by Tim Champlin
“Let’s quit fooling around. Let me kill him!” Rivera broke in.
“Come ahead and try!” Mora shouted. “I’d love a chance at you. It’s not much of a climb up here. You can do it,” he mocked.
Muffled cursing in Spanish came from below, followed by an explosive pistol shot. The bullet whanged off the ledge a foot from Mora’s head. He inched backward.
“OK, what’ll it be?” Deraux yelled. “Haven’t got all day. You have one minute to decide.”
Mora took a deep breath of the heated air. He’d left his hat inside and the fierce sun was boring into his throbbing skull. “I believe I’ll just sit up here in the shade for now, with plenty of water and food, until my partner shows up this evening.”
“You’re a damned liar. You ain’t got a partner. But, if that’s the way you want it. . . .”
Mora heard a scuffing and carefully moved to one side and slid forward to peer over the edge. The two men were completely concealed behind the animals, busily roping together the four water kegs, and looping a line from the loaded pack saddle to the mule’s neck. Working slowly in the cover of the animals, each man took a halter and led Billy and Kismet up and out of the narrow wash, dragging the water kegs and the pack saddle.
Mora was good with a rifle, but there was not enough of either man showing for him to get a decent shot without taking a chance of hitting his animals. Within two minutes they were out of sight beyond a bulge of the hill.
He watched for a few minutes, the August sun beating mercilessly, on his back and head. While they were occupied with the animals and the gear, he had a sudden, desperate thought of making a sliding dash down from the cave and finding another hiding place.
Just then, the sun glinted off something at the crest of a hill some eighty yards away. Maybe a piece of mica, he thought, squinting in that direction. Then his heart fell. He could barely make out a slight movement. The reflection was from either field glasses or a short gun barrel. They were watching from cover. An escape attempt now was too dicey. The cave was his best defensive position for the time being. He’d rest a while and then slide out under cover of darkness. It was his only chance. It was two against one, but he was at least as well armed as they were. There was no point in sitting in this hole to let them wait him out. He’d come out fighting if need be.
He squirmed backward into the narrow opening, picked up his canteen, and shook it. About half full, he estimated. He was thirsty enough right now to gulp down the remaining quart. His only food was one small piece of beef jerky in his pocket. In addition, he had a few matches, his belt knife, loaded Marlin and Smith & Wesson, and a handful of cartridges. He was all right for the moment, but not prepared for an extended siege.
The bulging leather sacks on the floor and the chunks of sponge gold lying about had seemed so all-absorbing and important thirty minutes before. Now it was like cement around his feet. This yellow metal was what it was all about—the reason for his predicament. Then he shook his head to clear his mind. No! The gold was only incidental. It was about honor, integrity, and resisting evil—the very things that’d led him to the desert in the first place.
He gathered up the remaining loose gold and stowed it in one of the sacks, tightened the drawstrings, and set the bags in a corner. With a groan, he sat down and leaned against the wall. Several hours of hard digging had already taken their toll on his strength and the muscles of his arms and back. He took a deep breath, tilting his head back against the rock. He would rest and conserve his remaining energy. At the moment, two men outside had the upper hand and could pick him off at will if he tried to escape the cave.
Glancing toward the brown robes that contained the mortal dust of the Franciscans, he muttered: “Padres, pray that I don’t join you any time soon.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“I told you to stay up there and keep watch!” Deraux snapped as Rivera came stumbling down the slope toward him. The westering sun still lacked three hours of reaching the horizon. “We’ll trade off an hour at a time until dark.”
“How can I guard without a gun?” Rivera whined.
“If you see him poke his head out of that cave, just holler and I’ll take care of him.” He patted the blistering hot metal of the new Winchester he’d bought at the Yuma Mercantile; he’d fired it only twice at jack rabbits during their ride north along the river. “You ain’t gonna have no gun or knife while I’m around you,” Deraux said.
“When will you begin to trust me, señor?”
Not until you’re miles from me, you whining weasel, Deraux thought. Aloud, he said: “As soon as we get this man’s gold, we’ll split up, and you can go wherever you want. Since you’re now wanted for that robbery and torture at Sand Tank station, you won’t be trying to collect any reward on me by tipping off the law.”
