The Home of Great Western Fiction!
Contents
About the Book
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
More on Matt Chisholm
Copyright
About Piccadilly Publishing
The Comanche Crossing—the dreaded width of the Staked Plain between the Texas brasada and Colorado. McAllister and a handful of men, with three thousand cattle, would have to challenge distance, thirst and the most dreaded Indians in the West if they were to make it across in one piece.
But that might be easier said than done, because the Comanche, the finest horsemen in the world, reckoned McAllister owed them a life, and they were determined to collect in full …
One
It was old Charlie Arbiter who first mentioned the Spanish gold to McAllister. Not surprisingly, McAllister didn’t pay too much attention. You would not have done so either if you’d heard as many tales of lost Spanish treasure as McAllister had.
McAllister was having a quiet drink in the Golden Nugget on the wrong side of the tracks in Crewsville, Arizona. I say wrong side of the tracks, because that’s where it was ten years later and folks always referred to that part of the town in that fashion. In those days it was simply Mex town. There congregated all the men and women who were frowned upon in the respectable part of town.
The saloon in which McAllister drank reflected the wealth of the region. Nothing was too good for diggers who could carelessly throw five thousand dollars’ worth of gold on to the table. I’ve even seen such a sum lost on a single throw of the dice. But that’s another story.
Old Charlie Arbiter was what we called a hill-nutty; which meant that he was a gold prospector who had spent too long alone in the hills and desert sniffing out non-existent gold for his own sanity. There was no harm in the old fellow, but everybody thought he could no longer tell fact from fiction.
Trade was slow that afternoon, the heat was terrific and about the only thing that showed any sign of activity was a large fly that sounded loud enough to waken the two or three drunken sleepers. McAllister leaned on the beautiful polish of the oak bar and automatically offered the old man a drink when he approached. Such was demanded by the custom and manners of the time. That was in the days when a man could die suddenly and violently for a breach of such manners. Which maybe explains why manners were better in those days.
When the old man had blessed his thin lips with whiskey, he nudged up close to McAllister and said softly: “I’d be obliged, mister, if I could have a word with you in private.”
“How private is private?” McAllister asked. “As you can see, I am pretty heavily engaged right this minute.”
“It would be worth your while,” the old man said.
“How much worth?”
Charlie looked around to see they were not overheard.
“If I told you,” he said, “you’d call me a liar.”
“Try me,” said McAllister. “Say five or ten dollars and see how I react.” Which illustrated the state of his finances if nothing else.
The old man looked secretive. “How does ten thousand dollars sound to you?”
“Like a fantastic dream,” said McAllister.
“I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”
“Then you ain’t disappointed.”
“I told Ignacio you’d be this way.”
There was a tiny whine in the old fellow’s tone.
“Who’s Ignacio?” McAllister asked, pouring himself another drink and wondering why the hell the world would never leave him in peace when he was broke and all braced up for a high lonesome.
“Ignacio Espada,” said Charlie. “He’s my partner. Mexican.”
“You don’t say,” said McAllister. He could see the touch coming a mile off. He felt a little sorry for the old man. Old men have dreams like anybody else, but they are tinged with bitterness and regret.
“He said what I have to tell you would spook you.” The old man was very still, watching for the effect of his words. Ignacio must have known something about McAllister.
The big man looked as though he were stirring from sleep. He turned his dark Indian eyes on old Charlie for the first time.
“What does Ignacio know?” he asked.
“A whole heap,” said Charlie. “Ignacio may be a Mex, but he’s the smartest man I know. Trouble is, he’s a mite short on true grit.”
“Is that so?” said McAllister.
“Yessir, it is so,” said the old man, suddenly and strangely rattled, abruptly growing angry. “If that son-of-a-bitch had one sweet ounce of spunk I wouldn’t be a-standin’ here beggin’. I’d be livin’ it up in old ’Frisco like a prince. You bet.”
McAllister picked up his bottle and glass, signed for the old man to bring his glass and led the way over to the table in the corner farthest away from the sleepers. The barkeep stopped wiping his oak to watch them. He swapped grins with a bystander and they laughed together over the old man. They’d seen him at this game too often.
When McAllister had poured them each a drink, Charlie leaned forward across the table and said urgently: “Call me a liar if you want, mister. They all do. They heard so many damn stories like mine. How do I go about making folks believe what I say?”
“So you gave this spiel to others before me?” McAllister said.
Charlie looked at him in astonishment. “You mean you didn’t ever hear of crazy Charlie Arbiter, the silly old fool who believes in the Lost Spanish Gold.”
McAllister said: “I’ve known a few silly young fools who believed in that.”
There was silence between them. The old man made a gesture towards the bottle and McAllister signed for him to drink. Charlie gave himself a pretty generous one and sank it. His frail body shuddered slightly, his eyes focused on the tabletop and stayed there. After a while, McAllister wondered if Charlie had died on him.
“Charlie,” he said.
The old man took his gaze from the table and turned it sadly on McAllister.
