Curse of Skull Canyon

by Peter Brandvold

  It was still stuck solid.

  “It’s not moving an inch,” Lonnie said, sitting back on his heels. “If you two want that box out of there, you’re gonna have to help me lift it instead of just standin’ there blowin’ your horns!”

  Engstrom glowered at Lonnie. He started toward him, making a fist. “By god, I’m gonna—!”

  “Hold it right there!”

  The strange voice stopped both men in their tracks.

  They and Lonnie swung around to see Sheriff Frank Halliday hunkered down atop a boulder about fifty feet away, aiming his Winchester, which he now loudly cocked. “I got you covered! Drop those rifles and do it now or I’ll blow you out of your boots!”

  Lonnie might have been ready to die a few minutes ago, but a wave of relief washed over him like a fragrant spring breeze. Despite the trouble he was in for having shot Walleye, he felt as though a yoke had suddenly been lifted from his shoulders.

  Kinch stared, shaking his head in awe. “I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it.”

  Engstrom turned to him, his lower jaw hanging in shock. “How can it be, Kinch? How can this be? We was watchin’ our back trail so close!”

  “Drop the rifles!” Halliday repeated.

  The old outlaws cursed and tossed their rifles away.

  Engstrom took his face in his hands and sobbed. Kinch just stared, bleach-faced. Lonnie sank back onto the edge of the hole, and dropped his shovel. He heaved a long, ragged sigh of relief, and sleeved sweat from his forehead.

  “Appleyard!” Halliday yelled.

  Presently, Deputy US Marshal John Appleyard strode out from behind some shrubs to Lonnie’s left, spurs chinging, red neckerchief blowing in the breeze. The federal lawman aimed a Spencer carbine straight out from his right shoulder as he moved toward the two outlaws, squinting down the Spencer’s barrel.

  “You all right, kid?” Appleyard asked.

  “I’ll live,” Lonnie said.

  He stopped seven feet from Kinch and Engstrom, keeping his rifle aimed at them. “On your bellies. Now!”

  The old outlaws got down on their bellies. While Halliday kept them covered from atop the boulder, Appleyard tossed their rifles away and then handcuffed them each behind their backs.

  “All right—it’s clear!” the federal lawman called to the sheriff.

  Appleyard glanced at Lonnie. “Sure you’re all right, boy? That’s a nice-sized goose egg you have on your head there.”

  Lonnie was surprised by the federal lawman’s concern. He wasn’t accustomed to such concern, especially from a lawman.

  “I’m all right—thanks,” Lonnie said.

  He went over and picked up his canteen. As he did, Halliday walked out from behind the boulder. He moved past Lonnie without so much as glancing at the boy. That was fine with Lonnie. Halliday seemed more concerned about the strongbox, which Appleyard was now kneeling over.

  The federal lawman grunted and groaned as he tried to pry up the lid. He’d leaned his rifle against a sapling near the top of the hole. “It’s on there tight,” Appleyard said, and tried again, wedging his fingers down along the edge of the lid.

  The lid slid up out of the box, its ancient hinges squawking. As the lid fell back, Appleyard and Halliday stared down at the burlap pouches mounded inside. The pouches were obviously old. They were threadbare, and the “US ARMY” stamped on their sides in black was badly faded.

  Appleyard plucked one of the pouches out of the box. Hefting it in his hand, he grinned up at Halliday standing over him, at the edge of the hole. Halliday held his rifle down low in his right hand. He held out his left.

  “Toss one.”

  Appleyard tossed him a bag, which clinked when Halliday grabbed it.

  “There’s said to be fifty thousand dollars here,” Appleyard said.

  Halliday whistled as, cradling his rifle in his arms, he opened the pouch and dipped his hand inside. He pulled out a handful of gold coins. They flashed brightly when the sun caught them. The sheriff dribbled them back into the bag.

  They made joyful clinking sounds.

  Lonnie felt himself salivating at the sound of all that wealth.

  Kinch, who’d risen to his knees, looked up at Halliday. “What do you say we split it four ways?”

  Engstrom was rising to his knees now, as well. “That’s a helluva lot more money than you’ll ever make as a sheriff! You, too, there, Marshal!”

