Chapter 15

Sunset was less than two hours away when Cass Bowdre and his angry companions reached the west bank of Saguaro Lake on their return journey. Their feet were blistered almost beyond endurance, and they hadn’t eaten since breakfast of the day before.

“We got to have grub,” Bowdre said. “Must be a ranch or some miner’s shack where we can get a feed.”

Nobody said anything. They stumbled on, following the southern perimeter of the lake until they came within sight of Hoss Logan’s cabin.

“Place looks deserted,” said Three-Fingered Joe.

“All the better,” Zondo Carp said. “Still might be grub there. We can break in and help ourselves.”

Quietly they made their way to the cabin and Bowdre tried the door.

“Damn,” he growled, “it’s barred from the inside. Zondo, see if there’s a back door, and if there is, try it.”

“The back door’s barred too,” reported Zondo when he returned. “That means somebody’s in there.”

“We’ll find out,” Bowdre said. “If nobody answers, we’ll bust in.” He pounded on the door with the butt of his Colt.

Kelly Logan, looking out a slit in one of the shuttered windows did not like the looks of the six men at the door.

“Who are you?” she demanded. “And what do you want?”

“Who we are don’t concern you,” said Bowdre. “Injuns took our hosses. We’re afoot and hungry.”

“Sorry,” Kelly said. “We don’t know you. My sister’s sick, and we don’t have more than enough food for ourselves.”

Angrily Zondo Carp kicked the door as hard as he could. There was a roar from within the cabin and two slugs ripped through the door. One of them snatched off Bowdre’s hat and the other nicked Carp’s left ear. The men scattered to either side of the door, out of the line of fire.

“Break that door in,” Kelly shouted angrily, “and I’ll kill the first man through it. Leave us alone!”

Bowdre backed away and the others followed.

“Damn them,” growled Zondo, nursing his bleeding ear. “I’ll gather some dead leaves and brush, and bum the place down on top of ’em.”

“Just what we need,” Sandoval said sarcastically. “A big smoke to draw attention to us, when we ain’t got a horse to our name. Damn good thinkin’, Zondo.”

“Come on,” said Bowdre. “Botherin’ a woman could get us all strung up quicker than hoss stealin’. We’ll find us one of them little minin’ settlements and get us some grub at their general store.”

Kelsey Logan watched them leave, still gripping the Colt with both hands.

“Who could they have been?” Kelsey asked.

“I believe it’s that bunch from the Superstitions,” said Kelly. “They’re on foot, so that means they didn’t recover the horses Yavapai and Sanchez took. But there’s something I don’t understand. There were only six men, but Yavapai and Sanchez had eight extra horses. What’s become of Gary Davis?”

“Perhaps he got on the bad side of this bunch and they killed him,” Kelsey suggested. “Davis was mean and cruel, but he was no gunman.”

Bowdre and his weary companions finally reached what remained of a little town after its silver strike had played out. Nothing was left but a few die-hard residents and a not-too-well-provisioned general store.

“Know of anybody with some hosses to sell?” Bowdre inquired. “We lost ours to the Injuns.”

“Nope,” said the store owner, “but if you’d been here a mite sooner, you might have dickered for some big mules. Not more’n two hours ago, six gents was through here with twenty-one mules. Big brutes, ever’ one of ’em, brung in from Missouri through Santa Fe. On their way south fer work in the mines, I reckon.”

When Bowdre and his men left the store it was almost dark, but they could still see to pick up the trail of the drovers and their mules.

“Be a sight easier to wait for these hombres to bed down, and us just kill the lot of ’em,” Os Ellerton said. “Then we don’t have to worry about ’em follerin’ us with fire in their eyes an’ guns in their hands.”

“Don’t be a damn fool,” Bowdre growled. “Kill ’em and we’d have the law on our tail. You think that old gent back there at the store ain’t gonna remember the six of us on foot and askin’ for hosses? No, we find these mules, and slick as we can, stampede ’em to hell and gone. With nobody seein’ us, we grab six of the brutes and ride ’em into the Superstitions. For a while we can leave ’em at that hidden camp where Wells and Holt was hidin’ out.”

Following Bowdre’s orders, they found and staked out the drovers’ camp until moonset. Soon after, the mules stampeded.

