“But we’re afoot,” Three-Fingered Joe pointed out. “There’s no way in hell we’ll ever catch up to ’em before they sell the horses.”
“Maybe not,” said Bowdre, “but we’re gonna give it one hell of a good try. While they got our hosses, they got no bills of sale. They’ll have to ride long and hard, and sell where nobody knows ’em. Let’s get on their trail.”
Yavapai and Sanchez took their time, secure in their belief that Bowdre and his men would spend most of the day in the passages beneath the Superstitions before learning that their horses were gone. Including the mounts Gary Davis and Pod Osteen had ridden, the Mexicans had eight horses besides their own mounts. Good horses weren’t that plentiful in the territory, and these animals might bring as much as four hundred dollars. It would be more money than the ne’er-do-well pair had seen in a while.
“Por Dios,” Yavapai sighed, “Señor Wheaton’s town be so close, but this diablo of a gringo sheriff do not trust us.”
“Si,” Sanchez laughed. “He see us, he say there be that damn Yavapai and Sanchez. When they speak they be lying. When they have somethings—especially horses— they have steal them.”
Yavapai and Sanchez had chosen a course that took them between the Gila County seat and Tortilla Flat, then to the west of Saguaro Lake. There they would rest and water the horses before traveling north, perhaps to Flagstaff or Prescott. They dared not ride south, where one gringo sheriff after another stood ready to accuse them of any crime that had taken place while they were within a hundred miles of the area. Yavapai reined in, sniffing the air.
“Smoke,” said Yavapai.
“Per’ap you ride ahead,” Sanchez said.
He gathered their small herd, holding them while Yavapai investigated the smoke.
“Smoke be from Señor Logan’s cabin,” said Yavapai when he returned. “There be two horses and two mules. Horses look ver’ much like those w’ich the Señors Wells and Holt be riding.”
“Ah,” Sanchez laughed. “Comico, comico. Señor Bowdre seeks gold w’ich these Wells and Holt hombres already find. Why else would they have go from the mountains?”
“Si,” agreed Yavapai. “Per’ap we sell these horses, buy ourselfs the food, and return. Once we have follow them to the gold, how could they refuse to share it with us?”
“I think they do not object if we take it all for ourselfs,” Sanchez grinned, “since they all be dead.”
The pair rode on. They were unknown in northern Arizona Territory, but so was the territory unknown to them. It was a wild land where Apaches reigned supreme, from the Mazatzal Mountains north to Tonto Basin.
The day following the arrival of the four young folks at Hoss Logan’s cabin was a day of rest for Arlo and Kelsey. Since they were less than a mile from Saguaro Lake, that’s where Dallas and Kelly headed when boredom got the best of them. They had gone to the western edge of the lake and were resting beneath some willows when they first saw the driven horses and the two riders. The pair had circled the lake from the south and would pass well to the west of it without coming within sight of the cabin.
“Yavapai and Sanchez,” Kelly said. “What are they up to? Where are they going? I can’t figure them out.”
“I can,” said Dallas, laughing. “They’re horse thieves, and now that bunch up there in the Superstitions lookin’ for Hoss’s gold ain’t got a horse to their name. That Mex pair was just waitin’ for the right time and place, and I reckon they found both.”
“They must have been left to watch the horses while the rest of the men started searching the passages,” Kelly said.
“That’s how I figure it,” said Dallas. “Gary Davis played hell, leavin’ that pair on watch. Now they’re ridin’ north, hopin’ to find a town where the sheriff won’t recognize them.”
“This will bring the rest of those men out of the tunnels and out of the mountains,” Kelly said, “and when they trail Yavapai and Sanchez, they’ll pass close to our cabin. Hadn’t we better hide the horses and the mules?”