“How did you know my name?” he asked.
“You tried to sell me the goddam mine last time I was in town,” McAllister told him. He felt he was maybe harsh with the hill-nutty.
Charlie said: “I did? That don’t make it a lie, do it?”
McAllister said: “It kind of lengthens the odds against you.”
The old man looked at the table again and seemed to be watching something a long way off.
“Sweet Jesus,” he said, “how do I get somebody to believe me?”
It didn’t make any kind of sense. What followed, I mean. One moment McAllister was telling himself that he had a real old fool on his hands, the next a small wedge of doubt eased itself into his mind. Maybe it was Charlie’s tone that did it. Maybe McAllister remembered some of the strange things he had seen, things which would have got him called a liar if he had repeated them.
Charlie’s gaze came from a long way off and met McAllister’s. The big man looked into pale, watery blue eyes.
Had those ancient eyes looked on Spanish treasure? What had they seen in the distant sierras?
“How can I prove it? If I show you a nugget or tw
o, what does that prove? I could of gotten it anyplace.”
“This Ignacio,” McAllister said, “where is he?” thinking the Mexican would prove to be as big a myth as the rest of the dream.
Charlie looked at him in wonder at such a stupid question.
“Why, here in Crewsville, of course.”
“Where at?”
“At his cousin’s place.”
“What’s his cousin called?”
“Emilio Chavez.”
McAllister’s doubt about his own doubt grew a little. He asked: “Do you speak Spanish, Charlie?”
Charlie spoke to him in the purest Mexican-Spanish. The sound he produced was so unexpected that McAllister looked at him in amazement. And McAllister had believed himself beyond surprise. Charlie’s English was that of a man who had knocked about the frontier all his life. His accent carried a little of this dialect, a little of another. Some New England nasal tones were there and some of the drawl and twist of Texas. He could have hailed from anywhere. Maybe Europe. They were the tones of an uneducated man who had picked up words as best he could. His Spanish was different. It had the tones of education and the vocabulary of a lettered man. Its use transformed Charlie into Carlos and the silly old hill-nutty into a man who possessed some dignity.
In sonorous tones, the old man said: “I speak Spanish well enough, my friend, but I doubt that you would understand it.”
“Every word,” said McAllister and it was Charlie’s turn to be surprised.
Still keeping to Spanish, he said: “I did not know. Where did you learn?” Plainly, he wanted to hear McAllister say something more so that he could judge his ability.
“I learned it,” McAllister told him, “from my mother’s people. She was, possibly, a Mexican lady?”
Charlie accepted that and said: “You have an elegant accent that I greatly admire.”
“I return the compliment,” said McAllister.
Charlie rose. Suddenly he was brisk and businesslike. In a flash the old man who had crept into the saloon and sidled up to the bar was gone. In his place was this fluently-tongued and rather personable old gentleman.
“Come,” he said, rolling his r’s with pleasure, “I shall take you to my partner. He will be delighted to meet a gentleman who speaks his language with such facility.”
McAllister drove the cork into the half-empty bottle and dropped it in his coat pocket.
“Lead on,” he said.
The old man led the way out of the saloon into the noonday sun. Back at the bar, the barman wiped the sweat from his bald head and remarked to the nearest man: “What do you know about that? Crazy Charlie just found a customer.”
The nearest man said: “And Rem McAllister at that. Christ, I didn’t ever think to see him suckered.”
Two
Emilio Chavez was no surprise, because McAllister had known him for many years. Ignacio Espada was.
Emilio was a smiling Mexican with a lot of Indian in him. He was grey-haired with many white teeth, and smoked endlessly through the daylight hours. He worked in leather and he was good at it. His shop was a meeting place for kindred spirits. If you couldn’t find a friend in Mex town, you always ended up at Emilio’s and ten to one you’d find him there. When the two men entered, he was sewing a gun holster, smoking a cigarette, sipping from a cup of coffee and crooning a little song to himself. When he took a break, he talked.
Ignacio was nothing like McAllister had imagined. He wasn’t sure what he’d imagined. Ignacio was on the small side, did not possess one ounce of spare fat and had the face of both a priest and a hard man. The spiritual quality of his deep eyes was not gentle, but fanatical. He was handsome in a gaunt and hungry kind of a way. His age was under thirty.
Emilio greeted McAllister boisterously. There were one or two other men there, members of the family, whom McAllister knew. They exchanged greetings.
Emilio exclaimed: “You do not know Ignacio Espada, my esteemed cousin. Ignacio, show some politeness. You will find this gringo understands our language.”
Ignacio rose to his feet and offered his hand. McAllister took it and was surprised to find he gripped the hand of a powerful man. Ignacio’s speech belied his face. His tones were gentle, but firm. They belonged to a controlled man.
“I have heard a good deal of you, Señor McAllister.”
“But not a deal of good,” said McAllister. A polite laugh went up.