Deep in the shadow of the overhang, his back against the wall, Paiute watched as Arlo tried desperately to swing himself in close enough to gain the safety of the ledge. On the last forward swing, just as Arlo smashed his head against the stone, Paiute seized the young cowboy’s belt. Though Arlo was a dead weight and almost dragged the old Indian over the edge, Paiute held fast. Stretching Arlo out belly down on the stone ledge, he felt for a pulse and found it strong. He then disappeared into the shadows.

“Arlo!” Dallas shouted.

There was no response. Dallas attached the other lantern to his belt, looped the extra rope over his shoulder, and began hand-walking down the same rope that was still tied under Arlo’s arms. Finally, just as Arlo had been, Dallas was suspended in space, unable to reach the ledge on which Arlo now lay. Arlo stirred, finally able to sit up, and was shocked into action by the predicament in which he found Dallas. He pulled on the rope, bringing Dallas close enough that he was able to get his feet on the ledge. Dallas fell to his knees, gasping for breath.

“That was a damn fool move,” Arlo said, “comin’ down after me without knowin’ what the trouble was. It was very nearly the death of me. I wasn’t far enough down for my head to clear that stone, and I swung right into it. I was knocked plumb blind and crazy for a minute or two.”

“I don’t see how you made it,” said Dallas. “You was all sprawled out, the lantern still burnin’, when I first saw you.”

“When it hit my head,” Arlo said, “just a second before I blacked out, I’d swear somethin’ grabbed me. I still don’t know how I made that ledge. I just don’t remember it. I thought I was a goner.”

“This ledge narrows down some,” said Dallas, “but it runs along the face of the rock for a ways. Since you come near to gettin’ your brains bashed out, you just lay back and rest. I’m gonna take a lantern and look around some. I want to see how far I can go before the ledge plays out.”

The ledge soon became so narrow that Dallas had to walk sideways, his back flat against the wall. This was not a passage, but a mere crack in the sheer stone, and kneeling was impossible. He held the lantern in his right hand, raising it, then lowering it as far down as he could. He had progressed only a few feet when he came upon a thin, head-high crevice, into which were driven three oak pins.

“Arlo!” Dallas shouted. “I’ve found a way down to the river!”

Arlo brought the other lantern, and they crept slowly through the split in the stone. The split slanted downward toward the rushing river, which now grew louder. When they finally stepped out of the confining rock, water sloshed around their boots and spray wet their faces, dampening their clothes and hissing against the hot lantern globes. Even shouting, they were barely able to hear one another above the river’s mighty roar as it dashed over the huge upthrusts. Slowly, carefully, they worked their way past the rapids and the river quieted.

“It’s time for the crucial test,” proclaimed Arlo. “Let’s see if we can get out of here without going back the way we came in.”

“It’s hard to get any sense of direction,” Dallas said, looking around, “but we’ll have to turn back to the southwest if this flows into the Salt.”

As they progressed, the voice of the river again became a roar, and it seemed they were approaching another rapids. But it was more than that. They soon saw that the river churned over a precipice and dropped fifty feet in a spectacular waterfall. They climbed down one side of it, over volcanic rock slippery with spray, as the cavern through which the river flowed began to narrow drastically.

“This is gettin’ a little scary,” shouted Dallas. “By the time this thing gets to the Salt, it may be pinched down so thin that we can’t get out.”

“I don’t think we’ll have to follow it all the way to the Salt,” Arlo replied. “I’m looking for a break somewhere in this wall while we’re still under the Superstitions.”

The split, when they found it, wasn’t in the cavern wall but in the river itself. At some point in time the earth had shifted, and the underground stream had taken a new, lower channel, while the original veered away to their left. Its stone bed was dry, as it might have been for many years. A draft sucked at the flames of their lanterns, and the way out—when they finally found it—was even more deceptive than they had expected. Before them was what had once been the mouth of a tunnel. Now it was closed off by a mass of debris that had slid down the side of the mountain. But just as Arlo and Dallas reached what had seemed a dead end, they found that though the fallen stone blocked the original mouth, it had left an invisible gap at one side through which they could pass. It was a tight squeeze, and they again had to struggle sideways, but once through it they stepped out into a forest of chaparral and greasewood.

“Thank God!” Dallas sighed. “I never thought I’d welcome being up to my ears in a thorny thicket.”

“Less than two hours of daylight,” noted Arlo. “We have to figure out where we are and get back to the girls before dark.”

They found that they were on the western flank of the Superstitions, two miles south of the perilous trail that had led up to their old camp. They began working their way out of the thicket, and a dozen feet from where they had come out, they looked back. The fallen mass of stone and debris solid against the mountain’s base looked truly impenetrable.