“We cannot wait for Mora to give up,” Rivera said. “He could be telling the truth that he has much food and water in that cave. We could be here for a week.”
Deraux had considered that possibility already.
“Someone has found Lila Strunk and her hostler by now. A deputy marshal from Tucson must be on our trail,” Rivera continued. “And that clerk in the Yuma Mercantile. . . . I could tell by the way he looked at you . . . he knew you were one of the escaped prisoners. A posse might ride in on us at any moment.”
“You want to skedaddle outta here and leave a fortune in that cave?” Deraux asked. “Go ahead.”
“No. I want to go in and kill him and not waste any more time. What good is gold, if you can’t get away to spend it?”
“I may be an outlaw, but I’ve never murdered a man.”
Rivera flashed him a startled, disbelieving look. “Killed two men in self-defense years ago,” Deraux qualified his statement. “Not to say there couldn’t be a third, unless you follow my orders,” he added. “Now get back up that hill and stand your watch. One more day in there, and he’ll be ready to make a deal . . . his life for the gold.”
“What if he slips out tonight in the darkness?” Rivera demanded.
“All the better. Then we can have the gold to ourselves.”
“We will not be safe as long as that man is alive and loose.”
“You really hate him, don’t you?”
“An arrogant gringo who took my job for his damned Indian!” He spat to one side. “He treated me like a dirty peón . . . like a pile of horse dung. Angel Rivera does not forget such insults!”
An idea was dawning in Deraux’s mind. “If you’re so dead set against this Mora, why don’t you sneak up to that rat hole before daylight and carve him up with your favorite blade while he’s still asleep?” Grinning, he pulled the Mexican’s long, thin knife from his belt and held it up, taunting him. With any luck, these two bastards will kill each other, Deraux was thinking. This man is a natural coward. I’ll have to goad him into it.
A wolfish look overcame Rivera’s dark, narrow face. “I will take a pistola, also . . . just in case.”
“No you won’t. You could turn it on me.”
“But he is armed.”
“Skeered of a tired old man?” Deraux taunted.
Rivera’s face flushed even darker. “If I kill heem, I take a bigger share of the gold.”
“Vengeance will be your reward. The gold will be split fifty-fifty.”
Rivera licked his lips and his glance darted toward the knife and the Winchester.
Deraux knew he must never relax his vigilance. He had all the weapons—the two Colts, the rifle, and the knife. The only way he’d been able survive Rivera’s hatred this long was to tie up the Mexican every night, and still sleep with one eye open. He would’ve run the man off long ago, except that he didn’t favor watching his own back while he worked alone to find Mora’s mine. Better to have this murderous greaser in plain sight at all times. “Get back on watch,” he ordered. “I’ll relieve you shortly so you can cook up some grub for supper. You’d best be ready for tonight.”
Daniel Mora’s eyes blink
ed open. For several seconds he didn’t know where he was. Then it came back in a rush, and he wondered how long he’d been asleep. In spite of his resolve to remain alert, sleep had stolen over him. It was nearly dark in the cave. He took his Marlin and crawled slowly out the narrow opening, aware that someone might have a rifle trained on the gap between the rocks, waiting for him to show his head so it could be blown off.
But everything was still, with no sign of a watcher on the hillcrest. It was much lighter outside. The sun had disappeared, settling a peaceful, lingering twilight over the heated desert mountains. Maybe the two robbers were actually going to wait him out. Should he give up and let them have the mine in exchange for the water and his animals? He could fire a shot and wave his shirt to draw their attention. But he had no assurance he wouldn’t be murdered as soon as he surrendered. They could hardly afford to let him carry his tale to the law.
He savored several deep breaths of the dry, aromatic desert air, then inched his way back inside. Should he eat the beef jerky to keep up his strength? Or would it make him even thirstier? It wasn’t a hard decision. He pulled out the stiff, dried meat, brushed off the lint, and began gnawing at it. He washed it down with a pint of water, saving the last pint for a final drink before dawn when he’d risk everything on one roll of the dice. The gold would remain until he got clear and brought back some help. Even if these two outlaws got away with the full bags, they couldn’t travel fast in this heat carrying all that weight. A swift posse with a tracker could catch up with them.
