Doubtful Canon

by Johnny D. Boggs

  He landed in a cloud of dust, fell sideways, and jumped up, his joints creaking, tossing the tools into the dirt and running for us, those wild eyes beaming, thick white mustache dancing like a snake on his upper lip.

  “By jingo, it’s you!” the mirage said with a snort as he slid to a stop near the empty grave. “My chil’ren! My ol’ pards! Y’all’s come back to help Whitey Grey find his gold!”

  Only…he was no mirage.

  Chapter Eighteen

  First, he jerked the canteen from my hands, pulled out the stopper, and drank greedily, allowing precious water to stream down his whiskers, dribble off his chin. Smacking his lips, Whitey Grey shook the canteen around, belched, and handed the empty container back to me.

  “That’s good. Good,” he said, while I gaped, imagining the wind sucking the canteen’s lip dry. “I sure needed that. Don’t worry, young ’uns, we can gets more water at the spring. It’s just two miles yonder, maybe a li’l’ more. Water’s good, though my druthers would be for somethin’ with more bite. Had some yesterday. Water. Not whiskey. We’ll gets more. But first….” He gestured toward the cañon wall.

  I didn’t follow his arm. I stared straight ahead at him.

  “What happened?” I said. “Back up the cañon? When you were throwing rocks down on Ringo and Curly Bill?”

  His arm fell to his side, and those hollow eyes blinked rapidly several times. After wiping the water off the ends of his flowing mustache, he asked: “What you talkin’ ’bout, boy?”

  “You were throwing rocks down from the rim,” I said, and Ian Spencer Henry added with an exclamation: “You sure scared the living daylights out of Dutch Ringo and Curly Bill! Scared them good! Us, too.”

  The albino’s head shook. “No. Wasn’t me. Was ’em Cherry Cows that done it.”

  “What?” my friend and I blurted out together. “I thought….”

  The albino’s massive head rocked from side to side. “Nope.” At last his lips turned upward in a crazy grin, and he chuckled. “You thunk I climbed the wall up that cañon?” Slapping his thighs, scattering dust, he laughed even harder. Dutch Ringo said Whitey Grey was insane, and I agreed. The man belonged in the Tucson asylum. “Nope,” he said. “Can’t be done. Climbin’ ’em rocks. Not there nohow. Not by me. ’Specially iffen Apaches is up there. You gots to go around, come up from the other side of the cañon, gets to the rim that way, lessen you’s part mountain goat, which I ain’t.”

  “But…,” Ian Spencer Henry began. He stopped, trying to remember the events of the previous day, finally turning to me for help.

  Yesterday I had been certain Whitey Grey had been on the rim, hurling rocks from the heights like some human catapult, scoring hits, running off Ringo’s horse. I wasn’t alone. Brocious and Ringo had been certain those rocks had been launched by Whitey Grey. Everyone had. Who else could it have been?

  I hadn’t even considered Apaches.

  The white-skinned man grunted. “Tol’ you ’bout ’em Apaches, how they likes to throw rocks down on folks comin’ through this here cañon. Save ’em some powder and lead. Guns ain’t cheap. Bullets neither. And ’em rocks hurt, boys. Quiet, too.”

  Ian Spencer Henry’s head bobbed slightly. “Yeah, Dutch Ringo and Curly Bill said they’ve done it, too. On Mexicans.”

  “Sure, sure.” The albino tousled Jasmine’s hair, smiled, smacked his lips some more. “ ’Em Cherry Cows ain’t gots no patent on rock tossin’. Would’ve done it myself, ’ceptin’ a body’s gots to be more limber and younger than this ol’ hoss’s. No.” He bellowed again. “You ain’t joshin’ ol’ Whitey Grey, is you? Really? Ringy and Curly, that trash, they really thunk it was me poundin’ ’em with rocks?” Another thigh slap, another cloud of dust. “By my boots and socks, that’s bully. Just bully.”

  “We all did,” I told him.

  He patted my head, almost knocking off my stolen cap. “No,” he said. “It happened this way, chil’ren. You see, I rounded that bend in the cañon, where that hunk of cañon fell off years, years ago. And here comes a rock. Plunk! Barely misses my head. Well, I knowed it was Cherry Cows, knowed what ’em red devils was up to. So I hurried back to that slice of cañon, the one that was partly blockin’ the road, been blockin’ it as long as I can recollect. And I found me a place to hide in the corner. Make it harder for some rock to bash in my thick head.