“Only the mules,” said Dallas. “By the time they get this far on foot, Arlo and me will be gone. If that bunch learns we’ve moved to the cabin, they may decide we’ve already found the mine, and begin hunting us instead. We don’t want them knowin’ we’ve pulled out from the Superstitions until we’ve had a chance to explore that underground canyon where the river runs. I believe that’s where we’re going to find either the mine itself or the secret to it. Before these other hombres discover the dropoff and the river, it’s damned important that Arlo and me climb down there and find some better way in and out. The very last thing we want is to be discovered and to have to fight with them in one of the passages. With what we’re expecting to discover somewhere along that underground river, we may eliminate that very possibility.”
“Perhaps we owe Yavapai and Sanchez a debt of gratitude, then,” Kelly said. “Those men are going to be angry when they discover their horses are gone. Won’t this slow them down in their search for the gold?”
“I’d say so,” said Dallas. “Even if they’ve got food, they’ll be on edge, uneasy, being without horses. A Western man just ain’t comfortable without his horse, even if he’s got a pair of broke legs and can’t ride.”
Dallas and Kelly returned to the cabin, reported what they had seen, and Dallas added his own conclusions.
“In the morning before first light,” said Arlo, “I aim for us to ride out for the Superstitions. Before we go, we’ll picket the mules a considerable distance away from here. This bunch would walk in here and steal them in a minute.”
“That ain’t the biggest problem,” Dallas said. “Kelly and Kelsey will be here alone.”
“I’m thinking of that,” said Arlo, “but there’s no help for it. We’ll leave them well armed, and I don’t aim for them coyotes to have a reason for nosin’ around here. We’ll have our breakfast before daylight. Kelly, you and Kelsey will have to stay inside and don’t snow any smoke at any time during the day.”
Chapter 14
Darkness caught Yavapai and Sanchez in the foothills of the Mazatzal Mountains. Thinking they were a day ahead of Cass Bowdre and his vengeful bunch, they made camp beside a fast-running creek. They cooked their supper, and with the horses safely picketed, shucked their dusty, sweaty clothes and waded into the water. It was already dusk and they had seen nobody. But suddenly that changed.
“Madre de Dios!” Yavapai shouted. “Indios come!”
They came riding in from the north, a dozen strong. Arrows thudded into the farthest bank of the creek, while others zipped over the heads of the terrified Mexicans. Fear set their feet in motion and they scrambled out on the farther bank. Yavapai screeched as an Apache arrow tore a gash along his naked flank, and without regard for the possible consequences, they leaped headlong into a thicket. There they lay, scratched and bleeding, hardly daring even to breathe. They could hear splashing as some of the Indians rode across the creek. But it was dark, and the searchers soon turned away, lured by the delighted shouts of their comrades as they tore into the bountiful supplies Yavapai and Sanchez had taken from Bowdre’s camp. To the horror of the miserable Mexicans, the Indians built up a fire, made camp, and prepared to remain there for the night. Yavapai and Sanchez had to stay in the thicket, naked and sleepless, until dawn streaked the eastern sky. Only then did the Indians mount up and ride back the way they had come, driving the ten horses before them. Yavapai and Sanchez waited until they were certain the Indians had gone before they got wearily to their feet and stumbled out into the open. They were half frozen, a mass of cuts and scratches, full of thorns in their feet and other tender parts.
“Por Dios,” Yavapai sighed. “The world have gone to hell when a man’s stolen horses are taken from him by bastardo Indios.”
“Si,” Sanchez agreed, “but may’ap they leave our clothes and our boots.”
They splashed across the creek, the cold water reviving the many hurts they had suffered, and found nothing but a s
moldering fire. They quickly discovered their already miserable situation had only become worse, for among the ashes were the blackened remains of the boots and clothes they so desperately needed.
“They be welcome to the horses,” Yavapai shouted, “but I kill the bastardos for burning my boots and clothes.”
“The Indios have leave us with our lives,” said Sanchez. “I be wondering if may’ap the Señor Bowdre not be so generous.”