  Appleyard shook his head. “That money’s goin’ back to where it came from—the US Army.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  Appleyard frowned at Halliday. Lonnie jerked his own startled gaze to the sheriff, too. Halliday was smiling down at Appleyard. Halliday was hefting the money pouch in his left hand. He raised his Winchester in his right hand, aiming the barrel at Appleyard’s chest.

  “Wait, now,” Appleyard said, straightening. “Hold on, now, Halliday!”

  As he lunged for his rifle, Halliday fired.

  Appleyard grunted as the bullet punched into his chest and blew him backward off his feet. He fell back in the hole and rolled sideways. He lay half over the open strongbox.

  Lonnie stared in shock, his ears ringing from the rifle report, as Halliday turned to Kinch. The old outlaws regarded the sheriff with loose-lipped disbelief.

  “Wait, now, Sheriff,” Kinch said, leaning back on his heels. “Wait now. Hold on!”

  Halliday shot him.

  Engstrom screamed as Halliday shot him, too.

  Lonnie jerked violently with each loud, echoing rifle report.

  His heart dropped like a cold stone in his belly when Halliday turned toward him and aimed the rifle at his head.

  CHAPTER 34

  “Bury it,” Halliday ordered Lonnie.

  The boy stared at the smoking barrel of the sheriff’s rifle aimed at his head. The smoke smelled like rotten eggs in the air around him. Lonnie stood frozen, shocked. He glanced around at the dead men.

  “Go ahead, kid—bury the loot.”

  “Wha . . . huh . . . ?” Lonnie said. “You want me to . . . bury it?”

  “That’s right.”

  Keeping his rifle aimed at Lonnie, the sheriff stepped down into the hole. He picked up one of Appleyard’s ankles and dragged the man’s body out of the hole. He deposited the dead federal lawman beside Kinch and Engstrom.

  Then he took his rifle in both hands again.

  “I got no use for the gold. Not now, anyway. If I took it now, folks would get suspicious. Several people in Arapaho Creek know that me an’ Appleyard headed to the canyon, to look for Kinch. If I didn’t come back, they’d figure I’d found the gold and lit out with it. I’d be hunted.”

  Lonnie stared at the lawman as Halliday glanced around at the dead men, chewing his bottom lip thoughtfully, anxiously. It was as though the sheriff was speaking to clarify his thoughts on the subject of the gold.

  On the subject of his keeping it for himself.

  Lonnie didn’t like how the man was talking. At least, he didn’t like that the man was telling him all this . . . what he was going to do. It gave Lonnie a bad, bad feeling down deep in his loins. A moment ago, he’d thought he’d been saved. Now, he appeared as doomed as he’d been when Kinch and Engstrom had had him by the short hairs.

  “True, folks might think that both me and Appleyard was killed . . . maybe by Kinch and his old prison buddy,” Halliday continued. He stared at Lonnie but he seemed to be seeing right through the boy and into his own future. “Maybe by the bounty hunters who’ve been shootin’ each other around here of late. But if I rebury the gold and leave it here, on the end of the canyon where no one’s likely to look for it, I can wait a month, maybe two. No one else will look for it here. The only reason I knew to look for it at this end of the canyon was because I talked to one of the old posse riders, years ago. He followed Kinch and Bentley up this far, but he didn’t tell nobody but me . . . when he was dyin’ of cancer. I knew it was around here somewhere, and, sure enough—good ole Kinch escape
d the pen an’ led me right to it!

  “Yeah, that’s it. I’ll wait a couple of months. I can give notice to the county that I decided to resign . . . and ride back out here for the gold and light out with it. That way, no one will hunt me, and I won’t have to run to Mexico. Hell, no—I can go east or west. Always did want to live high on the hog in a place like Frisco!”

  “What about Kinch?” Lonnie said. “What about . . . the marshal and Engstrom?” He wanted to ask about himself, too, but he was afraid of the answer.

  “Appleyard died in the service of his country—killed by Kinch and his old prison pal. I, of course, killed the outlaws. I’ll fetch them all back to town, bury ’em proper. I got no idea where the gold is. Kinch must’ve forgot where he buried it and was just ridin’ in circles around the canyon, lookin’ for it. Yeah, that’s it. He was just ridin’ in circles.”

