Chuckling to himself, Shakespeare said, “I wish.” He stood and resumed his trek, climbing, always climbing, the going tough, the land uncompromising. He had not done this much walking in ages, and it was telling on him. Every muscle in both legs was inflamed. Every step was an exercise in concentration.
It did not help that the countryside had become more open, making it harder to stay under cover. Ravines and gorges bisected the densely forested slopes. More meadows and open valleys were encountered. Throwing a shadow over him and everything else was Long’s Peak, its summit lost amid the clouds.
It was great consolation to him that the trail had grown fresher. He was not far behind Varga’s outfit. It was his hope that by nightfall he would overtake them, or at least spot their campfires.
Shakespeare planned to ask for the loan of a horse and go in search of his wife and the Kings. Mounted, it would not take more than a couple of days for him to reach Nate’s cabin. His own homestead was twenty-five miles north of Nate’s.
He hefted his spear, a lean but sturdy trimmed limb tipped by a fire-hardened point. As yet he had not been able to bring down a deer or elk so he could fashion a bow. If he caught up with the Vargas, there would be no need. Surely, Don Varga would be kind enough to let him use a spare rifle and a brace of pistols.
Things were looking up, the mountain man figured.
Seldom did five minutes go by that Shakespeare did not check his back trail for evidence of the renegades. Jasper Flynt and company had not appeared yet, which was surprising. For all of Flynt’s faults, the cutthroat had struck Shakespeare as the kind who did not give up easily.
The mouth of a gorge loomed on the right. Since the tracks led toward it, Shakespeare bent his steps accordingly. He halted on learning that many of the tracks leading in had been partially obliterated by an equal number of tracks leading back out and then bearing westward.
Doffing his hat, Shakespeare scratched his head. Why had the expedition gone in and then come right out again? What was Varga doing in the mountains, anyway? Varga had promised to tell them, but they had been ambushed before they reached his camp.
Sighing, Shakespeare stuck with the prints. Lady Luck had smiled on him in that no rainstorms had materialized to erase the sign. At that time of year, late-afternoon storms were fairly common.
A squirrel appeared, chattering at him from the haven of a limb high in a conifer. For no real reason, Shakespeare helped himself to a palm-size rock, cocked his arm, and let fly.
In his younger days he had been adept at pelting sundry critters. Anything that made the mistake of wandering across his father’s acreage became a prime target. Once, he knocked a crow off a fence at forty paces.
It got to the point where animals like deer and raccoons gave the property a wide berth.
Now his rock sailed high and true, crashing into the conifer inches below the startled squirrel. Tail shooting up, the feisty animal spun and fled, negotiating the treeways at a breathless pace, leaping distances that put a human to shame.
Tickled, Shakespeare smiled and moved on. In the vicinity of boulders to his right, chipmunks scampered. A golden eagle soared near Long’s Peak. And far up on the mountain tiny white specks crawled across a rock face.
Mountain sheep. Of all the game animals, they were hardest to reach, harder still to kill, so acute was their eyesight and their hearing.
“My home,” Shakespeare said grandly to himself. “Paradise on earth.”
His left foot was paining him, so he stopped. From under the top of his moccasin he slid a small piece of rabbit meat left over from his supper the evening before. Munching gloomily, he pondered the state of affairs.
“Downright pitiful” was Shakespeare’s spoken assessment. He resorted to the Bard. “If there were reason for these miseries, then into limits could I bind my woes. When heaven doth weep, doth not the earth o’erflow? If the winds rage, doth not the sea wax mad, threatening the welkin with his big-swoln face? And wilt thou have a reason for this coil?” Pausing, Shakespeare took another bite. “Yes, I would,” he concluded.
The loss of his Hawken and his pistols he could deal with. They could be replaced. So could the white mare, although she was as fine a horse as he had ever owned. A new possibles bag could be crafted, new flint and steel obtained.
One loss, though, could never be replaced. It tormented his soul day and night. It put lethargy in his stride.
