A branch snapped in his face and he cursed. A soft mattress, even in one of Cortez's fleabag hotels would've felt real good tonight. But he prided himself on his ability to hold his liquor. He had responsibilities and he'd be damned if he'd let things get out of control. While he still had no idea where the staff was, he was closer now than ever, and he was confident of success. In fact, he'd assured Calderone that he would be on his way to Rome within days.
Walcott couldn't wait to see the look on Jones's face when he told him the tables had turned. It would be a pleasure to threaten him, to see how Jones reacted when he thought he was about to be killed. Walcott had thought a lot about Jones over the past few years, about how the brazen graduate student had ruined his career in archaeology. Yet, he'd known that someday things would work in his favor again, and when he'd found out that an archaeologist named Jones was joining Mara, he couldn't have been more pleased.
Walcott had survived his dive into the underground river because of air pockets between the water and stone. He'd been carried downstream, and when the river emerged from the hills, he'd pulled himself out. An hour later, he'd hopped onto a freight train heading north. He'd returned to London, and had hidden himself away for months. Finally, when he realized that no one was pursuing him, he went back to Paris and began looking for Mara. As it turned out, he found her in Rome, and then everything had started coming together.
He wondered what his boys were doing right now. They better not have touched Mara. If there was any trouble, he wouldn't pay them. Not a cent. He'd warned them.
He paused and reached into his pack to pull out a flask. He swallowed deeply, enjoying the burning sensation as the whiskey found its way to his stomach. He screwed the top back on, and stepped to the side of the trail where he opened his fly. A stream of urine splattered the bushes. He imagined himself as an ornery mountain lion marking his territory. "Nobody comes past this mark," he said aloud. "My territory."
He started as he heard the snap of a twig. What was that? Maybe a real bobcat. He buttoned his fly and hurried on. Better get back before I'm somebody's supper. The trail wound upward toward the ruins, and he trudged along as best he could.
There was something he was forgetting. Something important. The thought had been nagging him ever since he'd started drinking. He should know what it was.
He sat down on a log to rest a moment and gazed up through the trees toward the moon as a cloud passed over it. What was it? His mind was like the bloody moon glowing in the night sky and the whiskey was the dark cloud, obscuring his memory. He laughed aloud. You're a silly old fart when you get drunk, Walcott, old chap. Now get up and march.
The luck of the heavens was with Indy. The moon was shrouded now and it would be easier to move undetected through the ruins. He glanced toward the building where the men were eating. Orange light flickered through a small, square window. He decided to see if Mara and Shannon were there before he dealt with the guard. He moved quickly from one building to the next until he reached his target. He pressed his back against the wall and edged toward the window. He smelled coffee, and heard voices speaking over the crackling of wood.
"I don't know who the boss thinks he is. We do his dirty work for him and he runs to town."
"Yeah, he's probably drinking and whoring and laughing at us right now," someone answered.
"I say we go get the girl and have our own fun," the first voice said.
"Wait a minute. He said he wouldn't pay us if anything happened to her."
"Maybe we should wait," someone else put in.
"Don't tell me you guys are afraid of that limey. If he doesn't pay us, we'll take it from him. Now who's in with me?"
Indy peered through the window. He counted four grizzled faces around the fire. A man with thick eyebrows and a flattened nose glared at the others. Probably the one doing the badgering.
"I'm with you, Jimbo," one of the others said.
"Me, too," another echoed.
They all turned to the fourth man, who said: "All right, all right. You guys go on, I'll clean up here, and be right with you."
"You're gonna be last," one of the men said.
Jimbo grinned, displaying a mouthful of jagged teeth. "I guess he wants his coffee before dessert." He laughed like a maniac and they all stood up.
This was it. Indy pulled out his Webley as the first of the men emerged from the building. They were going to lead him right to Mara and Shannon, but after that it was going to get dicey. Real dicey. The others stepped outside. They were only a dozen feet from where Indy was crouched.
Suddenly the guard appeared. "Hey, I just saw the boss. He's coming up the trail. He'll be here in a minute."
