“It’s mine,” he howled. “Mine!”
“It’s just a handful of ore,” said Bowdre, “worthless unless you know where it came from. Where? Where did you get it?”
“I don’t know,” Davis bawled, his mood changing. “I swear I don’t know!”
“Lawd God,” breathed Mose Fowler in awe. “He find the gold, but lose his soul to the spirits in the mountain.”
Nobody disagreed, or even laughed. They were seeing frightful evidence of a thing they didn’t understand; and it had a sobering effect. Had Gary Davis swapped his very sanity for a fistful of gold ore?
“I ain’t a superstitious man,” said Zondo Carp, “but there’s somethin’ purely unnatural about this. Where’n hell do we go from here?”
“We wait for mornin’,” Bowdre said. “Two things we’re sure of. We know there’s gold, and we know Davis has been near enough to grab a handful of ore. In the daylight maybe he’ll come to his senses and remember where he got it.”
“If he comes to his senses and remembers anything,” said Os Ellerton, “he ain’t gonna cut us in. Not the way he fought over that handful of ore he brung out. You’re all fools if you expect him to share with us.”
“Oh, he’ll share with us,” Bowdre said, “alive or dead. The choice will be his.”
Domingo Vasquez was a fat cigar-smoking little man who dressed like a beggar. For all practical purposes, his only interest was his little cantina in the Mexican quarter. But things were not always as they seemed, for Vasquez was the silent partner in every successful saloon and whorehouse in the quarter. All these questionable enterprises lived or died by his favor. When there was a crime serious enough to involve the law. Sheriff Wheaton never bothered to search for the culprit. Instead, the sheriff went to Domingo Vasquez, and the problem was resolved quietly. The troublemaker was never seen or heard from again, having disappeared voluntarily or otherwise. While some of the “citizens” of the quarter were of questionable reputation, they were all in the employ of Domingo Vasquez and so enjoyed a measure of protection. It was just such a status that Yavapai and Sanchez sought. But in his dingy office behind the cantina, Vasquez eyed the pair skeptically.
“So the hombres who seek the gold drive you away,” said Domingo, “and while you are running for your lives, Indios take your horses and your clothes.”
“Si,” said Yavapai and Sanchez in a single voice.
“So the pair of you sneak into town like coyotes and rob a poor señora’s clothesline. You have vexed my friend the sheriff, made asnos of yourselves, and now you are expecting me to take you in.”
“Si.” said the humble duo, “but we do much in return.”
“Let us see if what you do includes the telling of the truth!” Domingo roared. Leaning across the desk, he reached one big hand for Yavapai and the other for Sanchez. Taking a fistful of each man’s shirt, he dragged them halfway across the desk. “Coyotes,” he growled. “Desnudo bastardos! I believe the Indios take your clothes and your horses, but I also believe there is more. Why do these hombres chase you away from the mountains? The truth, cucaraches, the truth!”
“Si,” said Sanchez unhappily, “the truth.” He wiped sweat from his face on the sleeve of his borrowed shirt.
“We steal all the horses,” Yavapai said fearfully, “and these hombres follow. We do not run to the south, for there the sheriffs misunderstand us. We must ride to the north, and there be Indios.”
Domingo Vasquez flung the cowering pair back into their chairs with a crash. He then flattened his big hands on the desk and roared with laughter. Yavapai and Sanchez had finally begun to breathe again when he spoke.
“You will take the room at the head of the stairs.” On a sheet of paper he wrote rapidly in Spanish, signed his name, and passed the message to Sanchez. “Take that to the general store and buy for yourselves clothing, boots, guns, and ammunition. When you have done these things, we will talk again.”
“Horses,” Yavapai began. “We be without …”
“Por Dios,” Domingo roared. “They will be at the livery when you have need of them.”
“The señor sheriff,” said Sanchez. “Per’ap he wonder …”
“I talk to the sheriff,” Domingo said impatiently. “Now vamoose, and from this very momento, the pair of you will do nothing until I have ordered it. Comprender?” He passed the flat of his hand across his throat like the blade of a knife.