“Oh, William S.,” Shakespeare said in sorrow. His edition of the complete works of the great playwright had cost him a king’s ransom. More than that, it was his treasure, his comfort, his inspiration.
Books were as scarce as hen’s teeth on the frontier. Easterners would be surprised to learn that many of the mountaineers were avid readers, especially during those long, cold winter months when deep snow confined them to their dwellings. Books were swapped and traded and read so many times that the spines gave out.
“Nimble mischief, that are so light of foot. Doth not thy embassage belong to me, and am I last that knows it? O, thou think’st to serve me last, that I may longest keep thy sorrow in my breast.”
Sliding what was left of the rabbit meat under his moccasin, Shakespeare tramped on. He shuddered to think of what the cutthroats might have done to his prized volume. Probably used it for kindling, he reflected. Or tore it up for the sheer hell of it and scattered the bits of paper to the four winds.
“Bastards,” Shakespeare opined.
Talking to oneself was a habit many mountain men acquired. Loneliness was a key factor. When a person was a thousand miles from civilization, adrift in the middle of nowhere, hearing the sound of a human voice was comforting. So what if the voice was their own?
In due course another gorge became visible. Again the Varga expedition had gone into it, but this time Shakespeare could find no tracks leading out. Either they were still in there, or they had gone on through and out the other side.
A knobby spine to the west of the gorge gave Shakespeare a brainstorm. From up there he would be able to see for miles. It took only a few minutes to reach. A well-defined game trail caught his eye, and he was about to start up when the thud of hooves let him know he was not alone.
Shakespeare spun. Out across the valley galloped three riders. Indians, they were. As he looked on, one of them threw a rope over another. Raven tresses identified the figure as a woman. He saw her strike the ground hard, saw her being dragged. The high grass partially hid her. But not her horse.
Shock knifed through the mountain man. It was his wife’s sorrel! That could only mean the woman being dragged was—!
He was outnumbered. His only weapon was the spear. His legs were so sore every step was a trial. But he never hesitated. Legs pumping, Shakespeare McNair flew to Blue Water Woman’s rescue.
Twenty-One
A musty scent filled Nate King’s nostrils as he cautiously advanced into the ancient mine. Puffs of dust were raised with each footfall. Dust also layered the walls and ceiling. In the light of his lantern, tiny particles could be seen shimmering in the air.
A cool breeze chilled his skin. Nate paused to look back. The Vargas were crowded at the entrance, Ignacio with a leveled pistol. “Keep going, Americano.” he said loudly.
Too loudly. Above Nate a timber creaked. The echo rumbled on down the tunnel and was lost in the distance. Extending the lantern, Nate proceeded slowly.
Most of the beams he passed were in dire need of repair. They gave the illusion that if he so much as sneezed, it would cause a massive cave-in.
The iron rails on which the ore carts rode were rusted but serviceable. Here and there lay antique lanterns of a type no longer used, dropped by fleeing workmen, no doubt, when the Utes attacked. Rusted tools were scattered about.
The tunnel was wide enough for four or five men to walk abreast. Nate stayed in the center, where he would have a split second more to react should one of the walls buckle. He brushed the left side with his fingertips and loose dirt cascaded down.
Of course, Varga was not about to listen to reason. Gold fever had the Spaniard in its unrelenting grip. Many a man had become unhinged by lust for the precious metal; many a poor soul had lost his wits, his family and friends, even his life, in the demented quest for riches beyond compare.
Pale objects lying on the ground brought Nate to a stop. He raised the lantern higher but could not quite make out what they were. Tentatively going on, he could not resist a shudder when he recognized them.
A human skull and skeleton were sprawled across the rails. The front of the skull had been caved in by a blow, and the bones of the right arm bore gash marks like those a tomahawk would make. Tattered remnants of clothing and boots littered the dirt. Nearby was a broken lantern.
It was one of the old workmen, slain during the attack. Farther on Nate found more skeletons, eight all told. They confirmed that the Utes had taken the Spaniards completely by surprise. Captain Valdez had been lucky to get out alive.