Jimbo cursed under his breath. The clouds had drifted away from the moon and Indy could see the man's sunken, beady eyes. "Let's go meet him. We can still have our way and get our money, too. There's only one of him."
"What are you talking about?" the guard asked.
"We're gonna have a little fun with our lady friend."
"About time. I've been thinking about it myself for the last couple of hours."
As they walked away, Indy started to follow. But he accidentally kicked a stone. The men stopped and turned. Jimbo moved forward, and spotted him in the shadows. "Who's there?"
Indy raised the Webley and grinned. "I'm the guy with the big gun."
So far Smitty hadn't heard a sound from below. He didn't know what it meant. He crawled to the edge of the cliff and peered down. At first, he couldn't see anyone. Then in the silver glow of the moonlight, he spotted a man climbing the path leading toward the ruins. The man paused, opened a container, and took a drink.
Smitty heard a noise behind him and turned just in time to see the guard hopping toward him. He reached for his .45, but the beefy guard was already on top of him, and he was nearly smothered in the man's fleshy girth. Smitty struggled to say something to him, but the guard drove an elbow into Smitty's midsection, knocking the wind out of him. He forced Smitty closer and closer to the edge of the cliff. Rocks bit into Smitty's back, dust caked in his mouth. He knew that any second now he would tumble, over the side and plunge to a certain death. He grabbed the guard around his throat with one hand just as the man shoved Smitty's legs over the edge. But his free hand found the rope.
"I'm too old for this nonsense," Smitty mumbled as he hung in mid-air. The guard forced Smitty's hand from his throat, but Smitty whipped the rope around the man's neck. As the guard struggled to move away from the ledge, Smitty's weight choked him. His eyes bulged, and looked as if they were about to pop from his head. But the more he fought, the tighter the rope got, and slowly, his resistance weakened until he finally stopped moving.
Smitty climbed up the rope and to safety, over the prone guard, whose neck apparently had snapped. "Sorry about that, big fella."
He started to stand up when the man's knees caught his foot and dragged him back down. "Hey, you're dead," he yelped. He pulled, but the guard's knee-grip tightened on his foot and the man rolled precariously close to the cliff. Smitty pulled his .45 and cracked it over the guard's head. The man went limp and Smitty pulled his foot free.
"Now, stay dead," he growled. He pushed his legs against the man's chest, and rolled him over the cliff.
Walcott wiped his forehead as he reached the top of the trail just outside the pueblo. He dug into his pack for his flask, and shook it. Just a few drops left. He unscrewed the top and took a swallow. Then he moved ahead into the pueblo and looked around. Now where were all his boys? No one was even guarding the entrance. Anyone could walk right up here. Angrily, he flung his empty flask back down the trail. He wasn't paying these guys to sit around the camp fire like a bunch of boy scouts. Hell, boy scouts would be more on the ball.
It occurred to him that they might've gotten ornery and gone after the woman. He hurried over to the kiva, lifted the cover, and peered down the hole. He couldn't see a thing.
"Who's down there?"
"Who do you thi
nk?" a man's voice answered in a surly tone. At first he thought the worst. He was too late.
"That's Walcott," Mara said. "Roland, let us out of here."
Walcott smiled. "What's wrong, Mara, not enjoying your company? Hello, Jones. It's been a long time."
"I've got news for you, Wally. I'm not Jones."
"That's right," Mara said. "It's his friend. You got the wrong guy."
Walcott was dumbfounded, but then he heard a hollow, metallic clang from just below the village. His flask. Someone had kicked it. He slid the wooden panel back over the hole in the kiva's roof, pulled out his revolver, and crept forward. Who was out there, anyhow?
In the moonlight he saw two men moving along the trail, then three more emerged from the shadows. All of them carried rifles.
A stray thought flashed through his whiskey-sodden brain. What happened to the body of the Ute his men had killed? He'd never seen it. That was what had been bothering him. The Indian must have survived and gotten away.
