“Appleyard,” Larry sourly corrected. “You’ve been my corporal many a long year—Peachtree. By now, you ought to know my name.”
“Beggin’ your pardon, Sarge,” said Stretch, poker-faced.
Larry retrieved the repeater. Gayatero surrendered it reluctantly and watched with great interest, as Larry set about rigging his demonstration. In response to his urgent warnings, the Apaches retreated to a respectful distance. Stretch fetched a couple of sizeable rocks. Between the rocks, Larry wedged the repeater with its muzzle pointed skyward. Then, with a great show of caution, he rammed a cartridge into the breech and knotted one end of a long length of string to the trigger.
Gingerly, Larry cocked the rifle. The string, paid out to its full length, stretched to almost twelve feet. He crouched, coiling it around his index finger. To Gayatero and the lynx-eyed braves, he announced.
“Three soldiers died this way. There must be no more death from the devil-gun. If white men bring such weapons to you, Gayatero, do not be deceived.”
“Gayatero is never ...” began the chief.
And, before he could mouth the Spanish word for ‘deceived,’ Larry jerked on the string, which tugged the trigger back. The hammer slammed down. The repeater didn’t merely discharge. It exploded, and the blast was loud, harsh, a more frightening sound than a regular gunshot. The barrel became a twisted caricature of its former symmetry. The center section showed a jagged hole, the stock was splintered.
After the echo of the blast had died, a stunned silence followed. Larry broke it with a sobering query directed at the chief.
“Would you wish your braves to use such a gun?” Mochita gesticulated and began jabbering in his own tongue. The braves joined in, not arguing with the chief’s son—agreeing with him, and vehemently. Gayatero’s guard was down. Inscrutable? He was far from inscrutable at this moment. He rallied quickly, but not before Larry had noted the bared teeth, the flared nostrils, the dark eyes dilated, red-rimmed with rage. The impassive mask again shielded his emotion, and Larry had seen enough, had been given food for thought. When it came to covering up, he, like Gayatero. was a past-master. He grinned easily, and explained,
“My chiefs wanted to be sure you’d understand.”
“Gayatero,” grunted the chief, “gives thanks to the great white father. Tell your chiefs I have not broken the treaty. I know nothing of the devil-guns stolen from the Long Knives, but I will remember this warning.”
Mochita was still cursing. Apache-style. His father silenced him with an impatient gesture, then nodded to the Texans.
“Go in peace.”
Unhurriedly, the bogus N.C.O.’s turned walked back to where their horses awaited. They swung astride raised hands in a last farewell gesture and nudged their mounts to movement. To the rim of the mesa they rode, and down to the narrow track, maintaining a cautious silence until they were well out of earshot. Then, while building himself a smoke, Stretch asserted,
“I knew what’d happen to that shooter when you set it off. I was expectin’ it—but it was still a gosh-awful sight.”
“It ain't purty,” Larry dryly remarked, “to think of what could happen to a man—firin’ a rigged gun. When I was only knee-high, I recall I saw a feller get his head blowed off—usin’ a shotgun with mud in the barrels.”
“Quite a show you gave ’em,” drawled Stretch. “But I’m wonderin’ if it’ll make any difference. Suppose them Apaches got that shipment cached somewhere on the reservation. They might’ve tested a few already. Or they could start testin’ rightaway. Hell, runt, you showed ’em how to do it.”
“That was a chance I had to take,” growled Larry. “Anyway, it’s my hunch they don’t have the rifles yet.”
“Well,” frowned Stretch, “your hunches ’most always pay off.”
“And,” said Larry, “I got me another hunch.”
“Such as what?” prodded Stretch.
“I’d bet every dollar of our bank-roll—the whole three thousand,” said Larry, “that the hijackers have already propositioned Gayatero.”
“Maybe so,” shrugged Stretch.
“I was watchin’ him close,” said Larry. “When that rifle exploded, he wasn’t just surprised. He was sore, amigo. Fightin’ mad.”
“Hey now!” breathed Stretch. “Could be you’re lightin’ a fire under them hijackers. If the chief figures they’re tryin’ to double-cross him ...”