“Señor Bowdre cannot accuse us of stealing horses,” Yavapai said, “when we have not even a horse to ride. Per’ap we have misjudge the gringo sheriff Wheaton. He be less a diablo than the Señor Bowdre.”
“He not be ’appy to see us,” said Sanchez, “naked and in the daylight.”
“It be long walk,” Yavapai said. “It be dark before we get there.”
The dejected pair set out, heading southwest, carefully avoiding their back trail, which they fully expected Cass Bowdre to follow.
Coming within sight of Hoss Logan’s cabin, Bowdre and his weary followers paused. When they saw no sign of life, they trudged on, following a trail made easy by the abundant rain of the night before.
“Damn a yellow coyote that takes a man’s horse,” Sandoval growled. “Why ain’t there some way a horse-stealin’ Mex can be killed more’n once?”
“I’d settle for once,” said Three-Fingered Joe, “if I just knowed we’d get ’em, and get our horses back.”
“We will,” Bowdre said, “because we ain’t stoppin’ for the night. We’ll make up the time they lose and catch up sometime in the morning.”
Bowdre and his comrades passed to the west of Saguaro Lake and went on, following the trail.
“The varmints must know this country,” said Zondo Carp. “Elsewise, they wouldn’t be headed this way. Them mountains ain’t too far ahead, and to me that means Injuns. Damn Apaches, likely.”
“I doubt that pair of thieving coyotes know this north country any better than we do,” Bowdre said. “They’re just trying to get to someplace where nobody knows ’em.”
“Well, by God, that’s encouragin’,” huffed Os Ellerton. “We could run headlong into Apaches and lose our hair as well as our horses.”
“We got that pair of varmints ridin’ ahead of us,” Bowdre said, “and if they can make it, so can we.”
“We might find ’em with their bellies shot full of Apache arrows,” said Sandoval. “If that happens, where do we go from there?”
“Back the way we come,” Bowdre said, “just as fast as we can hoof it.”
“It hurt us, losin’ Osteen,” Zondo said. “I know he was El Diablo to get along with, but he was another gun.”
“He made his choice,” Bowdre said, turning hard eyes on Zondo. “Osteen proved two important things a man on the frontier can’t afford to forget. First, you gotta have good judgment, and second, a fast draw can be the death of you if you can’t hit what you’re shootin’ at.”
Bowdre called a halt when they reached a spring half a dozen miles north of Saguaro Lake. When they eventually resumed their journey, the sun was less than an hour above the western horizon.
“Won’t be much moon tonight,” Sandoval said. “Somebody with better eyes than me will have to pick out the trail.”
“They’re travelin’ almost due north,” said Bowdre, “and you don’t need a full moon to tell you which way that is. We’ll just keep headin’ north, and come first light, we’ll circle until we cross the trail. No way in hell we’ll ever catch ’em if we dawdle around and wait for daylight.”
Wearily they stumbled on, resting only when Bowdre permitted it. An hour before dawn, Bowdre called a halt until first light. They found the trail without difficulty and followed it to its end at the deserted Indian camp beside the creek. None of them liked the way the story seemed to have ended, but the sign was there plain enough. The tracks of their shod horses led north, overlaid with the tracks of half a dozen unshod ponies.
“Damn it,” growled Three-Fingered Joe, “we walk halfway across Arizona Territory and what’s our gain? We got to walk all the way back.”
“I reckon it’d be worth the walk,” Bowdre said, “if the Injuns had roasted that pair of coyotes over a slow fire.”
“Could be they did,” said Carp, kicking at charred objects in the ashes of the dead fire. “If I’m any judge, there’s what’s left of a couple pairs of boots and a considerable pile of buttons.”
“Burnt their clothes and boots,” Bowdre said, “but that don’t mean they was in ’em at the time. Injuns might have stripped ’em, took ’em back to camp, an’ forced ’em to run the gauntlet. Just to be sure, let’s look around a mite, on the chance the varmints might of made a run for it.”
