Doubtful Canon

by Johnny D. Boggs

  We dug, Ian Spencer Henry swinging the pickaxe, Whitey Grey clawing with his fingers, me using the broken spade, Eleora Giddings and Jasmine pushing rocks down the hill or carrying them to the edge. The wind didn’t help things, and soon my mouth felt dry, but I knew better than ask for a drink or stop toiling.

  Below, squatted Curly Bill Brocious and Dutch Johnny Ringo, both of whom had pulled their bandannas over their mouth and nose to keep out the blowing dust.

  We dug, until our hands were blistered, until I thought everything futile. The sun had almost dipped behind the rim, and the wind turned even colder. I wondered if Ringo would realize the hopelessness of our venture, and worried what he would do when he called it quits. Ian Spencer Henry had grown weary of the pick, handing it to Whitey Grey while he pushed away stones with his hands, and, when that grew tiresome and painful, he began kicking them with his heels.

  We dug.

  And then Ian Spencer Henry scrambled to his feet, staring at sand spilling into the earth, and shouted: “Hey!”

  That brought the two killers out of their slumbers, and they dashed up the hillside, while the rest of us gathered around my friend’s discovery. “I just kicked that rock out of the way, it was real heavy, and the sand started falling away,” he explained.

  “G-g-g-give me that pickaxe!” Ringo managed after jerking off the bandanna from his face. He ripped the tool from the albino’s hands, then began pounding the ground, cursing, breathing heavily, finally stepping aside as Curly Bill Brocious and Whitey Grey fell to their knees to dig with their hands, breathlessly, excitedly.

  After a few moments, they stopped. Ringo pitched aside the pick, and Curly Bill Brocious pulled himself up, removing the bandanna from his face. Whitey Grey remained on his hands and knees, peering into the emptiness of a tiny hole.

  “Is…is that it?” Brocious asked.

  Silently the albino reached into the hole, his white hand disappearing, and began tugging at something. A snap followed, and he brought out a piece of dead wood.

  “Juniper root,” Ringo said softly.

  “This is it!” Whitey Grey said excitedly. “My gold. This is where Mister Giddings dumped his saddlebags.” He looked up, his eyes pleading at Miss Eleora. “It gots to be!”

  Ringo struggled for composure, tried to think, kept pointing away from the hill. “The wagon,” he said at last, and pushed Brocious. “Go back to that Army wagon. Get a rope.” He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Fetch that rope. There’s a lantern, too. Remember? In the wagon. Hurry!” He whipped off his hat and dropped to the ground beside the white-skinned man. “Hurry. Get moving, Curly!”

  For the next few minutes, no sound came except the heavy panting of the men and the wailing wind. The light had begun to fade into the gray of approaching dusk, and suddenly Ringo laughed and slapped Whitey Grey’s back. “You were right, old man,” he said. “Only a kid could get through that hole.”

  Brocious came running back, the lantern swinging in his left hand, a coiled rope over his right shoulder. He climbed up the hill, cursed as he slipped and slid down, then regained his footing and made it to the small cave.

  “Might be snakes,” Ringo said.

  “Uhn-huh,” Brocious answered. “How deep you think it is?”

  Ringo’s head shook. He looked around, grabbed a stone, and dropped it in the hole. The thunk came a few seconds later. “Not that bad,” he said. “I don’t know. Fifteen feet? Twenty? Fire up that lantern.” He pulled himself up, took the rope, stared at me.

  “Pay day, gents,” he said. “Which one of you children want to fetch our gold?”

  “I will.”

  Ringo blinked, staring at Jasmine Allison, who stepped forward. “I’m the smallest,” she said.

  “Ringo,” Miss Giddings said, “you can’t. You can’t send a child in there. It could be a rattlesnake den. You can’t….”

  “She volunteered, ma’am,” the gunman said smugly. “And we can’t get through that hole. You neither, even as skinny as you are.”

  “But….”

  “Can’t blast the hole any bigger,” he went on. “Nearest dynamite’s in Shakespeare, and an explosion could bury everything. I fancy getting out of this cañon before dark, ma’am.”

  She stammered, but before she could argue further, Dutch Johnny Ringo smiled. “Ma’am,” he said gently, “your pa died for what’s in that hole. Don’t you want to see it?”

  He slipped the rope under Jasmine’s shoulders, secured it, tousled her hair, and handed her the lantern Brocious had lit.

