Curse of Skull Canyon

by Peter Brandvold

Finally, sick of all the unwanted thoughts and images assaulting him, he threw his covers back, drew on his boots and his hat, and left the side shed clad in his longhandles and holding a blanket over his shoulders. He found the night’s chill pleasantly uncomfortable, distracting him from the barrage of unwanted worries. He sat on a hay rake parked near the corral’s front corner and studied the stars that were dimmed by the rising moon.

  After a while, a sound drew his attention toward the cabin.

  A shadow moved out around the cabin’s left-front corner. The shadow slid up to the front of the porch. It mounted the porch, and then Lonnie could hear the light taps of boots on the porch’s wooden floorboards.

  A light was turned up inside the cabin, causing the kitchen window right of the front door to glow wanly through the gingham curtains. The door opened, and the man-shaped shadow, topped with a Stetson, stooped as he passed through the lit opening.

  The door click closed. The light in the window died.

  Lonnie wondered which one it was—Madsen or Brocius.

  He wasn’t surprised that his mother was entertaining one of the men. In fact, it plowed through all of his worries to make him feel dull and numb. That was a pleasant feeling after the sharp pangs of anxiety that had been assaulting him only moments ago.

  Even if the reward was only a hundred dollars, a hundred dollars would take him far. He could maybe get a job in Denver, say, swamping out saloons or livery barns. He could possibly land a cowboying job if he could convince a ranch owner that he had all the skills, and sometimes more, of cowpunchers twice his age, though that might be a feat.

  Few folks thought a boy his age was good for much of anything than lying to him and shooting at him, and—he was thinking of Casey now—of betraying him.

  Lonnie eyelids grew heavy. He felt as withered as an old, dried-up cornstalk. He could probably sleep now.

  He went back into the side shed, rolled into his blankets, causing the cot to squawk beneath him. He punched his pillow, laid his head back on it, took a deep breath, and fell asleep . . . until a sound woke him.

  He lifted his head, blinking groggily. He’d been in a deep sleep. Something glinted in the moonlight angling through the side shed windows, in the air before his head. There was a ratcheting sound that he instantly recognized as a gun hammer being cocked.

  Then he saw a figure take foggy shape in the moonlight before him.

  His heart hiccupped, and he was about to reach for his rifle when the cold, round maw of the revolver was pressed up taut against his forehead.

  “One move, and I’ll drill you, kid.”

  Madsen’s voice.

  Lonnie froze. He squeezed his eyes closed, waiting for the bullet.

  “What . . . what do you want?”

  “Just to finish up the conversation from earlier.”

  “I told you,” Lonnie said, his heart racing now, “I don’t know anything about that payroll.”

  “I got a feelin’ you do.”

  “That’s just cause I was actin’ cocky at first. I tend to do that. Like Ma says, I tend to get full of myself. But . . . please believe me . . . all I ever heard about that loot was that it might have been buried in the Never Summers somewhere. That’s it. If it’s in Skull Canyon, it’s news to me.”

  Madsen didn’t say anything for nearly a minute. He kept the revolver pressed up close to Lonnie’s head. It was cold and hard and unforgiving, and Lonnie vaguely wondered if he’d feel the bullet before it blew his brains out, or if he wouldn’t feel anything but just pass into Heaven or Hell or wherever it was he was headed.

  The gun clicked quietly as Madsen depressed the hammer, let it fall benignly against the firing pin. He pulled the barrel away from Lonnie’s head. Lonnie drew a deep, relieved breath and opened his eyes.

  Madsen let the gun fall straight down against his right side.

  “Kid,” he said, “I can’t tell if you’re really, really smart or really, really stupid.”

  Lonnie cleared his dry throat. “That makes two of us.”

  Madsen holstered the big revolver and then drew up the ladderback chair from the small, plankboard eating table near the sheet-iron stove. He slacked into the chair with a weary sigh, doffed his hat, and leaned forward, turning the hat in his hands. He was a dark, man-shaped silhouette against the two moonlit windows behind him. His round, bearded face with deep-set eyes now filled with shadows looked especially sinister in the shadowy moonlight.