  Halliday looked at Lonnie, grinning. “That sounds good, don’t it?”

  He actually seemed to be waiting for Lonnie’s response.

  When none came, he said, “With Kinch dead, the other gold hunters will give up the chase. Lookin’ for the gold without Kinch to lead them to it would be like looking for a single pine needle in all the north-south stretch of the Rockies. Besides, I think most of ’em have done shot each other by now, anyways.”

  Halliday chuckled, in love with his plan.

  “In a few months, the gold will go back to bein’ nothin’ more than a legend. Except for me.” Halliday chuckled again, glancing around again at the dead men. “Except for me. I’ll just ride in here, dig it up, and ride away—a very, very rich son of a gun!”

  He jerked his rifle at the strongbox. “What’re you waitin’ for, kid? Get to coverin’ up that box!”

  Lonnie’s mouth was dry. His tongue felt like a parched chunk of ancient leather. He ran it across his lower lip, and said, “What . . . what about me, Sheriff? What’re you gonna do about me?”

  “Good question!” Halliday was walking out a ways from the hole, looking carefully back the way he’d come as though making sure that no one had heard the gunfire and come to investigate.

  That was doubtful, Lonnie knew. It was a big canyon. Halliday and Appleyard must have cut Kinch’s trail up here by a mere twist of improbable fate. Maybe they’d heard the crack of Kinch’s rifle earlier, when he’d fired at Casey.

  “What do you think I should do with you?” Halliday asked when he returned to the hole, which Lonnie had halfheartedly started to fill in again. “Huh, kid? You think you can keep a secret?”

  Halliday hitched up his pinstriped pants and sat on a rock about six feet from the hole. He leaned his rifle against the rock and dug into his coat pocket for his makings sack.

  “Yeah, I can keep a secret,” Lonnie said with no real enthusiasm. He knew Halliday was just toying with him. The sheriff had killed three men as though it had been nothing more than shooting coyotes off a gut wagon. He’d have no qualm about shooting Lonnie . . . as soon as Lonnie had finished his chore, that was.

  “Let me think on it,” Halliday said, dribbling chopped tobacco onto the wheat paper he troughed between two fingers. “In the meantime, you just keep workin’. Come on, come on—put some effort into it, will ya?”

  Lonnie took his time burying the strongbox. He was in no hurry to die. He’d gotten accustomed to the idea of his death several hours ago. Still, he wasn’t going to urge it on any faster than he needed to.

  Besides, a vague, deep-down part of him managed to keep hope alive that somehow he’d come up with a way to save himself. As he worked, he glanced several times over at Halliday sitting on the rock, smoking cigarettes, sipping whiskey from Kinch and Engstrom’s bottle, and staring dreamily at the hole Lonnie was filling in, as though he were daydreaming about what he was going to do with all that gold.

  While the sheriff daydreamed about his riches, Lonnie considered ways to save himself.

  If he could get close enough to Halliday, he might be able to smash him in the head with the shovel, and lay him out cold . . .

  But how was he going to get close enough to the man to do that?

  “Sure is hot,” Lonnie said, when he had the hole about three quarters filled in. “Would you mind handing me my canteen, Sheriff? It’s that one over there near Appleyard’s feet.”

  “You’re almost done. When you’re finished covering the hole and makin’ it look all natural-like, then you can have a drink, though I don’t really see much point.”

  He chuckled darkly.

  “I’d be able to work faster if I had a drink, Sheriff.”

  Halliday gave a disgusted chuff. Leaving the rifle leaning against the rock, holding his quirley in his left hand, he walked over and picked up Lonnie’s canteen. The boy’s heart quickened as Halliday turned toward him. Lonnie squeezed the shovel, getting ready to lift it quickly for a resolute swing.

  But then Lonnie’s gut fell with disappointment. Halliday only tossed him the canteen. The canteen hit Lonnie in the chest and fell to the ground.

  “Nice catch,” Halliday said, chuckling as he walked back over to his rock.

  Lonnie felt like crying, but held himself in check. He set the shovel down, crouched to retrieve the canteen, unscrewed the cap, and took a drink.

  When he’d had his fill, he tossed the canteen aside and resumed covering the hole. As he tossed the last few shovelfuls on the hole, Halliday walked into the brush and dragged back some blowdown branches.