Yavapai and Sanchez swallowed hard. “Si,” they said in a single voice. “Comprender.”
Chapter 16
Arlo, Dallas, Kelly, and Kelsey rode out at first light, bound for the newly discovered entrance to the Superstitions.
“Because of last night’s rain, we’re leavin’ tracks,” said Arlo, “but there shouldn’t be anybody to follow us.”
“Let’s not count on that,” Dallas warned. “Since we’re not going in through the mountain, why don’t we leave our horses a good distance away? It’ll mean some walkin’, just gettin’ to the mountain, but it’s better than givin’ away all that we’ve worked so hard to find.”
“I’m glad we have the lanterns,” said Kelly. “We’ll need the extra light.”
“That could become a problem,” Arlo observed, “if those other hombres follow the passage to that drop-off overlooking the river. It’s so dark in there, even the flames from these lanterns can be seen from a long way off.”
“As of yesterday morning,” said Kelsey, “six of them were on foot. It’s hard to believe they’d go back to the Superstitions without horses, even to look for gold.”
“They’ll need grub, too,” Dallas said. “I can’t see Yavapai and Sanchez taking all the horses and leaving the provisions behind.”
“Since Yavapai and Sanchez know of the mine, what’s to stop them from coming back and looking for it on their own?” said Kelly.
“Six good reasons,” Arlo said, “and every one of them with blistered feet. Horse thieves just about have to quit the territory, but the smart ones generally don’t drive their horses through Apache country. I’ll be surprised if Yavapai and Sanchez made it even as far as the Mazatzals with their hair and their horses.”
Bowdre and his men slept little, kept awake by the fitful mumbling of Gary Davis. He seemed plagued with devils and demons, and his unsavory companions welcomed the first gray light of dawn.
“We got to rid ourselves of this spooky varmint,” Zondo Carp muttered about Davis. “He’s playin’ hell with my nerves.”
“He’s seen the gold,” said Bowdre, “and until he convinces me he can’t find it again, I’ll put up with him.”
“I’ll go along with that,” Os Ellerton said. “Now who’s gonna ride back to Tortilla Flat for grub? I ain’t liftin’ a hand to do nothin’ until I eat.”
But the lack of food soon became the least of their problems. The Apaches hit them swiftly and without warning. Mose Fowler grunted, his horrified eyes on the arrow buried deep in his belly.
“Lawd … God!” he cried. “I … be … dead.”
Suddenly, Apaches burst out of the brush on both sides of the canyon at a zigzag run, loosing more arrows as they came. Bowdre and his men pulled their Colts and returned the fire belly down.
“Damn it, Davis!” Bowdre shouted. “Get down!”
But Gary Davis seemed not to hear. Unarmed, he struck off toward the advancing Apaches at an erratic lope, screaming like a cougar. Arrows whipped past all around him, and it seemed a miracle that not one of them touched him. It all seemed eerie, unnatural. Again Davis squalled like a gut-shot mountain lion, and the sound halted the Indians in their tracks. They ran for the brush, vanishing as quickly as they had appeared. Davis seemed confused. With only the empty canyon before him, he turned and walked slowly back the way he had come.
“My God,” said Zondo Carp, “look at them eyes!”
Davis seemed not to see them, or anything else. In his eyes was a look that defied description. His arms hung loose at his sides, and he kept clenching and unclenching his fist
s. Mose Fowler lay on his back dead, his hands gripping the shaft of the arrow in a final, futile attempt to withdraw it. Davis paused, looked at the dead man, and let loose a blood-chilling scream that seemed anything but human.
“He purely scared hell out of that bunch of Apaches,” said Bowdre. “They think he’s crazy as a loon.”
“I can’t fault ’em for that,” Sandoval said. “I think he is too.”
“By God, I ain’t spendin’ another night in camp with the loco varmint,” said Three-Fingered Joe. “He’s got the strength of a bull buffalo, and he could kill us all. Way he was clenchin’ them fists, he’s just waitin’ to get ’em on somebody’s throat, and I don’t aim for it to be mine.”
“He still may come out of it and lead us to the gold,” Bowdre said. “He’s the best lead we got, and with them Apaches thinkin’ he’s crazy, he’s worm more to us than a company of soldiers.”