Nate avoided stepping on the remains. His eye on the rope that was linked to the Maricopas, he moved warily onward. He listened for their voices but heard only constant creaking and furtive rustling.
Their footprints were clearly imprinted in the dust. They had been moving briskly, in single file. As Nate recalled, Chivari had been in the lead, Azul had been last. Studying their tracks, he noticed that Azul’s left moccasin had a curious little dent on the heel, perhaps where a stone had gouged the sole.
Suddenly Nate sensed the tunnel was widening. A stronger breeze fanned him, a cold breath of wind such as might emanate from frigid cavernous depths. Hiking the lantern even higher, he discovered a fork. The main tunnel angled to the left while a smaller branch slanted to the right.
The rope lay on the floor of the branch. Why the Maricopas had taken it instead of staying in the main tunnel, Nate could not guess.
A glimmer on the wall arrested his gaze. Moving closer revealed a narrow vein of quartz mixed with gold, a vein that grew larger the farther into the branch he went. He was so fascinated by it that he tripped over something at his feet and nearly fell.
It was a sack, or what was left of one. Large chunks of pure gold formed an irregular pyramid where they had fallen. Another skeleton lay beside them. Evidently a workman had been carrying the heavy burden when he was struck down.
Hunkering, Nate fingered a piece of the precious ore. The surface was smooth and cool to the touch. A deep yellow color lent it an enticing allure. He grinned at the thought that the chunk he held must be worth more money than he made in half a year of trapping. Maybe he should give up chasing plews and take to prospecting!
A sound from farther along the branch brought Nate’s head up. It had sounded like a muffled cry of anguish. The hair at the nape of his neck prickled as he set the gold down and rose.
Advancing, Nate probed the shadows ahead. The rope at his feet ran straight and true. The footprints of the Maricopas disclosed that they had been moving along briskly. He wondered what orders Don Varga had given them. Were they to explore all the tunnels they found? Or were they only to get some idea of the condition of the mine, then report back?
The air grew chiller. Nate had taken his eyes off .the rope, so he was all the more startled when he glanced down and saw that it was no longer there. Stopping short, he swiveled. The end of the rope was a few feet behind him. But the Maricopas were nowhere to be seen.
That couldn’t be, Nate told himself. He picked up the rope, suspecting they had untied themselves. Closer examination revealed that the strands had been neatly severed by a sharp implement.
Nate stiffened. Someone had cut it. Letting go, he turned. Three sets of footprints had gone on unbroken, but the fourth set, the set with the dent in the heel, showed that their owner had stopped at that exact spot and shifted a bit, then continued on after his companions.
Azul had freed himself. His footprints were spaced closer together now, as if he had been taking small steps because he was afraid. Which hardly seemed likely for a grown warrior. The only other possibility was that he had been moving stealthily.
But why? Had he heard or seen something? And if so, why had the others gone on as if nothing were wrong?
Mystified, Nate took four more steps, staring down the tunnel instead of looking at the ground. The first inkling he had that he had made a mistake was when the earth under his right foot buckled under his weight, pitching him forward.
In the dancing glow of the swaying lantern, a gaping black chasm yawned. Frantically, Nate threw himself backward, but he was too late. He started to drop. Twisting, he flung the lantern from him and grasped at the edge of the chasm. His clawed fingers dug into the dirt, stopping his fall, and his body slammed into the side of the chasm.
Jarred, Nate almost lost his grip. He managed to hook both elbows on the rim and hung there, catching his breath. The lantern was an arm’s length away, leaning against the tunnel wall, still glowing. The light barely penetrated the inky darkness that shrouded the chasm.
Nate tried to pull himself up. He dislodged a stone that tumbled past, and he listened for it to hit bottom. Seconds elapsed. More seconds. Many more. He concluded that he had missed hearing it strike and he was tensing to try to climb out again, when at long last a faint plink wafted upward.
