be easy gettin’ up to that first ledge, but from there on, we can just about reach the next one by followin’ the one below it. It’s odd how the rock’
s been torn away like that, one jagged gash kind of anglin’ into the next.”

  “Some of these rockslides were caused by lightning,” said Arlo. “See that white blaze up near the top? I’d bet that’s where lightning struck and broke away that big piece of rock.”

  “The last time we saw Uncle Henry,” Kelsey said, “he was having trouble with his knees. Rheumatism, he thought. I don’t believe he could have gone up there.”

  “Smart thinking,” said Arlo, “and that tells us there’s another way. Maybe a passage, but it’s of no help to us, since we don’t know where it originates. I’d gamble that somewhere on the face of this mountain, these rockslides have created access to that interior passage. While Hoss was unable to get to it from the outside, he knew we could.”

  “When we reach the passage,” Kelly cried, “we can follow it to the mine!”

  “Whoa, little lady,” said Arlo. “It may lead us to another of Hoss’s hidden camps, or maybe just to some more clues, but not directly to the mine. Remember, Davis has as much map as we do, and sooner or later, he’s going to at least try to figure it out. He could get this far, and for that reason, I look for things to get damned complicated from here on.”

  “We have time enough to explore some of those cuts and crevices,” Dallas said. “If there is a passage and we can find it, our next trip won’t be as tough. By tomorrow, Davis and his bunch may have worked their way this far south. They won’t have to be too smart to discover us climbing up this mountain.”

  “Lord,” said Kelly, “that means we have to find that passage today or risk having them follow us.”

  “Then let’s climb that mountain,” Kelsey cried, “before they find us.”

  Again the lariats came into play, for the first break in the side of the mountain was a dozen feet above their heads.

  “Sure ain’t much up there to dab a loop on,” said Dallas doubtfully. “That little stone knob ain’t standin’ as high as the crown of my hat.”

  “It’s tall enough,” Arlo said. “But the way this rock breaks up and falls, it could snap under your weight and drop you headfirst into a pile of jagged stone.”

  “Kelsey or me can go up first,” said Kelly, “and there won’t be as much weight on the rope. Once one of us is up there, we can loop the rope around something more solid.”

  “So one of you could end up with a broken neck, instead of one of us,” Dallas said. “It don’t seem right, us standin’ by, lettin’ you take such a risk.”

  “We’re all in this together,” said Kelly with fire in her eyes, “and that means we share the risk. I’d rather break my neck than be a helpless female who’s afraid to move without some man having a grip on my shirttail.”

  “That goes for me too,” Kelsey assured them. “I can climb that rope as quick as any of you.”

  Dallas dropped his loop over the nub of rock, but the rope jumped off. He tried again with the same result.

  “Let me try,” said Arlo.

  “No,” Dallas said, his pride at stake. “I can do it. Loop’s too wide.”

  He reduced the size of the loop until it seemed barely large enough to drop over the protruding stone. The throw was more difficult, but it was successful, and this time it held. Dallas took a step up the mountain, throwing all his weight on the rope, and it seemed secure.

  “Solid enough,” said Arlo.

  “Even if it is, I still want to go up first,” said Kelly.

  Dallas stepped back, and without a word, handed her the end of the rope. He looked at Arlo, and his partner winked. They would allow these females to prove themselves and get it over with. Hand over hand, Kelly walked up the side of the mountain to the first jagged break.

  “I don’t see anything else to fasten the rope to,” she called down.

  “Then leave it where it is,” Arlo said. “How far back into the mountain does that cut go?”

  “Not even deep enough to get out of the rain,” answered Kelly.

  “I’m going up next,” Kelsey said.

  “Go on,” said Arlo. He still had his own lariat coiled over his shoulder. Before they were done, they might need it.

  Kelsey reached the first ledge as easily as Kelly had, and Dallas went next. When Arlo made the ascent, Dallas loosened his lariat, and they began looking to the next level in their climb.

  “It’s gonna be damn funny,” Dallas said, “if we fight our way to the top of this thing and don’t find a hole big enough for a prairie dog to squeeze through.”

  “You can do my share of the laughing,” said Kelly. “If we’re to believe the map with the death’s head, there has to be something here.”