  “I’ll see that you get an extra dollar, kid,” Ringo told her, “if you find the gold.”

  “What’s it look like?” she asked.

  “In saddlebags,” Whitey Grey replied. “Brown. Had Mister Giddings’s initials burned in the leather on both sides.” The albino frowned. “Lessen Mister Giddings dumped it all out.”

  “It’s gold,” Curly Bill said dreamily. “Heavy, beautiful gold coin.” He took the end of the rope, locked his feet in the sand, bracing the rope around his back. “Watch for snakes,” he said, and Dutch Ringo helped lower Jasmine Allison into the pit.

  Miss Giddings caught her breath. I wrung my hands. And Jasmine Allison disappeared out of sight.

  Brocious grunted as he lowered the rope, with Ringo at the entrance, helping feed the line.

  “Can you see anything?” Ringo called out.

  “No!” came Jasmine’s muffled voice.

  “How ’bout you, Dutch?” Brocious said through clenched teeth. “Can you see…?”

  “Nothing.”

  We waited, holding our breath, nervous. Brocious stopped lowering the rope, loosened his grip, and stepped forward. “I think….”

  “I’m at the bottom!” Jasmine called up.

  Ringo cupped his hands over his mouth, spacing his words deliberately. “Can you see anything?”

  “It’s all dusty and dirty down here,” she said. “And tiny.”

  “Tell her to turn up the lantern,” Brocious whispered to his partner.

  Ringo ignored his advice. “Those bags,” he yelled down, “they are probably covered with dirt! Rocks! Back when the ridge washed out. You might have to dig it out!” He turned rapidly, pointed at me. “Grab that shovel, boy. Hand it to me.” I obeyed and he dropped it into the pit. He was too excited, too impatient, too thoughtless to tell her his intentions.

  “Hey!” she snapped. “You almost hit my head!”

  “Sorry,” Ringo said. He wet his lips. The wind died down, as if waiting, also, for the $30,000.

  We listened to the far-off sound of Jasmine working in the pit. Ringo rose, turned, sank to his knees, stared into the blackness of the hole, stood again, sighed.

  “Let’s send in another kid,” he told Brocious. “Help her dig.”

  Nodding, Brocious grabbed my arm and shoved me at Ringo.

  “I need the rope,” Ringo told Jasmine. “We’re bringing it up.” He thought a moment and added: “Honey.”

  “Wait!” Jasmine screamed.

  “It’s all right!” Brocious yelled. And to Ringo he said: “Tell her we’re sending her some help.”

  Ringo’s head bobbed again, but Jasmine cried out: “I think I’ve found it!”

  Brocious shot out a Rebel yell, and Ringo smiled triumphantly. He dropped back to his knees, looking inside the opening, and spoke clearly: “Tie your end of the rope to the saddlebags! Are…did you…is it in the saddlebags?”

  “Yes. It’s heavy.”

  Another war cry. Brocious fell beside Ringo, then both men rose. “Let us know when you’ve got the rope on those saddlebags!” Ringo hollered. “Tie a good knot!”

  “It’s ready!” Jasmine yelled. “But don’t you forget to send that rope back down for me.”

  Brocious’s laugh came up short when he gave the rope a tug. Grunting, grimacing, he strained as he and Ringo pulled, tugged, then shouted: “Help us!” Whitey Grey dashed forward, and Ian Spencer Henry and I started, but Miss
Giddings grabbed our shoulders, keeping us near her.

  They pulled. Pulled. Ringo let go, fell back on his knees and reached inside with both hands. “Just a few…more…got it!” He fell on his stomach. “Keep pulling, you fools! Don’t drop it! Pull!”

  Dust-coated, worn leather came through, the bags bulging, buckles broken. Miss Giddings relaxed her grip, and we all gathered around the saddlebags, watching Whitey Grey brush dirt off the dried leather until the faint tracing of a brand burned into the hide became legible: J J G.

  Softly Miss Giddings repeated her father’s name.

  “Hey!” Jasmine called out. “Get me out of here!”

  Brocious started to gather the rope, but Ringo stopped him.

  “Don’t bother,” he said in a wild whisper, and, straining, pulled open one of the bags and dumped out its contents.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  A deafening, savage curse exploded from Dutch Johnny Ringo’s mouth, and he jerked the Thunderer from its holster, slamming the barrel against the back of the white-skinned man’s head. Whitey Grey, who had crawled forward to stare at his treasure, pitched forward, planting his face in the pile of rocks.