Nate looked down. The chasm must be hundreds of feet deep. It was an abyss, and it would be his grave if he slipped. A fall that far would smash his body to a pulp. Steeling himself, he pressed his toes against the side and levered upward. He almost made it. Scrambling onto the lip, he hooked an ankle on the rim and was pulling himself to safety when the rim crumbled.
For an awful moment he teetered on the brink of eternity. Then, lunging, he caught hold just as he was falling. Again he slammed against the side. Blood racing, he clung on for dear life.
Nate felt momentarily weak. The close call had sapped his strength, and he feared that he might plummet into the chasm at any instant. Mustering his nerve, he began to inch upward, using his toes to brace himself, his fingers gouging into the dirt like the talons of a great bird.
Down the tunnel, something moved. Nate glimpsed a shadowy crouched form moving toward him. Ghostly images of spectral creatures filled his head. Terror born of childhood tales of ghosts and goblins galvanized him into making a Herculean effort. Flinging his right leg high, he snagged it on the edge, tucked at the stomach, and surged upward.
His shoulder caught on the rim, throwing him off balance. Desperately, Nate grasped at the nearest wall, his fingers wrapping round a stone knob. Clinging to it, he broke out in a cold sweat.
The figure was much closer.
Nate heaved onto his knees and scooped up the lantern. “Who’s there?” he demanded, prepared to hurl it.
Uncoiling, the figure stepped into the light. “Only me, white-eyes,” Azul said.
Nate did not know which shocked him more: that Azul had been lurking somewhere in the tunnel all along, or that the Maricopa spoke English. Somehow he had gotten the notion that only Chivari did. “Where did you come from?” he demanded. “What happened to the others?”
“Me lost,” Azul said with a vague motion behind him. Coming forward, he stood and peered into the abyss. “Others there,” he said, pointing.
“What?”
“Them fall. All stand at edge. Ground give way,” Azul said. “Me cut rope or me fall too.”
Nate stared into darkness. The three warriors were beyond help. That anguished cry he had heard earlier must have been made by one of them when the rim gave out from under them. He backed away, not wanting to share their fate.
A disturbing suspicion flared. If the mishap had happened exactly as Azul claimed, there would not have
been time for him to cut the rope. It had to have occurred in the blink of an eye. The others would have dragged him down with them.
Nate stopped where the rope ended. The only explanation was that Azul cut the rope before his companions fell. If so, why had he snuck toward them?
A keg of black powder went off in Nate’s mind, and he shifted to regard Azul closely. What if Chivari and the other two had not fallen? What if they had been pushed?
The notion seemed ridiculous. What possible motive could Azul have for killing his friends? They were leagues from home, virtual slaves of the Spaniard. It made more sense for them to stick together, not slay one another.
“We go back?” the Maricopa asked.
Nate nodded. “You first,” he said. Azul moved on by, and Nate followed. “I’m sorry about your friends,” he said.
The warrior gave a toss of his head. “It’s life. Some live, some die.”
Now, there was a philosophical outlook for you, Nate mused. His suspicions firmed. Azul displayed no remorse whatsoever. Had he killed the others on Don Varga’s orders, perhaps?
The answer to that question was a resounding No! On hearing the fate of the three doomed men, Varga stepped back, sincerely stunned. “It can’t be!” he blurted. “I told Chivari to be careful! I told him not to take any undue chances!”
Ignacio tucked a thumb under his red sash. “It is no great loss, padre. We did not need them anymore, anyway.” He regarded Azul. “What happened to your lantern, Indian? We gave Chivari and you each one.”
“Me lose it,” the Maricopa said. “It drop in big pit.”
“Is that so? Well, lanterns are not cheap,” Ignacio said. “I’ll deduct the cost from the money we pay you when we reach Santa Fe.”
Diego, normally the quiet one, declared, “Brother! How can you be so heartless? His amigos have just died. Now is hardly the right time to bring up so trivial a matter.”
“Trivial, little brother?” Ignacio responded. “Allow an underling to get away with something like this once, and he will think he can lose things any time he wants. When you are older, when you have your own estate to run, you will remember this day and see that I was right.”
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