  Lonnie was glad the man had holstered the pistol, but he wouldn’t rest until Madsen had left. Again, Madsen didn’t say anything for a time, likely knowing that his silence was causing Lonnie a great deal of anxiety, and likely enjoying it.

  “We’re Pinkerton agents.”

  Lonnie blinked, studied the man in the darkness. “What’s that?”

  “Me an’ Brocius,” Madsen said. “We’re Pinkerton detectives.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Again, Lonnie blinked at the menacing visage of Madsen sitting before him. “I don’t understand.”

  “You ever hear of the Pinkerton Detective Agency?”

  “Yeah.”

  Lonnie had never been to school, for the nearest school was too far away even if he hadn’t been too busy at the ranch to attend. But he’d been bound and determined to not have to “make his mark” with an X every time he needed to sign his name, like so many of the old-timers did.

  To that end, he’d acquired a rudimentary, mostly self-taught knowledge of reading and writing. When he rode to town every couple of months for supplies, he scrounged around in trash heaps and privies for newspapers, usually returning to the ranch with a few local papers as well as several issues of the Rocky Mountain News out of Denver.

  During his reading, he’d stumbled upon stories about the famous Pinkerton Agency founded by Allen Pinkerton and based in Chicago.

  But he’d certainly never figured on meeting two detectives from that illustrious company. Especially not out here, at his own ranch . . .

  Madsen said, “The army hired the Pinkertons to find the stolen loot. That’s what me an’ Brocius are doing here. The Pinkertons have been looking for that strongbox ever since it was stolen, but the detectives working the case—there’ve been several over the years—always came up cold. The company sort of put the case on the back burner . . . until the outlaw who rode with the gang who stole the gold in the first place broke out of prison three or four weeks ago.”

  Lonnie remembered the name that Deputy Marshal Appleyard had mentioned. “Crawford Kinch?”

  Even in the darkness, Lonnie saw a puzzled frown slice across Madsen’s forehead. “How did you . . . ?”

  “Like Brocius said, I’m savvy.”

  “That’s the name, all right. You seen him, kid?”

  “Nope. And I reckon I don’t want to, neither. Or so I’ve been told.”

  “That would be right.” Madsen paused, sighed, and then leaned a little farther forward. “Look, I’ve laid my cards on the table. It’s time for you to tell me everything you know about that loot.”

  “I’ve already done that, Mister Madsen.” Anger flared in Lonnie suddenly, and he sat up a little in bed. “Do the famous Pinkertons make a habit of holding cocked guns to boys’ heads?”

  “Not officially,” Madsen said, sitting back in his chair. “But we do whatever’s necessary to get the job done. Pull your horns in, kid. That arguably nasty little tactic worked in your favor.”

  “How so?”

  “I believe that you don’t know where the loot is.”

  “Why didn’t you just tell us who you were in the first place?”

  “Folks aren’t as willing to talk to detectives as they are, say, geologists. And there’s men out looking for that gold who would kill others to keep them from finding it first.”

  Don’t I know! Lonnie wanted to say but didn’t.

  “I got a proposition for you.”

  “Look, I can read and write a little, but could you chew that up a little finer an
d spit it out slower? What’s a ‘proposition’?”

  “I got an offer for you. You show me an’ Brocius the way to Skull Canyon, and we’ll pay you five dollars.”

  Lonnie shook his head. “I don’t want nothin’ more to do with that canyon.”

  “Nothin’ more? What do you mean?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “All right, ten dollars.”

  Lonnie considered it. Ten dollars was a lot of money. “Forget it. I wouldn’t do it for twice that much. I don’t like the way you came in here, lyin’ to me and my ma about who you are. I don’t like Brocius bein’ in our cabin right now. I don’t like havin’ a gun pressed to my head.”

  Madsen quirked a wry, menacing half-smile. “I could do it again.”

  Lonnie grabbed his rifle from where it leaned against the wall behind him. He cocked the Winchester, aimed it at Madsen’s chest. “You’ve worn out your welcome, Mister Madsen. You’d best leave.”

  Madsen stared at Lonnie, his shoulders rising and falling slowly as he breathed. “All right, all right. You win, sonny.”