  “You idiot!” Ringo roared, kicking at the old man, aiming the revolver at the albino’s back, thumbing the hammer, shaking his head, cursing again. “Twenty years!” he yelled. “For this?” The pistol boomed, its report echoing in the approaching darkness, spitting sand into Whitey Grey’s open mouth. The albino sat up, clutching a chunk of granite in each hand, staring blindly, blinking, mouth open, blood running down the back of his head, sticking to that flowing mane of white hair. “Fool!” Ringo said, and started to pull the trigger again. “Rocks! Rocks! Nothing but rocks. You idiot!”

  Curly Bill Brocious just stared, bewildered, and finally let out a little groan.

  “What’s going on?” Jasmine’s voice called from inside the pit. “Don’t you leave me here. I want to get out! Throw me the rope! What’s going on up there?”

  Ringo laughed coarsely, kicked the pile of rocks, shoved the revolver into its holster. “Twenty years, you’ve waited, Grey. Twenty years…for dirt. Which is what you are, old man. Dirt. You’re as worthless as these rocks.” He spit, pushed back his hat, and swore again. “And I’m just as worthless for hitching my team to your wagon. Idiots!”

  The granite slipped from the albino’s hands. Pale eyes fluttering, he just sat there as the blood flowed.

  “Maybe….” Curly Bill ripped open the other bag. “Maybe….” He reached in, pulled out….

  “Yeah, Curly.” Ringo turned away, shaking his head, his lips tight, knowing what his partner would find in the other pouch.

  Brocious picked up the saddlebags, dumped out more dust, rocks, and filth, then, swearing, he flung the ancient leather at Miss Giddings’s feet. “I told you, Dutch…,” he began.

  “Shut up, Curly. Shut up, or I’ll fill your gut with lead.” Ringo laughed again, his voice hoarse.

  Silence returned for a minute, broken by Whitey Grey’s snickers. “Mister Giddings,” he said, nodding with respect. “Man had a belly full of gumption. Come all this way with bags full of rocks. Rocks. By jingo, I must’ve had rocks in my head.”

  “That gold could be anywhere,” Brocious said numbly.

  “Don’t think it ever left Texas,” the white-skinned man said. “Not with Mister Giddings nohow. Reckon we was a decoy. Mister Butterfield and ’em Overland boys probably had other arrangements. But…”—he grinned at Miss Giddings—“your pappy had sand, lady. He wouldn’t turn back, wouldn’t shirk no duty. He died for the Overland. Sure played me for a fool. He….” He turned toward the noise.

  Ringo heard it, too, filling both of his hands with revolvers.

  “Horses,” Brocious whispered urgently. “Might be the Army. If they find them colored boys in that wagon….” He started down the hill, calling over his shoulder: “The game’s up, Dutch! Come on!” Muttering an oath when Ringo refused to budge, Brocious stopped at the bottom of the hill. “We got one horse, that Army horse, Dutch! Unless you want to take that wagon through Doubtful! Come on, will you! The pickings have got to be easier in Tombstone!”

  Whitey Grey kept laughing, and Ringo began making his way down the hill, but on a whim he stopped, whirled, and aimed the Remington at my chest.

  “They ain’t worth it, Dutch!” Brocious gave up, running for the maze.

  The wind had started again, not as violent as before, as I looked down the barrel of that heavy .44.

  “Ringo!” Miss Giddings gasped.

  His face looked dead, and he cocked the hammer. I closed my eyes. A body stepped in front of me, and, when I pried my eyelids open, I stared at the bloody back of Whitey Grey’s head. “Ain’t you a big man, Ringy,” I heard the white-skinned man say. “Killin’ a kid. Ain’t I more your size?”

  Metal clicked, leather creaked, and Ringo’s voice called out with a dry laugh and low whisper: “Curly’s right! You ain’t worth it.”

  With that, he was gone, racing down the hill, across the opening, and through the rocks.

  Whitey Grey loosened his bandanna and placed the sour-smelling rag against the gash in his head, sat down, and sighed. Hoofs thundered, followed by a scattering of shots, more hoof beats, shouts. Miss Giddings took off toward the old Overland road, lifting her voice, yelling for help. My knees buckled, and I sank onto the earth, Ian Spencer Henry dropping beside me, his hand steadying my shoulder.