“Nobody will ever find that,” Dallas said, “unless they come at it from the other side, like we did, or follow us back to it.”

“We’d better be damn sure we can find it ourselves,” said Arlo. “One chaparral patch looks just like another.”

When Arlo and Dallas reached the plateau where they had left the horses, they found the animals grazing undisturbed.

“We ought to go back through the passage and remove that rope,” Arlo said. “When those other hombres reach the drop-off, they won’t have any trouble figurin’ what we’ve been up to.”

“The hell with it.” said Dallas. “Let’s leave it there. I don’t figure they’ll find their way down that bluff any quicker or easier than we did. Besides, if we take the time to go back in there after the rope, we’ll be after dark gettin’ back to the cabin. We promised we wouldn’t leave Kelly and Kelsey alone after dark, and if we’re not back they’ll be scared to death somethin’ happened to us.”

“You’re right,” Arlo said. “Let’s ride.”

Sheriff Wheaton had decided Yavapai and Sanchez were actually telling the truth for a change. He was skeptical only about how the pair had managed to escape with their lives. Wheaton was well aware that the Apaches weren’t known for their compassion or their carelessness. He had appealed to the Mexican quarter of town, and clothes had readily been donated to the hapless Yavapai and Sanchez. The pair left the jail barefooted and clad in ill-fitting garb that would have shamed a peon. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Men who had witnessed their disgrace the night before now grinned at them, while the women giggled and gossiped among themselves.

“This be hell,” said Yavapai. “Per’ap we go back to Tucson and again we rob the mule trains of the silver ore.”

“Por Dios,” Sanchez said bitterly. “I am not finish here, and I am not leave. El Diablo himself cannot drive me away. Those who laugh, I do not forget forever.”

“We have no food, no boots, no horse,” said Yavapai. “We have not among us even one peso for which to buy barato mescal.”

“Si,” said Sanchez, “but we have one ace in the hole. Señor Domingo Vasquez make us offer once, and per’ap now be the time to say we be ready for whatever he have in mind. Per’ap he pay us well for this gold the Señors Wells and Holt have find.”

“Por Dios,” Yavapai replied. “We do not know they have find this gold, or if they do, where it be.”

“Por El Diablo’s cuernos.” Sanchez chuckled. “You know this and I know this, but the Señor Domingo Vasquez, he not know.”

“Madre de Dios,” said Yavapai in awe. “We double-cross the Señor Vasquez, we meet El Diablo muy pronto.”

“Only if he find us, amigo,” Sanchez said.

* * *

Cass Bowdre and his men rode through the night, and having been afoot already for two days, nobody complained about the lack of saddles. Or even about the mules, to which none of them were accustomed. Lightning flared in the west and there was a distant rumbling of thunder.

“Storm on the way,” said Bowdre. “I never seen this much rain in this part of the country, but it’ll save our hides. Come mornin’ there won’t be a mule track nowhere.”

“I reckon you’ve noticed that all these big brutes is trail-branded,” Sandoval said, “and we got no bills of sale.”

“No help for that,” said Bowdre, “unless you’re satisfied to stay afoot.”

“Hell,” Carp said, “the drovers will round up the mules they can find, and just move on. Who’s goin’ to accuse us? So what if these big varmints is branded? We found ’em all runnin’ loose. Besides, soon as I can get me an honest-to-God horse, they can have this Missouri jack. He beats walkin’, but not by much.”

“It be better when we gits our saddles,” said Mose Fowler.

“If they’re still there,” Os Ellerton said.

“They’ll be there,” said Bowdre sourly. “What use would Injuns have for saddles?”

“But we’re still needin’ grub,” said Three-Fingered Joe. “Why don’t we hole up close to Tortilla Flat, and load up with grub in the mornin’?”

“Because the last damn thing we need is to have somebody remember us and the brands on these mules,” Bowdre said. “We’ll ride back to the Superstitions, let the rain hide our trail, and later on, one of us can ride out for grub. One man and one mule won’t be as obvious as six of each.”

Darkness was only minutes away when Arlo and Dallas arrived at Hoss Logan’s cabin.

“My God, are we glad to see you!” Kelly cried, swinging wide the door.

“No gladder than we are to be here,” said Dallas, his eyes fixing on the bullet holes in the door. “What happened?”

Quickly Kelly told him of the arrival of Cass Bowdre and his men.

“They didn’t catch up to Yavapai and Sanchez, then,” said Arlo.