  “That’s where I was. And then, here come you chil’ren, so I snakes back in that little slit, and up rides ’em two lyin’, cheatin’, thievin’, slanderin’ murderers and rakes, Ringy and Curly Bill. That’s when ’em Cherry Cows let’s ’em have it. Good fight. Liked to have stayed, yes, sir, I surely would, stayed and watched it, but it strikes me that, by grab, I can slip right through that rock. There was this openin’, you see, betwixt that chunk and the rest of the cañon wall. Hard to gets through, but ’tweren’t no impossibility. So I done it. And then I taken the ankle express and run all the way back to that ranch house.” He nodded, stopped, frowned. “Well, I didn’t run all the way. Run till I got tuckered out. Then I walked. Figgered to gets me a good drink at the spring, pick up my repeatin’ rifle and six-shooter. Anyhow, I come back here to spend the night.”

  “The guns!” I cried out.

  Jasmine followed my thought, asking: “Did you see Miss Giddings?”

  It took Jasmine three more tries before the name finally registered.

  “That petticoat?” the white-skinned man asked dumbly. “You mean to tell me ’em Apaches didn’t stove in her head?”

  “No,” Ian Spencer Henry replied. “She led us away. Curly Bill and Ringo were too occupied with the stones coming down on them. She took us here. Then over yonder that way. Told us to wait, that she’d come back for us probably this morning, only she didn’t.”

  “She went for the guns,” Jasmine added. “Took our canteens to fill, too. You sure you didn’t see her?”

  “She….” The albino blinked with wonder. “She went for ’em guns?”

  “Yes!” we cried out.

  “Well, I’ll be….” His head bobbed in approval. “Lady’s gots sand, gots more gumption than her ol’ man, and Mister Giddings had a belly full of it. Might’ve mentioned that afore. I respected her pa.”

  I bit my lip to keep from saying something I would regret. Respected her father? You killed him!

  “But you had to have seen her?” Jasmine said, her voice fraught. “You would have passed each other…right?”

  “No. Not so that you’d knowed it,” the albino explained. “Likely she crept along this side of the canõn. Me? I snaked along the other side, like we done the first time we come into Doubtful.” He snorted, and wiped his nose with his hand. “If we heard one another, I warrant she thought I was some Apache buck and I kept quiet, figgerin’ she was the same. Like ships passin’ in the night. Ain’t that how the sayin’ goes? ’Course, it wasn’t night, not then, not when I come back anyhows. And we ain’t ships…not in this terrible ol’ desert. Speakin’ of ships and desert, though, I could use some more water. I’m a mite thirsty.”

  “You drank the last of it,” I bitterly informed him.

  “Well,” he said, “we gots more pressin’ matters. We can gets water later.”

  “She wouldn’t have left us,” said Jasmine, her face masked with concern over the fate of Eleora Giddings. “I know she wouldn’t have left us.”

  “No. Likely not.” The albino scratched dust-caked beard stubble on his chin. “Ringy might have grabbed her, though. Wouldn’t put it past him. Wouldn’t put nothin’ past that scalawag. Or his pard.”

  That led to another question. What had happened to Ringo and Brocious?

  “I’d hoped ’em bucks would’ve stoved in their heads,” Whitey Grey told us. “Didn’t work out, though. Some time past midnight, I reckon. Maybe afore. Dark anyway. Dark and cold.” He pointed to the rock fortress. “I was gettin’ a li’l’ shut-eye over yonder, and hear this hoss a-lopin’. One hoss. Two men on its back. Couldn’t make ’em
out, not as dark as it was with ’em clouds and all, but I taken it to be Curly and Ringy.”

  My heart sank. I pictured Miss Giddings, bravely walking back for us in the darkness, being surprised by those two outlaws. Then I pictured something else.

  “What about the Apaches?” I asked urgently.

  He shrugged. “They’s gone. Now I been hopin’ that for a spell. ’Tain’t worked out that way, yet. But I can’t imagine ’em stayin’ put here for this long. Apaches likes to keep movin’. I’m bettin’ they played their last hand again’ Ringy and Curly. They’s young, green when it comes to fightin’. Like up yonder yesterday. They got anxious. Tossed that rock at me. A full-growed Apache, he would have waited till we’d all rounded that bend, then launched the ambush.”