As darkness filled the cave, Mora struck a match and looked around to see if there might be some crevice where he could hide the bags. The space was only about eighteen by eight, and afforded no hiding place.
The match flickered out and he once more sat down, facing the opening. He set his mental clock to awaken him in the predawn hours, and relaxed with his Marlin across his lap.
He awoke several times during the long hours of darkness, neck and shoulders stiff. Uncorking his canteen, he drank the last pint of water. Then he shifted positions to relieve his legs on the hard floor, and dozed again, leaning against the rock.
Sometime later he dreamed of Lila Strunk. She was offering him a cool drink of spring water from a gourd as he sat on the bench outside Sand Tank station. A shadowy figure crept up behind her. Mora’s voice seemed paralyzed and he couldn’t shout a warning.
He gasped and jerked awake. In an instant he knew he wasn’t alone. He smelled some animal presence, and rolled to his left, working the lever of his Marlin. Even as he cocked the carbine, something landed on him and a searing pain lanced across the top of his left shoulder. He reflexively squeezed the trigger and the explosion in the confined space was deafening. The brilliant muzzle flash showed a glimpse of a man with a knife. Hot, foul breath puffed into Mora’s face. With a sudden lunge, Mora broke free and pivoted out from under the wiry body, instinctively thrusting up the carbine with both hands to ward off a second blow he knew was coming. An arm slammed down across the gun barrel in the dark and the knife clanged away on the floor. Mora jabbed the stock upward with all his strength and felt it glance off the man’s head. His attacker screamed and threw himself into the battle once more. Grappling by feel in the darkness, Mora got to his knees and used leverage to tackle the man around the body and throw him over on his back. He was fighting for his life, and knew it. Warm blood coursed down his chest, his left arm rapidly losing strength.
Suddenly Mora felt a hand yank the Smith & Wesson from his belt. He let go and flung himself to one side. The pistol flashed and roared. The bullet missed, but a ricochet burned a red-hot groove along his right hip. For an instant, Mora saw the position of his attacker and grabbed for the gun arm with both hands. He clutched the bony wrist and forced the arm upward and back, bending the man’s wrist so he was unable to cock the weapon again. Mora’s left arm was going numb and he had to hold on with his right hand only. With a wrestler’s move, he threw his legs around the slender man in a scissor grip, squeezing with all his strength. Whoosh! The air went out of the man like a flattened balloon. Mora sensed he had the advantage. Ignoring the pain in his hip, he released the scissor grip, crouched, and sprang to his feet, wrenching the pistol out of the man’s hand as he did so. The Smith & Wesson clattered to the floor, and Mora suddenly realized he could make out the form of his opponent in the gray dawn light seeping into the cave. It was Rivera.
Mora’s lungs were heaving and he paused for a second—a second that was nearly fatal. The Mexican sprang, cat-like, snatched the knife from the floor, and, in one fluid motion, hurled it underhanded at Mora. The blade struck a rib and the knife cart-wheeled away. Enraged by the piercing pain, Mora grabbed Rivera’s arm, whipped the man around in a complete circle, and flung him across the room. The Mexican slammed backward into the wall, his head striking the projecting rock with the sound of a thumping watermelon. Rivera crumpled in a heap.
Mora leaned forward on his knees, gasping, slowly becoming conscious of pain in a dozen places. The acrid smell of burnt gunpowder irritated his dry throat. Several minutes it took for him to regain his breath before he limped forward to check the Mexican. He was dead. As the light grew stronger, Mora could make out dark blood staining a nugget of bright gold quartz lying beside the crushed skull.