  “You all right, Jack?” he asked. “I thought you was dead, for sure.”

  From the pit beneath us, Jasmine cried: “If you don’t get me out of this hole, you’re gonna be real sorry!”

  I made myself move, needed to work, to get the image of Ringo’s pistol out of my head, so Ian Spencer Henry and I grabbed the rope and dropped one end into the black hole while Whitey Grey started singing some old song, stanching the flow of blood with that rag, rocking, laughing, talking to himself. We pulled, Jasmine shouting her instructions, and finally her right hand shot out of the hole. I knelt forward, grabbed it, and we lifted her back into the dusk, hugging her.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  I started to answer, but a woman’s high-pitched voice stopped me.

  “Jasmine!” We spun around, watched in stunned silence as Berit Ann Allison charged forward, lifting the hems of her calico dress, tears of joy flowing down her face. “Jasmine! My love!”

  Jasmine blinked, dropped the rope in the dust, and took a tentative step forward. “Mom?” she said.

  More faces and figures appeared in the maze, led by Miss Giddings, who pointed up the hillside toward us. Mr. Shankin came through, and many others. One man in a tan, sack coat stumbled, tossed aside a Sharps rifle, and pulled himself up. “Ian!” he hollered. “Boy?”

  “Pa!” Ian Spencer Henry showed no hesitation. He raced down the hill, slid to a stop, charged back up, and grabbed the canvas war bag that carried the old Army Colt. Then he hurried back down the hill, and sprinted for his father. Jasmine got her legs to work, and, tears welling in her eyes, she ran into her mother’s waiting embrace. I stared at the opening, searching the faces, and staggered beside Whitey Grey, squatting beside him.

  I didn’t see my father.

  Well…I hadn’t expected to. Not really. I mean…. What did I mean? A tear broke free, rolled down my cheek. Then another. And another. Until I made them stop.

  Whitey Grey’s callused hand patted my knee. He had stopped singing. “You’re a good boy, Jack Dunivan,” he said. “A mighty fine pard!”

  Sniffing, I wiped my eyes, took a deep breath, and watched Mr. Shankin climb up the hill, out of breath, followed by several other men from Shakespeare, miners and merchants, some that I knew, many more that I didn’t.

  “You gave us all quite a start…,” Mr. Shankin began. He knelt beside me. “You all right? You look as if….”

  “I’m fine,” I lied.

  Rough hands jerked Whitey Grey to his feet, started shoving him down the hill.
“This is the one we want,” a voice said. And another: “The fiend!” Still another: “Fetch that rope!”

  I wiped my eyes again, oblivious to the tumult around me. “How’d you find us?” I asked.

  “Those two men from Lordsburg,” he said. “And we found those railroad cars at Stein’s Peak. It wasn’t….”

  “Hang him!” another voice cried out. “Child stealer. Thief! String him up the way we did Cornwall Dan…!”

  The shout died, and I looked in time to see the man’s head drop. Others stared uncomfortably at Berit Ann Allison and her daughter, but they didn’t seem to hear or notice, just wrapped themselves together, sobbing in joy.

  “Come on, Jack.” Mr. Shankin held out his hand, and I took it, letting him pull me up. For some reason, I grabbed the old saddlebags, lighter now, but still spilling dust, and followed the mercantile owner down the hill. Two more figures emerged from the maze, Trooper Muller and Corporal Merchant, the former holding a wet cloth on the back of his head, the corporal rubbing his wrists where the bindings had chaffed the skin.

  “Curly Bill and Ringo?” I asked.

  “Who?” Mr. Shankin said. “You mean the two…?” His head shook. “Got away. Didn’t know who they were. We would have gone after them, but they were riding deeper into the cañon, and then this woman said…well…we wanted you, to find you.”

  “Where’s a tree!” someone yelled.

  “Let’s just shoot him. Here’s a half-dug grave we can use.”

  “He don’t need to get buried, not the likes of him!”

  Another voice came, this one softer, and I looked, my knees buckling, the tears coming again. This time I made no effort to stop crying.

  “Pa!” I yelled, dropping the empty saddlebags.

  And ran for my father.

  He had stayed behind to help the soldiers in the wagon, maybe dreading what he would find, fearing me dead. I buried my face in his chest, felt his strong arms squeeze me, heard him crying as well. I didn’t smell liquor, only dust and sweat. I didn’t feel chagrined, only love.