“Uh, huh,” Larry nodded grimly.“Kind of an interestin’ thought.”
Back in the mesquite, they made short work of shedding their stolen finery and redonning their own clothing. The two uniforms, all the equipment purloined by Stretch, had to be disposed of. They scooped out a sizeable hole, piled everything into it and covered it with loose soil, stones and dry brush.
From the mesquite, they rode away in an easterly direction, bound for the scene of the hijacking. After almost two weeks, Larry wasn’t deluding himself as to his chances of cutting sign or picking up any clue to the identity of the ambushers, but he felt compelled to check that section of the trail. For a while, he would put himself in the position of the hijackers, and ask himself the big questions. How do you hide a large shipment of rifles and ammunition? Having decided upon a hiding place, how do you transport the shipment to that hiding place? The size and weight of the shipment must have been considerable, as indicated by the fact that it had to be moved in two freight wagons.
They encountered no patrols on their way to that isolated corner of Bosworth County. Reaching it, they reined up to roll cigarettes and to study the terrain, trying to visualize the sudden carnage of that fateful day.
They squatted face to face in Gayatero’s lodge—the old chief and his enraged, vengeful son. Mochita spoke quickly and bitterly. His father sat eyeing him impassively, only half-listening.
“He would have betrayed us,” Mochita asserted. “This white-eyes that hungers for gold—and seeks to deceive us. These guns he would exchange for gold—they are useless! It has been proved!”
“Be calm, my son,” muttered Gayatero. “No man tricks Gayatero—and lives to boast of it.”
“Our weapons are old,” complained Mochita. “Without the guns that shoot many times, we dare not attack.”
“We may never attack again.” The chief sighed heavily, but not in resignation. The fury still smoldering in his eyes. “But this promise I make to my people. The white-eyes will suffer for his treachery.”
“Tomorrow, I am to meet him in council,” Mochita reminded him.
“You will meet him.” Gayatero’s unprepossessing visage wrinkled in a crafty grin. “At the time and place agreed to, you will meet him. But you will not go alone, my son. You will take two braves.”
“And there will be no council,” breathed Mochita.
“No council,” said Gayatero. “No talk—except to accuse him. He will be your prisoner. You will bring him to me.” He nodded slowly. “And then—he will begin to pay for his treachery.”
They talked on, the sly old wolf and the bloodthirsty cub. And, had Webb Collier been present and able to understand the Apache language, he would swiftly have learned the meaning of real fear, the agony of apprehension and naked terror.
As the crow flew, Collier wasn't many miles away. He was seated outside the cabin on the massive shelf high in the Santa Rosas, in conversation with the hulking Rube Sunday. Two of Sunday’s cronies were perched on the top rail of the pole corral that housed the mules, to the north end of the shelf. The other three were inside the cabin, playing poker.
Abandoned years ago by its founders, the Lucky Dutchman Mine had been forgotten by the citizens of Bosworth County. Any time a local did mention it, he spoke of it as a white elephant. Later, when Sunday and his cohorts had arrived to register on the old claim, Bosworth folk had derided them as ill-advised optimists, never imagining that these raggletale newcomers were case-hardened outlaws masquerading as prospectors. Collier had planned the whole operation on a long-range basis. There had been four shafts opening off th
e shelf, their entrances showing in the rock wall.
Now, only three of those openings were visible. The new cabin had been built against the fourth, effectively concealing it.
An army patrol had checked the Lucky Dutchman, and had been accorded a cheerful welcome by Sunday and Company. Collier had rehearsed his accomplices well. They knew exactly what to say and how to say it. The troopers, after partaking of the miners’ hospitality, had conducted their routine search, probing deep into the only visible tunnels and finding naught but the routine mining gear.
“One real smart hideout-hole,” Sunday now remarked. “We fooled ’em all, Webb. The local law, the army—everybody.”
“But Gayatero grows impatient,” drawled Collier, “so I’m bound to organize the transfer as quickly as possible.”
“Can you figure a way it can be done,” wondered Sunday, “by tomorrow mornin’?”
“I’ve figured it already,” muttered Collier. “There’s only one way, Rube. Tomorrow, I’ll meet the chief’s proddy son on schedule and give him the message.”