  Changing the subject, I pointed at the open grave. “What happened to Mister Spoon’s bones?”

  “Wolves and coyot’s gots ’em,” he answered matter-of-factly. “I seen that last night, even as poor as my eyes can be. Reckon they dug him up. You chil’ren should’ve put stones on that grave!”

  I ignored the admonishment. What had he done? And we were a trifle busy.

  “No matter,” he continued. “They had a regular feast, come back last night for ’em bones to gnaw on. Which reminds me. I’m hungry. You chil’ren gots any grub?”

  “We’re hungry, too,” Ian Spencer Henry said.

  Jasmine stomped her foot, ignoring any pain in her legs, and shook her head angrily. I’d never seen her so furious. “Why are we standing around here talking about food and water, none of which we have on us.” She pointed down the cañon. “We need to go after Miss Giddings. Something must have happened to her!”

  The white-skinned man ignored her. “Gettin’ chilly,” he said. “Maybe I’ll head down to Yuma when I gets my gold. It’s warmer there. Hot, actually. They don’t know the meanin’ of the word cold.” He frowned, shaking his head. “No, no, not Yuma. I gots my belly full of Yuma.” He looked at Ian Spencer Henry. “You ever been in the prison there?” Not waiting for a reply, he went on. “Well, don’t go, iffen you can helps it. Got a big prison in town now, too.” He lifted his head, pondering other options. “Maybe the Sandwich Islands. Or Mexico. Don’t speak much Mexican, but I do like tequila.”

  My head shook as I stared into the lunatic’s eyes. I’d never met anyone as crazy as Whitey Grey.

  “What about Miss Giddings!” Jasmine screamed into the wind.

  Whitey Grey stared at her as if she were an ant. “Don’t worry ’bout that petticoat,” he said, and tugged on his mustache. “Woman with that much gumption, she’ll be fine…iffen she ain’t already dead.” He straightened to his full height, nodding as if answering some question he had asked of himself. “The point is, she ain’t here. Not now. Ringy and Curly Bill ain’t here. Not now. I ain’t seen no sign of Apaches, so maybe they’s gone, too. We’s here. And so is my gold!”

  Gold! I’d almost forgotten about that $30,000.

  “Did you find it?” Ian Spencer Henry asked.

  Jasmine just stood there, her face red with anger, her body shaking.

  Ever the peacekeeper, I interrupted the albino and Ian Spencer Henry, suggesting that perhaps we should return to the house, refill our canteen—the one canteen we had left—and check on Miss Giddings. We couldn’t abandon her. But Whitey Grey would hear nothing of the kind.

  “I done tol’ you. We be here. My gold’s here. I ain’t traipsin’ up and down Doubtful Cañon no more.”

  This time I didn’t hold back. I caught another glimpse of Jasmine, saw her about to lash out at our leader, but I stepped out first, telling him firmly: “No, sir. Miss Giddings comes first. We have to save her. Find her!”

  His backhand took me by surprise, and the next thing I knew I was on my backside, my lip bleeding, Jasmine kneeling beside me, both of us staring into those haunting eyes of a soulless man.

  “My gold,” he said. “One day, chil’ren, you’s gonna learn that I’m ramrod of this here outfit. We’s gettin’ my gold.”

  “Did you find it?” Ian Spencer Henry repeated, his voice soft, his body trembling, eyes moving from the white-skinned man to me.

  With a sigh, the white-skinned man sank, melting into the ground, knee joints popping again. “Well, chil’ren, there’s one problem I’ve learnt.” He pointed up the cañon side. “The tree’s gone.”

  This time I followed his outstretched arm, looked at the incline where Whitey Grey had slid down back into our lives. Unlike most of Doubtful Cañon, here stood loose rock, packed on a little hill before flattening into the hard granite that lifted skyward, bleak and dark. From the albino’s story, I recalled, Mr. Giddings had dropped the saddlebags of gold into a narrow opening, marked by an alligator juniper, but up on that ridge, the land was as barren as much of the desert. Some cactus, and even those looked half dead, but no juniper.

  “Been gone for years, I reckon,” Whitey Grey said sadly. He offered a hand, and pulled me to my feet, forgetting, it seemed, that he had knocked me to the ground. Jasmine and I kept a respectful distance.

  Mad. Crazy. Insane. Unpredictable. A monster.