  The sheriff had his cigarette in his mouth. He’d left the rifle leaning against the rock. Lonnie stopped shoveling to stare at him, his heart quickening again.

  Halliday shouldered Lonnie aside and dropped the branches over the hole, hiding it. Lonnie couldn’t believe his luck when Halliday turned away from Lonnie, and crouched to pick up a limb that had broken off of the main branch.

  His heart galloping like a stallion inside his chest, Lonnie squeezed the shovel. He raised it in a high arc. Halliday straightened and turned toward him, the cigarette smoldering between his lips, his eyes narrowed against the smoke. He tossed the branch down on the hole and widened his eyes as the shovel arced toward his head.

  CHAPTER 35

  Halliday started to raise his hands to deflect the shovel, but he didn’t get them halfway to his chest before the shovel smacked his left temple with a resounding clang!

  “Oh!” Eyes rolling back in his head, Halliday stumbled backward.

  He managed to get both feet under him. He shook his head. Blood ran down from the deep gash high on his forehead. As he regained his balance, he dropped his hand to the Colt holstered on his right hip.

  Again, Lonnie raised the shovel and swung it down with a grunt.

  Clang!

  Halliday’s hand fell away from the revolver as he twisted around and went stumbling and falling into the brush on the other side of the hole. Lonnie stared at the man. Halliday lay belly down, unmoving. Throwing the shovel aside, Lonnie ran over to where General Sherman stood, ground-tied and nervously twitching his ears.

  Lonnie grabbed the General’s reins. He was breathing hard, heart racing, shaking with anxiety. He glanced back toward where Halliday lay where Lonnie had left him. He still didn’t appear to be moving.

  Lonnie turned his stirrup out, but he was so tired and stiff that he had to try three times before he managed to pull himself up by the horn and shove his left boot through the stirrup and swing up into the saddle. He turned the General around and touched spurs to the stallion’s flanks.

  The buckskin galloped around shrubs and large boulders and pines and then started down the gradual slope toward the canyon floor.

  Lonnie hadn’t paid much attention to the way they’d ridden up here. He’d been too crestfallen and still dazed by Kinch’s assault on his head. There was no trail, only a twisting passage through boulders and pines down the hill that grew steeper until Lonnie had to hold the stallion to a trot or risk the horse stumbling on blowdowns and deadfalls as well as patches of dangerous slide rock.
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  He’d just gained the base of the slope and had started galloping toward the lake he could see shimmering beyond a stand of firs and pines, when something buzzed in the air behind him. The buzz grew louder. The bullet pinged off a boulder ahead and to Lonnie’s right.

  Rock dust puffed from the side of the boulder. A quarter second later, what felt like a giant, powerful fist slammed into Lonnie’s left temple.

  Lonnie heard the echoing crack of the distant rifle as he dropped the reins and was hurled out of his saddle. The ground came up to assault him without mercy. He passed out even before he stopped rolling.

  Darkness enveloped him.

  The pain was there inside him, radiating out from his head. But it was like a loud knock on a door at the far end of a very large house.

  The knocking grew louder. Lonnie opened his eyes to see two familiar faces staring down at him. He had trouble placing them at first, because his brain was like a dark room draped with cobwebs. But then the names of his mother’s “guests” came to him—the Pinkerton agents, Brocius and Madsen.

  “Looks like he’s comin’ around,” said Brocius, though his voice was muffled by the hammering clang in Lonnie’s ears. “He killed Appleyard, you say?”

  From even farther away rose another familiar voice: “Hard to believe, ain’t it? A kid as young as that.” Then Halliday walked into Lonnie’s view. The sheriff’s eyes were swollen, and dried blood formed a long, red river down over his nose and down his cheek. He held his rifle on his right shoulder.

  He gingerly fingered his temple as he said, “Laid me out cold. Don’t know why he didn’t kill me. Had the drop on me. Maybe he figured he’d done enough killin’ for one day.”

  The bearded Madsen was still crouching over Lonnie, who lay on the ground where he’d landed when he’d been knocked off the General’s back by the ricocheting bullet. Madsen shook his head. “Well, given that he’s got no pa and his mother don’t seem to know what to do with him—I reckon it all adds up to a bad apple, all right.”