“Only one way?” demanded Sunday. “What way?”
“The long way around,” said Sollier, “working in darkness. Tomorrow night would be the best time. How else can we dodge those patrols? It’ll mean driving the mules north, then west, clear around to the far side of the mountain, where there are no patrols. A long, hard haul, Rube, but it can be done—it has to be done.”
“Take us most of the night,” opined Sunday.
“All of the night,” Collier predicted.
“Well, come to think of it,” mused Sunday, “we could quit the mesa by that same route and just keep headed west. Me and the boys, we’re plumb partial to California.”
“California it is,” nodded Collier. “First we visit San Matias to convert the gold into cash. Then on north to ’Frisco.”
“’Frisco,” breathed Sunday, with his eyes gleaming. “Now there’s a place I always hankered for.”
“Plenty of entertainment in ’Frisco,” grinned Collier, “if you can afford it. And, for us, the sky’s the limit. There’s a fortune in gold waiting us on that reservation.”
“Just one more thing,” said Sunday. “I still claim you oughtn’t go it alone, when you head into that arroyo to meet Gayatero’s boy.”
“Don’t worry,” said Collier. “I can handle Mochita—not that I’m expecting any trouble. He’s just a messenger boy for his old man.”
“That Mochita,” countered Sunday, “is mean as they come. I wouldn’t trust him any further’n I could spit.”
“Use your head, Rube,” chided Collier. “If Mochita tried to lift my scalp, he’d kill his chances of winning two wagon loads of new guns for his people.”
“All I’m sayin’,” Sunday persisted, “is he’s too blame proddy for my likin’, and a mite unpredictable.” He spread his hands. “If he acts sociable, there’s no harm done. But, if he turns mean, me and Arnie’ll be on hand. Yes siree, boy. When you hit that arroyo, you won’t be playin’ a lone hand.”
“You can please yourself about that,” shrugged Collier. “But don’t do anything foolish, Rube. You’d better be sure I need help before you think of running to my rescue.” He ambled to his horse, mounted it, then lit a cigar and stared pensively at his boss henchman. “No. I think you’re being over-cautious. But, if it makes you feel any easier, you can stake out in the arroyo and keep an eye on us.”
He wheeled his hired horse and started it clattering along the rocky shelf to where the downward trail began, a narrow hazardous trail that zigzagged down the steep slopes of the Santa Rosa to the foothills far below.
Meanwhile, Larry and Stretch had finished their inspection of the scene of the ambush, and Larry was giving voice to what seemed a fair question.
“How do you kill wagon tracks in this kind of country?”
“Yeah,” mused Stretch. “How?”
“Remember what Colonel Lansing told us,” prodded Larry. “Those two freight wagons were empty. They’d been emptied of a powerful hefty cargo.”
“Which means,” suggested Stretch, “they had to have a couple more rigs waitin’ to tote the guns away. And, like you say, them rigs had to leave tracks.”
“I wonder,” frowned Larry, “if they had the nerve for it.”
“The nerve for what?” demanded Stretch.
“To load all that hardware and ammunition into their own wagons,” said Larry, “and travel right on to Bosworth. That’s the only way they could make it, far as I can see. They couldn’t travel anyplace else without leavin’ wheel-marks—deep ruts—from the weight of that cargo. So they went along the regular trail to Bosworth, which already showed wheel ruts.”
“That’s what you think they did?” blinked Stretch. Larry slowly shook his head.
“No. Too far-fetched.”
“Well,” said Stretch, “how could they tote that load away—without wagons?”
“That’s a good question,” said Larry. He scanned the surrounding terrain, paying particular attention to the flat-topped mound of lava rock and the thick timber to the north. “There’s the nearest heavy cover,” he remarked, nodding to the trees. “If you’d just hijacked a shipment of rifles from the army, and killed eight men, which way would you head? Out into open country—or into that timber?”
“Runt,” grunted Stretch, “let’s you and me find out what’s on the other side of them woods.”
It took them some twenty minutes to penetrate the timber. They went slowly, checking the ground below them and still cutting no sign. At the northern end of the hell they reined up to survey a sweeping panorama—the sun-dancing ripples of the creek and, in the distance, the foothills of the Santa Rosas. Further north, the towering bulk of the mountains.