“If he’s all that valuable,” said Zondo Carp, “you’d best figure on keepin’ him away from me. If he comes at me twitchin’ them big hands, I’ll shoot him dead.”
“Somethin’ about the Injun attack set him off,” Bowdre said. “Take four of the mules around to the west side of that mountain and find the trail up to the rim. Take the mules to that hidden camp Wells and Holt was usin’, and take Davis with you. I’ll take an extra mule with me, and ride to Tortilla Flat to get us some grub. We’ll be needin’ grain for the mules, too.”
“Some risky,” Sandoval said, “them mules runnin’ off, and you showin’ up with two of ’em trail-branded.”
“A risk I’ll have to take,” said Bowdre.
“You want we should do somethin’ with Mose?” Os Ellerton asked.
“Yeah,” said Bowdre. “Take his Colt, holster, and belt, and go through his pockets.”
Domingo Vasquez wasted no time in getting Yavapai and Sanchez involved in the search for Hoss Logan’s mine. Vasquez had done some investigating on his own, and like everyone else in town, he was very much aware of the rich ore sample Hoss Logan had left at the assayer’s office. While Vasquez hadn’t all that much confidence in Yavapai and Sanchez, they had been involved in the search for the mine almost since the beginning. The search for gold would enable Vasquez to utilize certain of his men who were ill-suited for any activity subject to the ever-watchful eyes of Sheriff Wheaton. But men often died in the Superstitions, and when they did, it became difficult—if not impossible—to affix the blame. So, much to their dismay and contrary to their expectations, Yavapai and Sanchez now found themselves part of a gang, taking orders from a leader appointed by Domingo Vasquez, a big, ugly Spaniard known only as Juarez. He carried two tied-down Colts and secreted a Bowie down his back on a leather thong, like an Indian. He was a killer, and south of the border there was more than one price on his head.
“All of you will answer to Juarez,” said Domingo, his eyes on Yavapai and Sanchez, “and Juarez will answer to me.”
The rest of the unsavory outfit consisted of Pepino Frio, Garcia Ruiz, and the Ortega brothers, Juan and Juno. Pepino was a skinny youth with a nervous twitch. Before he was out of his teens, five notches decorated the butt of his Colt. Ruiz was a brute with bad teeth who was constantly fiddling with a deck of cards. Like Juarez, he concealed his razor-keen Bowie Indian fashion. The Ortegas were so much alike that it was difficult to tell them apart. Both were thin and wiry, and their flat-crowned hats were banded with silver conchos. The pair had ambushed a government wagon train, gunned down its military escort, and fled Mexico to escape a firing squad. The lot of them now sat around a table at the rear of Domingo Vasquez’s cantina. Domingo’s instructions to them were brief.
“Yavapai and Sanchez know these mountains,” he said, “and they be familiar also with this Wells and Holt. Follow them. When you are sure we have found the gold, take it.”
He didn’t elaborate, nor did he need to. They had all stolen before, and always without complaint, for the dead did not speak.
Cass Bowdre paused within sight of the general store at Tortilla Flat. A single horse was tied at the hitch rail, and Bowdre cursed under his breath. He had come early, hoping he might find the place deserted. Now it seemed there would be at least one person other than the storekeeper who might later identify him. He quickly decided against concealing the mules and walking to the store, for such a furtive move would only attract attention. Besides, he had to buy several hundred pounds of grain. He waited a while, hoping the lone horseman would mount up and ride away, but it didn’t happen. Perhaps the horse belonged to the storekeeper. Pinning his hopes on that possibility and impatient to make his purchases and be gone, Bowdre rode in. He tethered the mules to the rail on the side of the store away from the horse. Just as he entered, the other rider left. Unless he had come for tobacco, the man had bought nothing, and that troubled Bowdre. The rider was looking for something. Or somebody. Bowdre resisted a powerful temptation to turn and watch the other man ride away. Instead, he went on into the store and quickly made his purchases.
“Need help totin’ it out?” the storekeeper asked.