“Injuns rode in from the north,” said Sandoval, “and looks like a couple of ’em run their horses across the creek. Why would they of done that, stoppin’ there?”
“Might have been close to dark when the Injuns showed up,” Ellerton said. “The Mex varmints saw ’em comin’ and made a break into the brush.”
“Leavin’ their clothes and boots behind,” said Bowdre.
“Wouldn’t you,” Sandoval asked, “if you was in the creek washin’ yourself and a passel of Injuns come gallopin’ at you?”
“I reckon I would,” Bowdre grinned. “If it happened close to dark, them Mex coyotes likely got away. Let’s all drop back to the south and circle. I want to know if the varmints are alive. Just because I can’t gut-shoot the pair of ’em today don’t mean I can’t do it some other time.”
Three-Fingered Joe found the first bare footprint in a patch of sand.
“They lit out for town,” Bowdre said.
“Where we ain’t welcome.” said Os Ellerton. “You aim to buck that hardheaded Sheriff Wheaton just to get at them Mexes?”
“They can wait,” Bowdre said. “I just wanted to know they’re alive, that they’ll be around when I’m ready for ’em. We got to have hosses, and right now that comes ahead of ever’ thing else.”
“I’ll amen that,” said Sandoval, “but we got a pair of problems. They likely ain’t no horses to be had, and if they was, we ain’t got the money to buy.”
“No matter,” Bowdre said, “because we ain’t buyin’. We’ll pick some of these minin’ towns, such as Globe, and take the hosses we need. Before this sheriff can tie it back to us, we’ll be out of the territory.”
Sheriff Wheaton took pride in the fact that his town, except for occasional uproar in the Mexican quarter, had become a peaceful village. There were still killings in distant towns within Gila County, but fortunately most of the voters lived near the county seat. At first the sheriff thought the pounding on his door was part of a bad dream, but when he sat up in bed, wide awake, the noise continued. At the door he found a young Mexican boy, barefoot and clad only in his nightshirt.
“What is it, Pablo? Somebody dead or dying?”
“Per’ap muy pronto, Señor Sheriff,” said Pablo. “It be Yavapai and Sanchez. They be stealing, desnudo.”
“I reckon Yavapai and Sanchez showin’ up possum naked at three in the mornin’ ain’t a pretty sight, Pablo, but that ain’t reason enough for shootin’ the varmints. Not even in Arizona Territory. What else they done?”
“They steal,” said Pablo. “They rob our clothesline. You no come, Mama kill.”
“All right,” Wheaton sighed. “Give me time to get my britches and boots on.”
The sheriff closed the door and stood there knuckling the sleep from his eyes. He was sorely tempted to go back to bed and let Pablo’s mama shoot the troublesome Mexicans, but curiosity got the best of him. Their need for clothing was obvious, but how had the fool Mexicans ended up stark naked and trying to rob a clothesline? By the time Wheaton reached Pablo’s backyard, a crowd had gathered, some of them with lanterns. Women and young girls giggled, men laughed, but Pablo’s mama was all business, holding a shotgun on the hapless Yavapai and Sanchez. Disturbed by the commotion, chickens wandered about, clucking in sleepy con
fusion. When Sheriff Wheaton appeared, everybody began shouting at once.
“Quiet!” the sheriff bawled. The uproar trailed off into silence.
“Señor Sheriff …” Sanchez began.
“Save it,” Wheaton growled. “I’ll hear your story in the morning, and it’d better be damn good. Now the rest of you get back to bed. The show’s over.”
As Yavapai and Sanchez trudged ahead of him toward the jail, Sheriff Wheaton grinned at their scratched and bloody backsides. For once, he thought, these slippery coyotes won’t have to lie. The truth will be spectacular enough. For the first time in their lives Yavapai and Sanchez welcomed a jail cell.
“The leg still pains me some,” Arlo said, “but it’ll support me. Anyway, I can’t stand another day of loafing. Kelsey, how are you feeling?”
Skeleton Lode Page 22