  Madsen walked to the door then glanced over his shoulder at Lonnie. “For now, you win. You an’ me—we’ll be talkin’ about this later.”

  “I’ll be lookin’ forward to it.”

  Chuckling, Madsen went out.

  Still holding the Winchester, Lonnie went to the door, opened it, and watched Madsen retreating in the moonlight, his footsteps sounding crisp and clear in the heavy night silence but dwindling quickly.

  Lonnie closed the door and slipped the nail through its hasp, locking the door. He leaned his rifle against the wall and lay back down on the cot with a heavy, weary sigh . . . only to be awakened again by hoof thuds outside the barn.

  Lonnie lifted his head with a frustrated sigh. Fatigue hung heavy on him. He didn’t know how long he’d slept.

  What now?

  He grabbed his rifle, stepped into his boots, and donned his hat. He cracked the door and poked his head out. A horse and rider had just trotted past the barn to stop before the corral to his left. It was still dark, but he recognized the horse as well as the blonde hair tumbling down from the rider’s gray felt hat to spill across slender shoulders clad in a short leather jacket.

  “Casey?”

  Lonnie had kept his voice down. Now as the girl swung down from her saddle, she jerked around with a start.

  “Lonnie?” she said, also speaking softly. “You startled me! What’re you doing out here?”

  He wasn’t too bothered about Casey seeing him in his long-handles. She’d seen him in his longhandles before, when they were making their run over the mountains together. Besides, she’d seen him in only a blanket just yesterday at the line shack.

  “Long story.” Lonnie frowned. He still felt more than a little bitter. His heart was still broken though he had even more pressing matters on his mind now. “What’re you doing out here?”

  Holding the reins of her chestnut mare, Casey walked over to him, glanced at the cabin, as though making sure they were alone, and said, “Lonnie, you’re in trouble. Big trouble!” Her breath frosted in the air around Casey’s head.

  “If you rode all the way out here just to tell me that, you wasted a trip.”

  “Sheriff Halliday is getting a warrant for your arrest.”

  “Huh? What? Because I shot Walleye?”

  “What do you think? You can’t go around shooting sheriff’s deputies without it eventually coming back to bite you, Lonnie!”

  “Walleye shot first! Just like last time with Willie, I was only trying to protect myself.”

  “Walleye and Bohannon said you ambushed them.”

  Lonnie shook his head. He looked around for a rock, and kicked it. “I reckon that doesn’t surprise me.”

  “The sheriff and Bohannon are riding out here to arrest you later this morning, Lonnie. I heard them talking out front of the courthouse yesterday evening.”

  Lonnie laced his hands behind his head and looked toward town, as though he might see the two county lawmen riding toward him out of the early-morning darkness. “Well, that tears it!”

  Frustration bit him hard. As he’d figured he would, he found himself between a rock and a hard place.

  Casey said, “What’re you going to do?”

  “How the hell should I know?”

  “Here’s what I think you should do, Lonnie. I think you should save the sheriff a trip.”

  Lonnie swung around in shock. “What?”

  “It’s the only way to take some of the bite out of what’s about to happen. Maybe if you ride to town and tell Halliday what you just told me, he’ll believe you. At least the judge might be lenient.”

  Lonnie cocked his head a little and narrowed a suspicious eye at her. “Do you believe me, Casey?”

  She stared at him for a long moment. Then she moved toward him and stopped just inches away from him, gazing at him levelly. “I know you wouldn’t ambush anybody, Lonnie. But I also know you’re prone to trouble.”

  “Prone to trouble, huh?”

  “Don’t act like it’s such a surprise.”

  Lonnie could give only a caustic chuckle at that.

  “Will you please do as I say? Ride to town and try to defuse the situation before it explodes. Tell Halliday what happened. He knows Walleye’s own penchant for trouble. He’ll probably believe you.”

  Lonnie swung around again. This time he stared toward the high western peaks standing dark against the fading stars. False dawn was starting. Birds were starting to sing.

  Slowly, Lonnie shook his head. “I can’t do it, Casey. Last time I was hauled into jail, I was dragged out into the mountains and nearly killed. You remember. Heck, you were the one who saved my bacon.”

  “Lonnie, I don’t see what choice you have.”