  They reached the next level without using the lariats. Earth and rock had been torn loose in such a way that the second crevice angled downward into one end of the first, like a giant V laid on its side.

  “That was too easy,” Kelsey said. “We won’t find anything here.”

  She was right. They began looking for some means of climbing higher.

  “From here on,” said Dallas, “it won’t be easy gettin’ a loop on anything. Step back far enough for a good throw, and you’ll fall off the mountain.”

  “How disappointing,” Kelly mocked. “Uncle Henry was always telling us a cowboy could rope anything, even standing on his head.”

  She tried to keep a straight face, but Dallas looked at her in such a way that she had to laugh. They soon discovered, though, that there was nothing amusing about their situation. The next gap in the side of the mountain was a good twenty feet above their heads, without any apparent abutment they could rope from below.

  “One of us is goin’ to have to lizard his way up there and find a nub of rock that’ll hold a loop,” Arlo said.

  “Hold it,” said Dallas. “There’s riders coming.”

  Four rode in from the north.

  “Flatten out along this ledge,” Arlo said quickly, “and don’t move. Let’s just hope they don’t ride close and look up.”

  The four rode on, but came close enough to be spotted. Yavapai and Sanchez were leading, Gary Davis and R. J. Bollinger following.

  “Barry Rust is missing,” said Kelsey.

  “Those pistol shots we heard might explain that,” Arlo said. “Might have been a disagreement that ended in a shoot-out.”

  “Murder, maybe,” said Kelly, “but no shoot-out. Barry carried a gun, but he was no gunman. He and Bollinger were always fighting with Davis over something. Or nothing at all.”

  “If Davis did something as brutal as that,” Kelsey said, “I can’t believe Bollinger, Yavapai, and Sanchez would still be with him. How could they trust such a cruel devil of a man?”

  “Thieves and killers have a tolerance for one another,” said Dallas, “until it suits their purpose to split the blanket.”

  “That’s gospel,” Arlo said. “Let that bunch come within hollerin’ distance of gold, and none of their lives will be worth a plugged peso. Those Mex owl-hoots will be out to kill Bollinger and Davis, while Bollinger and Davis will be gunning for the Mexicans, as well as one another.”

  “Thank God we’re away from them,” said Kelly. “Mother allowed Davis to slap us around and punish us, but he never tried to … take advantage of us. But with Mother gone, he’d have moved in on us. Him and Bollinger both.”

  “Davis accused us of wanting to become camp whores,” Kelsey said. “Once he learns we’re alive and sharing your camp, he’ll destroy us.”

  “Not if somebody destroys him first,” said Dallas. “In the West, a man that mistreats a woman had better keep him a set of buryin’ clothes handy.”

  “Davis and his pards are gone,” Arlo said. “We’d better try to finish our climb before they ride back. They may be looking for a place near water to set up their camp.”

  “I don’t see any holds for hands or feet up there,” said Kelly, “but one of us has to reach that ledge and secure a rope. I’m willing to try.”

  “It’s my turn,” Arlo said, “and I’m goin’
at it the way I used to climb trees when I was a youngun.”

  He sat down and worked off his boots. His heels and big toes had eaten their way through his socks.

  “Careful you don’t rip your socks on the way up,” said Dallas dryly.

  “Shut up,” Arlo said, “or I’ll let you do this, and we’ll see what kind of shape your socks are in.”

  Standing on Dallas’s shoulders, Arlo explored the mountain’s face until he found protruding rock that his hands could grip. He hoisted himself upward, and incredibly, his bare feet sought and found support. Like an enormous spider, he slid to the edge, reaching up when he had a strong enough hold. Below, Dallas and the girls held their breath, releasing a threefold sigh when Arlo got one hand on the ledge he had to reach. He got a leg up, pulled himself over the edge, and lay there fighting for his wind. When he had his strength back, he sleeved the sweat out of his eyes and looked around. Lightning had undoubtedly struck the mountain at this point, for a substantial amount of earth and rock had been torn loose. The gash hadn’t been fully visible from below because it was hidden by the protruding lip over which he had climbed. It looked as though the Almighty might have driven a huge shovel into the mountainside from above, tearing into the wall at a downward angle. Quickly Arlo found a jutting finger of rock and secured the end of the rope to it. Then he turned to his anxious companions below and dropped the loose end of the rope to them.