  “You sure this is the right spot?” Ian Spencer Henry asked, his voice still timid.

  Only Jasmine kept her strength, her determination. Stepping away from me, to protect me, I guess, she roared again: “What about Miss Giddings?”

  “Yonder’s the grave,” the albino said, scratching his chin. I don’t think he even heard Jasmine’s shout. A gust of wind blasted us again, grew stronger, more persistent, and Whitey Grey had to shout to be heard. “Right there’s where we buried Mister Giddings, and we planted him pret’ much where he fell! And I could see that ol’ tree when we was havin’ his funeral, so it was there. Up yonder! But it ain’t there no more! Looked all mornin’, I done, and looked a lot yesterday, too. No sign of it. Not even no roots. No trunk. Nothin’. See how that side’s….”

  “MISS GIDDINGS!” Jasmine’s shout seemed to stop the wind if only briefly, and her echo boomed off the cañon wall. “We can’t abandon her.”

  “Quiet, li’l’ girlie,” Whitey Grey said. “I’m talkin’ here. You see how that side’s caved in some? Slid down. Rock slide. Avalanche. Flash flood. Who can tell, but when that chunk of ground give way, it must’ve taken my tree with it. Then probably some greenhorn come by and chopped it up for firewood. By grab, it’s been twenty years.”

  “You mean…?” Seeing his dreams of a fortune in half-dime novels vanish, Ian Spencer Henry gulped. “You mean the gold’s lost?”

  “No. No. No.” The albino’s voice rose with confidence, or reassurance, with every syllable. “No, it’s there, by grab. It’s gots to be there. Just the openin’ is buried ’neath that dirt.” He started walking toward the side, and obediently we followed him, even Jasmine, though, from the shade of her ears, her temper had not lessened. “No,” Whitey Grey said, stopping at the edge. “No, my gold’s still there.”

  The wind started again, moaning, and I had to hold the stolen cap on my head. I looked at the sky, searching for signs of a storm, but found nothing but gray clouds.

  “What do we do?” Ian Spencer Henry asked.

  “First,” Jasmine demanded, “we go find Miss Giddings.”

  Shaking his head, the albino picked up the shovel and pickaxe. “No. First…you dig.”

  The pick was shoved into my hand, the spade into Ian Spencer Henry’s. Whitey Grey grinned. “Up yonder.”

  Jasmine muttered something, whirled, and started for the rock fortification. “You do what you want,” she said, “but I’m going to find Miss Giddings.”

  She didn’t stop until the Apache leaped over one of the rocks and blocked her way. Then, she screamed.

  Chapter Nineteen

  You’ll probably think I’m lying, but it really happened this way. Staggering back from the approaching Apache brave, Jasmine fell on her backside, no longer screaming, but crabbing her way on hands and feet from the menacing figure. Whitey Grey blurte
d out: “Confound it, they’s back! ’Em Cherry Cows is back!” And he bolted for the rocky redoubt, leaving Ian Spencer Henry and I standing there, twenty yards from Jasmine and the young Chiricahua.

  Me? Well, I think I shouted something heroic—like “Watch out, Jasmine!”—and couldn’t move. Brandishing a war axe, the Apache boy made a beeline for Jasmine, lifting the club over his head. The wind moaned, and the next noise deafened me. Standing like one of the stalwart subjects of his beloved half-dime novels, Ian Spencer Henry pulled that relic of a Colt from his britches, thumbed back the hammer as he aimed, and squeezed the trigger. This time, the .44 didn’t misfire, but detonated the percussion cap that ignited the black-powder cartridge and sent a piece of lead into the Chiricahua’s left thigh.

  “Hey!” shouted Ian Spencer Henry, shocked as any of us, with the exception of the Apache. “I hit him!”

  Yelping in pain, the Indian dropped the axe over his shoulder and fell backward. Only the boulder kept him from tumbling to the ground, and, as the pungent scent of gunsmoke brought me back to motion, sending me charging to rescue Jasmine, and Ian Spencer Henry thumbed back the hammer to chance another shot, the young brave—not the same one who had attacked me earlier, for this one’s nose wasn’t flattened—turned and limped through the opening, disappearing moments before the Colt’s hammer struck with a metallic click.

  “Confound it!” Ian Spencer Henry lamented.

  “RUN!” I yelled over my shoulder.