“Come mornin’,” Dallas added, “it means somebody’s likely to be missin’ some horses. That bunch has had a hell of a hike.”

“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” said Kelly. “Yavapai and Sanchez had eight horses, but only six men showed up here, and Gary Davis wasn’t one of them. What happened to the other man and to Davis?”

“That’s something we may never know,” answered Arlo. “Dallas and me didn’t accomplish a thing today except to find a way in and out. Now that we can reach that underground river without going through the mountain and down the bluff, I want to spend every day looking for the gold.”

“The two of you have accomplished more today than any day since we started out,” said Kelsey. “I don’t see that as a day wasted.”

“Neitiier do I,” Kelly added, “and I’m just so glad we may be reaching the end of this ordeal.”

It was dark in the cabin, and not until Kelsey lit a lamp did she see the livid bruise on Arlo’s temple.

“I was afraid without knowing why,” said Kelsey, “and I still have a bad feeling about all this.”

“Whatever final message Hoss left us,” Arlo said, “I believe we’ll find it somewhere along this wild river. Tomorrow I want us to go in there and begin looking for that sign.”

Far in the night they were awakened by the crash of thunder and the sound of hard rain slashing the cabin.

* * *

“Lawd,” said Mose, “I hopes them bones don’t be walkin’ again.”

Lightning sliced through the darkness and the driving rain, and suddenly they saw an apparition stumbling down the canyon toward them that was far more unnerving than the skeletons had been. Gary Davis shambled along as though his feet had a mind of their own, while his mind knew nothing of the ultimate destination. Mose Fowler buried his face in his hat, refusing to look.

“Davis!” Bowdre shouted.

It had no effect. Davis kept coming, seeming not to even notice the six mounted men. Bowdre dismounted and caught him by the arm, and then the man just seemed to explode. With a single wild punch, he felled Bowdre, then threw himself at the still-mounted Zondo Carp. Zondo came off the mule and the two of them went down in a tangle, Davis screeching like a madman. Bowdre recovered and joined the fray, along with Three-Fingered Joe and Os Ellerton, but it was Sandoval who ended it. Drawing his Colt and taking advantage of the next flare of lightning, he slugged Davis unconscious.

“My God,” Carp gasped, “he’s plumb crazy and stronger than a bull.”

“A couple of you tote him up under the overhang,” said Bowdre. “If this madness ain’t permanent, I’d like to know where he’s been.”

“We gonna risk a fire?” Three-Fingered Joe asked.

“No,” said Bowdre. “With no coffee and no grub, why should we?”

Carp and Sandoval carried the unconscious Davis to the protection of the mountain’s overhang.

“Our saddles still be here,” Mose Fowler observed.

But nobody seemed to hear him, for they had gathered around Gary Davis, prepared to resume the battle if they had to.

“Hey,” said Sandoval, “he’s got somethin’ in his hand.”

Bowdre took Davis’s big right fist and forced the clenched fingers apart. Zondo Carp turned his back to the wind, lit a match, and cupped it in his hands. The crumbled object in Bowdre’s hand gleamed dull yellow in the feeble light of the match. As small a sample as it was, every man knew what he was seeing, yet not one of them could believe his eyes. It was gold ore. Fabulously rich gold ore!

“By God,” Sandoval breathed, “he’s found the gold!”

“Looks like it,” said Bowdre. “Let’s hope he don’t go loon crazy again when he comes out of it.”

But the blow to his head seemed to have brought Davis to his senses. He groaned and tried to sit up.

“Stay where you are, Davis,” Bowdre said. “Can you tell us what happened to you?”

“No,” Davis mumbled, and they waited impatiently for him to speak again. “Somethin’ hit me,” he finally said.

“You didn’t see anything? Anybody?” Bowdre asked.

“No,” said Davis. “I woke up … in the dark. There was a … a canteen, and I … drank. Water tasted … funny …”

“Hell’s fire,” Sandoval shouted, “you been gone three damn days. You must of seen somethin’ or somebody!”

“No,” said Davis weakly. “Nothing … nobody …”

“We come up on you in the canyon,” Bowdre said, “and you was wild as a cougar. Like to of busted my jaw. And this is what we found clenched in your fist. Now where did you get it?”

Bowdre held out his hand with the gold ore, and again Davis went crazy. It took four of them to subdue him, and even when they finally had him flat on his back and helpless, he snarled at them like a cornered lobo wolf.

“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.”