“No, thanks,” said Bowdre. “I can manage it.” He didn’t want the man seeing and maybe remembering the mules.
Bowdre soon rode out, watchful but seeing nobody. Once he was on the plain, among the chaparral and greasewood, he began to breathe easier. But he had been too hasty, letting down his guard. From somewhere behind him, a man spoke.
“Hold it, mister.” There was the ominous snick of a pistol being cocked, and the icy voice spoke again.
“Turn around, and make it slow. Then you can tell me where you got them mules, and it’d better be a good story.”
Arlo, Dallas, Kelly, and Kelsey approached the Superstitions from the west, leaving their mounts far from the newly discovered entrance to the river that ran beneath the mountains. If they were being followed, it would seem that they were approaching the concealed trail that led to their old camp beneath the rim. Instead, they would follow the base of the mountain until they reached the entrance to the hidden riverbed. Their approach put them in a good position to view Cass Bowdre’s outfit laboring up the precipitous trail toward the mountain rim.
“They’re on their way to our old camp,” Dallas said.
“Five of them,” said Arlo, “but just four mules.”
“If that’s the men who tried to break in on us,” Kelly said, “they got some mules in a hurry. But where is the sixth man?”
“No way for us to know,” said Arlo, “but we do know that they haven’t given up, and that they’re likely movin’ in to our old camp. That means by tomorrow they’ll be lookin’ for the gold again.”
“Then we’d better explore the upper end of that river today,” Dallas said. “We need to be as far downriver from that drop-off as we can before they get back into those tunnels.”
They watched the five men and the mules disappear into the split in the mountain, on their way to the western rim.
“If we really wanted to deal ’em some grief,” said Arlo, “we could wait until they’re in the passages beneath the mountain and then take their mules.”
“It would serve them right,” Kelsey said. “Why don’t we?”
“It would just take time that we really can’t spare,” said Dallas. “Besides, that won’t stop them from finding this drop-off leading to the underground river.”
* * *
Only once before had Cass Bowdre been in so perilous a position, and he still bore a pair of mean scars to remind him of it. When a man had the drop from behind, only a fool bucked the odds, but Bowdre had no choice. His only ace was the mules, for they would be between himself and the man with the gun. Bowdre rolled out of his saddle on the off side, pulling and cocking his Colt as he fell. The stranger’s gun roared once, twice, three times, one of the slugs nicking the Bowdre’s mule. The animal reared, braying in fear and pain, and galloped away. The stranger’s fourth shot was high, as Bowdre’s slug tore through his middle. He slid out of his saddle, losing the
gun as he hit the ground.
The dying man looked at Bowdre through squinted, pain-wracked eyes and spoke. “You’d kill a man … fer … a pair … of mules?”
“I done no more than you aimed to do,” said Bowdre callously, “and you had the drop. You’re a fool.”
Bowdre turned away, hating the man for forcing him into a shoot-out. The man’s frightened horse had lit out for God knew where, and the empty saddle would tell his companions all they needed to know. The pack mule had galloped after the one Bowdre had been riding, and eventually he found them. His mount had a nasty gash along its left flank. He led the mules back near where the dead man lay, but not close enough for the smell of death to spook them. Before he could go on, he had to dispose of the body. If he left it, buzzards would be circling before he could get back to the Superstitions. Even worse, he thought gloomily, was the possibility that the shots had been heard in the early-morning stillness. He quickly searched the area and eventually found an arroyo that disappeared into a chaparral thicket. He went through the dead man’s pockets and took a wallet that contained a little more than a hundred dollars. Finally he rolled the body into the deepest part of the arroyo and caved in the sides. He smoothed over the damp earth, eliminating his tracks, and then returned to the scene of the shooting. Fortunately the area was overrun with buffalo grass, and there was virtually no evidence of what had transpired. But there were the tracks of the dead man’s horse after he had left the store and the tracks of Bowdre’s mules. Worse, the runaway horse could have backtracked, and it would be just a matter of time until the dead man would be discovered. There had been six drovers with the mule herd, and that meant the hombre Bowdre had gunned down would have five friends looking for him. More than enough for a necktie party.
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