He scrambled back to the kiva, opened the cover, and lowered the ladder. "Get back. I'm coming down." He aimed his revolver into the hole. "One wrong move and you're dead."
"Everybody throw down your guns or pretty boy here gets it between the eyes," Indy barked as he stepped forward, keeping the Webley aimed at Jimbo.
"Do what he says," Jimbo ordered, and the men dropped their weapons.
"Okay, where are they, tough guy?"
"What are you talking about?" Jimbo answered innocently.
"My friends. I want them now."
Something glinted in the man's eyes; his lips pulled back from his teeth. "You made one mistake, big man."
A body flew like a missile from behind and slammed into the small of Indy's back. He tumbled to the ground; his gun fired harmlessly. He'd forgotten about the guy who stayed inside to clean up.
They rolled over and over, amid shouts, dust, and darkness. His gun was knocked from his hand. The man swung, but Indy blocked the blow, and flipped him over his head. Another of the thugs dropped on him, but Indy caught him with both feet and kicked him into the path of another assailant, knocking both of them to the ground.
Then Jimbo was on him, pummeling him with his fists. Indy groped blindly for the Webley, but just as his fingers tightened over it, a boot crushed his hand. He howled in pain, snapping his head up. Jimbo was glaring down at him, his beady eyes two beacons of hate. Indy was surrounded, and everyone was aiming their weapons at him. Blood dripped from a new gash on his forehead into a bruised eye. More blood oozed from his upper lip.
"Good try, buddy. Good try," Jimbo said. "Now we're gonna put some holes in you." Jimbo cocked his revolver, and that was when a rifle shot exploded behind them.
"Who are you?" Jimbo called out.
Several shadowy figures with rifles raised skyward stood a dozen paces away. "You killed my grandfather," one of them said. "You're coming with us."
"That's what you think," Jimbo shouted and fired on the men.
Shannon had no idea why the Englishman had climbed into the kiva with them, but as he watched Walcott's eyes darting nervously toward the roof he realized that something must have happened. Walcott seemed frightened of whatever it was.
"What's going on out there?" Shannon asked.
Walcott waved the gun at him. "None of your business. Who are you, anyhow?"
"What's it matter to you, Wally?"
Footsteps trampled across the top of the kiva.
"Sounds like a parade," Shannon quipped.
"Shut up," hissed Walcott.
He'd no sooner spoken than a single shot was fired. Shannon started counting the seconds. He reached twelve when a flurry of gunfire erupted. From inside the kiva, it sounded like an explosion of popcorn kernels.
Walcott climbed up the ladder and moved the cover away. "Get up here, Mara!" She did as he said, and he pulled her out.
"What about me, Wally?" Shannon yelled.
"I'll take care of you." Walcott jabbed his gun into the hole and fired three times. "That should shut him up." He kicked the cover closed, and hustled Mara away.
Everyone was scrambling for cover and firing wildly. The man closest to Indy was hit in the neck; blood spurted as he reeled in a circle, crumpled to his knees, and fell on top of Indy.
The gunfire lasted several seconds, then turned sporadic and distant. Indy lost track of time. The man on top of him groaned and shuttered; Indy felt his death like a black rose wilting, shriveling, and crumbling. He smelled blood and a horrible stench of death. He pushed the body away from him, no longer caring what awaited him.
Indy raised his head, still dazed from the beating he'd taken. He crawled a few feet, then slowly stood up. His head was spinning. He felt sick. Besides the man who'd fallen on him, he saw three other blood-soaked bodies.
Beyond the scene of death, pale beams of moonlight illuminated the pueblo. A light breeze rippled through the ruins, as if to carry off the spirits of the newly deceased. Indy stepped over bodies and moved out toward the edge of the cliff. He heard a couple more shots from the valley as the gun battle continued.
"Jones, Jones!" called an eerie voice from above. He spotted Smitty leaning over the cliff. "By God, you're alive."
"What happened?"
"I saw it all. I wanted to warn you, but there was nothing I could do."
"Who were they?"
"Utes. Musta had a real good reason to go rampagin' on like that."
"Indy!"