He shoved his Smith & Wesson under his belt, then grabbed Rivera by one foot and dragged him, slowly and painfully, to the cave entrance. He shoved the body out through the narrow opening, and kept pushing until it tumbled off the ledge, landing with a thud thirty feet below in the narrow cañon. Then Mora crawled out and stood upright, taking a mighty breath. He pressed a hand to his left upper arm, realizing his shirt was wet with blood. The bleeding had nearly stopped, but his arm tingled as if there might be some nerve damage. Where was the other man? Mora knew he couldn’t stand another mano a mano. If Rivera’s partner—was Deraux his name?—showed up, they’d have to duel it out with guns. His adrenaline was ebbing and he felt queasy, but he knew he would survive. He looked at the light now touching the tops of the hills and felt a glow of optimism that overwhelmed the sting of his wounds.
On the crest of a ridge eighty yards away, made invisible by the rising sun at his back, Hugh Deraux lined up Mora in the open sights of his Winchester. Now that Rivera was out of the picture, all Deraux had to do was put a slug into Mora, load up all three mules and one burro with gold, water kegs, and food, and disappear. Within a few days, vultures, wolves, and coyotes would strip the bodies and scatter the bones. But, if anyone happened along before then, they would naturally conclude these two men had killed each other. A perfect set-up.
He worked the lever to put a cartridge into the chamber, then drew a bead on the chest of the dark, erect figure on the ledge. The man stood gazing toward the east, making a splendid target. One shot would do it. He held his breath and his finger tightened on the trigger, taking up the slack. He hesitated. Fifteen seconds passed. The barrel began to waver. He carefully let down the hammer with his thumb, and lowered the weapon. There was only one thing wrong with his plan. He couldn’t murder a defenseless man. It was not in him. A low-down stage and gold robber he might be, but he was not a killer. Perhaps he should shoot Mora in the leg, then go down and help himself to whatever loose gold was handy. But wounding a solitary man out here was tantamount to killing him. No, he’d take the water and grub and let the merciless desert kill Mora, as it’d nearly killed him. When his bones are bleaching, I’ll come back and take the gold from that cave, he thought. He doubted anyone would stumble across the mine during the remaining months of torrid heat. By winter, any manhunt for him would be abandoned. Patience was the key. Now was not the time to be greedy. Greed had tripped up many an outlaw. He was beginning to feel that instinctive twitch between his shoulder blades that told him Rivera was right—the law was not far away. Time to cut and run.
He slid back off the skyline and cat-footed a half mile to his camp. Working quickly, he saddled the mule he’d ridden in. He poured the re
maining water into one keg, sacked up all the food he could find, and collected the camp gear. Then, cinching the pack saddle onto Rivera’s mule, he tied on the load, taking care to stow under the bedroll the small sacks of gold they’d taken from Lila Strunk. This rich ore would be sufficient to get him started on some new life well away from Arizona Territory—provided he could reach a town with a stage line running east. He’d need to stash the ore in leather valises to look like normal luggage. A bath, shave, and new clothes and he’d blend in again. Although still rather short, his hair had grown out enough to lie down. Regretfully he couldn’t take a chance on selling the branded mules. He’d dump their gear in the desert and turn the animals loose.
Plans for his eventual escape continued to churn through Hugh Deraux’s head while the sun rose over the deserted hills. He mounted up and rode north, leading his loaded pack mule.
Nearly an hour later, an Indian on foot padded silently into the narrow cañon. Thirty yards behind followed a rider walking his Arabian mount. Quanto jogged forward as Coopersmith was startled when a half dozen black vultures flapped up heavily from the cañon floor at their approach. The Indian paused and pointed silently at the dark figure of a man hanging partly over the lip of a ledge above and about forty yards ahead. The Englishman’s heart sank. They were too late.
Then Quanto loped ahead and hunkered beside a crumpled body at the base of the wall. That’s what the buzzards were after, Coopersmith realized as he urged his horse forward and looked down. The big birds had not been at their work long and the face was still recognizable. It was Angel Rivera.
Coopersmith jerked a thumb at the arm of a man hanging over the ledge above them. Quanto leaped up, nimbly scaling the nearly vertical wall, picking hand and footholds, clambering up while loose rock and shale clattered down behind him. Coopersmith sat his horse and watched until the Indian reached the limp figure and turned him over. “Mora!” Quanto called.