For a half-mile, they rode the south bank of the creek. Then, to the keen ears of Larry Valentine, came the familiar sound, the clip-clop of hooves. Stretch heard it too.
“Another patrol?” he wondered.
“Only one horse, I’d reckon,” frowned Larry.
“Comin’ from thataway.” Stretch gestured toward the foothills. “Well? Do we tell him ‘howdy,’ or do we play it sneaky?”
“I’d as lief look him over,” Larry decided, “without him knowin’ it.”
They wheeled their mounts away from the creek bank, moving leftward for some forty yards. Stretch’s pinto stumbled, but righted itself quickly, at the rim of a small hollow. It was, Larry judged, just deep enough for their purpose. Swinging down, they descended into the hollow, leading the horses by their reins. At the bottom, Larry raised the flap of his saddlebag to dig out an important piece of equipment. The field-glasses, high-powered and efficient, had been presented to him long ago by a grateful admirer.
“Stay with the horses,” he quietly ordered Stretch, “while I go take a look.”
He climbed up to the rim of the basin, hunkered down and lined the glasses northward. The oncoming rider was moving higher than ground level, a sure indication that he was descending a mountain trail. Sure. There had to be a trail through those mountains. But what was a hombre of his caliber doing in this kind of country? Larry recognized him at once. The tinhorn from Bosworth, the man who had rashly drawn a gun, while buying into the street brawl that was none of his business. What had the sheriff called him? Collier? Yes, that was the name.
Collier rode slowly past Larry’s line of vision and onward. After signaling his partner, Larry broke cover and followed on foot, long enough to assure himself that the gambler was headed for Bosworth. He returned to the hollow, told Stretch what he had seen.
“All right,” frowned the taller Texan. “A dude tinhorn takes a ride up to the mountains—and what of it? No law against that, runt. It don’t have to mean anything.”
“Sure.” Larry nodded in agreement. “It’s a mite early for me to suspicion anybody.”
“But?” prodded Stretch.
“But,” shrugged Larry, “I hanker to check that mountain trail.”
They caught their first sight of it a short time later—the steep, pitted face of the mountainside, with the narrow track zigzagging to the dizzy heights far above. More than that, they saw smoke.
“Could be smoke from a chimney,” suggested Stretch. "Could be a cabin up there, maybe.” He rose in his stirrups, staring upward. “Quite a climb, runt. Be near dark before we found out where that smoke’s comin’ from. You want to be caught way up there in the dark? Track looks narrow. Be a mite hard on the horses, wouldn’t it? I ain’t turnin’ leery on you, only ...”
“Only,” finished Larry, “the easy way would be better—if there is an easy way.” He rolled and lit another cigarette, pensively studied the cliff-face. “Besides, I keep thinkin’ of old Gayatero, and the look on his ugly kisser ...”
“When he saw what happened to that repeater. Yeah.” Stretch nodded knowingly.
“Gayatero,” opined Larry, “is good and sore. It’s my hunch he’ll make some kind of a move—and soon. When he does, I aim to be on hand, watchin’.”
“We could keep our eye on Sun Dog Mesa,” offered Stretch, “but not from here.” As Larry wheeled his mount, he asked, “Where to now?”
“Back along the creek,” muttered Larry, “and through the timber to the flats beyond.”
“We better be sure we don’t run into no patrols,” said Stretch.
“Wrong,” grunted Larry. “This time, well be lookin’ for a patrol.”
“How’d you like,” Stretch plaintively enquired, “to make up your doggone mind? I thought we wanted to ride clear of them patrols.”
“With those army outfits buried, we should fret?” challenged Larry. “I didn’t relish gettin’ jumped by any Ninth Cavalry jaspers, not with Boyle’s duds hitched to my saddle. But it’s different now.”
They again rode through the timber and, as they crossed the flats in the gathering twilight, spotted a column of riders moving south. Simultaneously, the leader of that group turned in his saddle and sighted them. The column halted.
“If it’s Boyle,” fretted Stretch, “all we’ll get is back-talk.”
Larry and Stretch 13 Page 8