He looked around for the ghostly voice; he heard it again. It was muffled, but unmistakably Shannon's and it seemed to be coming from somewhere below him. Then he saw the ladder lying on the ground. He walked over to a trapdoor, and pushed it aside. He stared into the dark hole of a kiva.
"Jack?" Indy saw a head of wild red hair as a ray of moonlight penetrated the kiva. Then he glimpsed Shannon's soiled face. It was smeared with blood. "What happened? Are you okay?"
"I'm all right. A bullet hit my arm. Passed right on through. It's not bad."
"Where's Mara?"
"Gone. He took her with him."
Indy lowered the ladder and helped Shannon out as best he could. "Who took her?"
"Walcott. Your old English caveman buddy from Paris."
"Walcott?" It took a moment for the name to find a face... and an unpleasant memory. "Roland!" Somehow, he wasn't surprised.
More distant shots rang out. "I've got to help Mara."
"Wait a minute!" Shannon yelled. "Watch out for—" But Indy vanished from sight before he could say another word.
Indy bolted down the trail leading away from Spruce Tree House. Knotted roots conspired to trip him. Branches slapped at him with a vengeance, and tentacles of vines reached out to strangle him. But nothing was going to stop him. He hurried on and on through the gloomy, nightmarish landscape.
He'd run for a couple of minutes before he realized that his Webley was in his hand. But he had no recollection of picking it up, or even any memory of carrying it. He had to find Mara and get her away from the crazed Walcott. That was all that mattered. He'd no sooner fixed his mind on the thought when he burst into an open space, and there she was. Her bloodied, lifeless body lay in the moonlight. He rushed forward, but suddenly his feet were pulled out from underneath him, and the world flipped upside down. He was caught in a snare—a man-made trap.
Abruptly, as if on cue, an inverted figure darted out from the shadows, a knife in hand. Indy fired the Webley and the man fell to the ground. Another followed, then another. Indy fired twice and the would-be assailants collapsed. He heard a yell, and twisted around to see more of Walcott's henchmen. He fired and fired, emptying his revolver; the attackers dropped one after another. But still more rushed toward him. He swung the butt of the gun at the first one, striking him squarely between the eyes; the gun fell from his hand. Another thug stabbed at his throat, but Indy grabbed the man's forearm and struggled with him, wrenching his arm back until he dropped the knife. Then he threw an awkward, upside down pu
nch, and his fist landed squarely against the man's forehead.
Indy unhitched his whip as someone else dashed toward him. He snared the man around the ankles, sending him to the ground, but more followed. How many were there, anyhow? He hurled the whip over his feet and onto a tree limb. He quickly climbed hand-over-hand, grabbed the branch, and pulled himself up. He reached for his knife and started sawing at the leather snare around his ankles. But then he looked down to see that he was surrounded by a horde of armed men. Ten times more than he'd seen at the ruins.
"Guess you guys win."
Just as the thugs raised their rifles, Mara stepped out of the forest and reached a hand toward Indy. "Please, help me. Please."
"Help you? What about me? Hey, wait a minute..." Something was wrong here. Very wrong.
"Please, Indy. I need your help." She vanished as if she were never there. "No, wait!"
The guns exploded, and his body shuddered. Then the nightmare started all over again....
9
Mara's Message
The gray-haired doctor in the Cortez hospital peered over his wire-rimmed glasses as he carefully dug his forceps into Walcott's shoulder. In spite of the morphine he'd been given, the pain was excruciating. Rivulets of perspiration ran down his forehead, into his eyes, and over his cheeks. He was on the verge of passing out when the doctor held up the forceps.
"Got it." He slapped the bullet into Walcott's palm. "There you go. A momento."
"Thank God," the Englishman said.
"That one wasn't too bad. I've been pulling out lead for nearly forty years. I've seen it all." As he bandaged the wound and fitted a sling over his arm, the doctor told him a couple of gunfight stories, but Walcott wasn't paying any attention. He just wanted to get out of there as fast as possible.
Indiana Jones and the Unicorn's Legacy Page 8