Charlie Arbiter couldn’t wait. He was moving from one foot to another with impatience. “I brought Mr. McAllister here to prove you exist, Ignacio. Perhaps if he sees you are a fact, he will believe my other facts.”
Ignacio was laughing. His mouth scarcely widened and he gave out no sound, but he shook with laughter. “I tell Carlos to wait for God’s time, señor. He is too impatient.”
Politely, they found McAllister a seat of sorts on a saddle resting on a sawbuck. The saddle was a work of art, covered with tooling and silver work. McAllister had never owned a saddle like it in his life.
“May I speak freely here?” he said.
Emilio waved a hand generously. “Of course. We are all friends.” He looked around him. “More—we are all kinsmen. Speak.”
McAllister looked at Charlie.
“What is it you want of me, Charlie?”
The old man stopped moving from one foot to another. He glanced at Ignacio as though for reassurance. “McAllister, Ignacio there and I have seen the gold. Immeasurable gold. More gold than any man ever dreamed of. Two years ago. I’ve been trying to get an outfit together to go back for it ever since.”
McAllister said: “You want a stake?”
“I have the stake. Every man here is a partner. Every man here has put everything he owns into backing me.”
McAllister was puzzled. “Then what’s the hold-up? And if you have a stake, where do I come in?”
Now it came to it, Charlie seemed at a loss for words. Ignacio spoke for him, his intent eyes on McAllister as though he willed him to give the answer they wanted. “It is you we want, señor.”
“Me?”
Ignacio held the floor. Every eye there was on him. They all knew that their enterprise rested on what he said next and how he said it. They had gotten McAllister this far. If there was a word wrong, they could lose him.
Ignacio said: “You. Carlito has no doubt told you that I am a great coward.”
Emilio exploded—“He is a great liar. He is an Espada. Whoever knew an Espada to be a coward? They have always been like lions.”
Ignacio went on as though there had been no interruption. “I have no fancy for the idea of dying a violent death. Life to me is sweeter than gold. And I am not ashamed. This enterprise needs a man of courage, a man who can face hardships, a man not afraid of death and of odds against him.”
McAllister was embarrassed.
In English, he said: “Boys, you’ve come to the wrong man.”
Emilio returned the conversation to his own language—“You are too modest, my friend. We all know of you. We have seen you as the fearless lawman. We have heard of your fights with Indians. We are not so far from civilization here that we do not hear what the rest of the world hears.”
McAllister said: “I just have a way of gettin’ myself into scrapes an’ I just naturally have to get myself out of them.” He pulled the talk back into English again, but they wouldn’t let it stay there.
Ignacio went on: “We need a man who knows the use of guns, who knows Indians. We need a man to guard us while we get the gold out.”
“Where?”
That caused a little consternation. They were undecided. Emilio glanced at his kin, then nodded to Ignacio who said: “A day’s march beyond the Three Soldiers.” They were the three peaks of the sierras which could be seen from the town on a clear day, their tops perpetually snow-covered.
McAllister did not have to think long on the subject. If they went out of here with a string of burros, everybody in town would know where they were headed. They woul
d draw gold-thieves and claim-jumpers like a magnet drew iron filings. The country beyond Los Tres Soldados was Apacheria. It was hard country to boot. A man could go crazy with thirst. He could have his throat cut by Indians. He could be shot in the back by claim-jumpers. He would need six pairs of eyes and endless ammunition to survive up there.
“I’m sure you know just what you’re asking me,” he said. “I know what you think of the situation by none of you being willing to go. So you know what my answer is.”
They expected it. He could see from their faces that they did. Emilio shrugged. He was disappointed but not surprised. McAllister guessed it was his idea that Charlie approach him in the first place.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Emilio said: “So you are sorry. We are sorry. Only yesterday you were telling me that you were broke. Have you suddenly become rich that you can turn your nose up at something like twenty thousand dollars?”
Emilio started coughing on his cigarette. “This accursed coffee,” he said. “The grounds get in my throat.”
McAllister said: “How much?”
Emilio, eyes watering, looked up as if he had been taken by surprise. “Why, twenty thousand. Is it more than you expected?”
McAllister had expected wages. Good wages, but no more. He pulled himself up short. In no more time than it had taken to breathe in and out again he had assumed the gold was there. All the men here might believe in the gold, but only Charlie and Ignacio had actually seen it. The rest had taken their word. But had Ignacio seen it?
McAllister turned to him.
“Ignacio—did you see this gold?”
The man’s face went blank for a moment. Then his hand slipped inside his shirt. He reached down to his belt and pulled something from under it. A pouch of the softest doeskin. He untied the latch of rawhide and spilled the contents into the palm of his hand. McAllister stepped forward. Every man there feasted his eyes on the small object.
McAllister did not know how long he inspected the delicately worked gold. This had been produced by a master’s hand, long ago. He raised his gaze to Ignacio’s. Did the man’s meet his honestly? Was there an honest way to look at a man? Couldn’t rogues produce a look more convincing than honest men?
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