  “I do. You’d best get on back to town.”

  Lonnie swung around and started back into the barn.

  “Not so fast, bucko!” Casey grabbed his arm and turned him back around. “What have you got on your devious mind, Lonnie Gentry?”

  “Devious? Now, ain’t that the pot callin’ the kettle black!”

  Lonnie jerked his arm loose of the girl’s grip and went on into the side shed. Casey stomped in behind him. “I know you’re mad at me, Lonnie, but I can’t help that. Whatever you might think of me, I still . . . I still care about you. I don’t want you to do anything you’re going to be sorry for later on.”

  “Thanks for your concern,” Lonnie said as he kicked out of his boots and reached for his pants.

  Casey walked to the table and lit the hurricane lamp, turning up the wick and causing shadows to scuttle like rats into the corners. “What’re you going to do?”

  “I rode to town earlier to tell Halliday about a dead man in Skull Canyon. He and the deputies think I lied. They think I sent ’em on a wild-goose chase to make fools of ’em. I reckon they think I’m so bored up here, with nothin’ else to do, that I need a laugh bad enough to go to all that trouble.”

  Lonnie chuffed and shook his head in exasperation. “Maybe they’re bored, but I sure ain’t!”

  “Lonnie, please don’t,” Casey urged. “Please ride back to town with me.”

  Lonnie was stepping into his denims, moving fast and shaking his head. “I need to ride up there and see if I can’t find poor McLory. If the sheriff realizes I wasn’t lying about him bein’ in the canyon, maybe he’ll realize I’m not lyin’ about Walleye and Bohannon scuttlin’ like Apaches up to the line shack in the middle of the dang night!”

  “Oh, Lonnie.” Casey turned around and opened the door.

  “Yeah, you get on back to town,” Lonnie said.

  “I’m not going back to town,” Casey said, glancing back at him. “I’m going with you. Maybe . . . just maybe . . . I can keep you from getting yourself killed!”

  CHAPTER 24

  Lonnie quickly saddled the General and led him out of the barn. As he did, Casey led Miss Abigail up from where she’d been
watering the mare at the windmill.

  Lonnie glanced at the cabin and felt an urgent need to leave the yard before his mother awakened. Lonnie knew he should tell her where he was going, but she’d only try to stop him. She wouldn’t be able to understand what was happening to her son. She’d only think he was up to no good, like everyone else in this neck of the Never Summers.

  If he rode out now, May Gentry would think he’d headed back to their summer pastures higher in the mountains. That was just as well. She had her hands full with her overnight “guest” and little Jeremiah.

  Lonnie turned to Casey. She was studying him as though reading his mind. She looked a little sad.

  Lonnie swung up onto the General’s back and, keeping his voice low, said, “You’d best not follow me, Casey. It’s too dangerous. You don’t know the half of what’s been goin’ on.”

  Casey stepped into her saddle and neck-reined the mare around. “Tell me,” she said, touching spurs to Miss Abigail’s flanks, heading west.

  Lonnie rode after her. When they’d passed beneath the ranch portal and were a good distance from the cabin, heading for the main trail, Lonnie rode up beside Casey and started to tell her about the past forty-eight hours.

  By the time he was finished filling her in on all that had happened, they were rising through the pine forest high above the ranch, and the big, lemon sun was on the rise behind them, heating the air and stirring the tang of pine resin. Lonnie shrugged out of his denim jacket and wrapped it over his blanket roll.

  Riding ahead of Casey, leading the way, Lonnie glanced back over his shoulder at her. She stared straight past him, her eyes wide beneath the brim of her hat, her cheeks pale.

  “You all right, Casey?”

  Dully, as though she’d suffered a blow to the head, Casey turned to him but it took her several seconds to find her tongue. “My god, Lonnie—all that happened over the past two days?”

  “Sure as tootin’.”

  Lonnie swung the General back to face Casey, who halted Miss Abigail. “Now are you ready to head back to Arapaho Creek?” Lonnie asked her.

  Casey glanced around cautiously, looking a tad frightened. Then she stared past Lonnie, toward the high ridge of craggy peaks where Skull Canyon lay. Her cheeks turned even a little whiter.