He tossed the last bite of his tortilla to Dog, who caught it out of the air and gulped it down. After draining the last of his coffee, he stood up, motioned for the big cur to follow him, and walked toward the old mission.
He heard Father Hortensio before he saw him. The priest was intoning a prayer, as Juanita had said. The Latin words flowed like a river in Father Hortensio’s deep, powerful voice. The mountain man thought that the priest could probably do some mighty fine preachin’, if he was of a mind to.
Father Hortensio knelt inside what had been the sanctuary, before the spot where the altar probably had stood. Preacher hoped he had checked for snakes before getting down on his knees. Standing beside the wall, Preacher looked around for rattlers but didn’t see any. He studied the old stones that had been crudely mortared together to form the wall. He saw darkened streaks on some of them and figured that must have come from the flames after the Indians set the inside of the church on fire. The walls themselves wouldn’t burn, but most of the interior would, and so would the roof. Once it had collapsed, time and the elements had done their job on the walls, although it was possible the rampaging Indians might have been responsible for some of the damage. Stones from the collapsed walls were scattered around the inside of the old church, and grass grew up rankly between them. The ashes that had been left after the conflagration were long gone, having been reclaimed by the earth.
Father Hortensio stopped praying abruptly. Preacher looked at him and saw that the priest had turned halfway around to glare at him. He didn’t think he had made any noise when he came up; he was in the habit of walking quietlike. But Father Hortensio had sensed his presence somehow.
“You would spy on me while I am at my devotions?” the priest demanded.
“Wasn’t spyin’ on nobody,” Preacher said. “I just come over here to make sure you was all right. I can see now that you are, so I’ll be goin’.”
“Yes, a heathen such as yourself must feel uncomfortable in the house of the Lord.”
Preacher had turned away, but at Father Hortensio’s smug words he stopped and swung back toward the priest.
“How come you got such a burr up your butt about me?” he demanded. “You ain’t had a bit o’ use for me ever since you laid eyes on me. I never done nothin’ to hurt you, and I ain’t been disrespectful of your callin’. Well, not too much, anyway.”
“You are a heathen, and you are a gringo,” Father Hortensio answered bluntly. “All white men are thieves. Esteban was a fool to trust you.”
“You think I’m gonna back-stab those young’uns and steal the Church’s loot?” Preacher laughed, remembering what Esteban had said the night before about being able to see the goodness in him. “I give you my word, Padre, that ain’t never gonna happen.”
“Esteban says you should have a share of the gold for helping us.”
Preacher’s eyes widened in surprise. “I didn’t know that, and I sure never asked for it.”
“You wanted to know what Esteban and Juanita are getting out of this. The implication is clear. You want to be paid off, as well.”
“I never turned down honest money,” Preacher said with a shake of his head. “The workman is worthy of his hire. It says that in the Good Book, if I recollect right. But hell, the only reason I come along is because I thought you folks needed help.”
“Don’t blaspheme,” Father Hortensio said coldly.
“It’s true my language is a mite rough,” Preacher admitted. “I’m tryin’ to hold it in these days, on account of I don’t want to hurt nobody’s feelin’s. So I’ll apologize for the way I said that, Padre. But what I meant is still true. I may not know these particular mountains, but I’ve spent a heap o’ years on the frontier, and I know how easy it is to get yourself killed if you ain’t careful. That’s the only reason I come along, so that maybe you and those two young folks—and them Yaquis, too, I reckon—will stand a better chance of comin’ through this alive.”
“You are most kind and generous,” Father Hortensio said, but the look on his face made it clear that the sentiments he expressed weren’t genuine.
Preacher shook his head. “I give up,” he muttered. He and the priest weren’t ever going to get along, and he figured he might as well quit trying. It was like trying to teach a pig to sing—a waste of his time and a danged annoyance to the pig.
He stalked back to camp, leaving Father Hortensio praying in the old mission.
Esteban was awake by the time Preacher got there, and the young man had an eager look on his face. “Today we will ride up into the mountains and begin our search,” he said to Preacher.
“I reckon. What about your sister and the padre?”
“They have agreed to stay here.” Esteban gave Juanita a hard look. “Is this not true, Juanita?”
“Sí,” she said grudgingly. “But the only reason I said that I would stay behind is so that Father Hortensio would, too. I still think I should be with you, Esteban.”
“Preacher and I will be fine, and if fortune smiles on us, we will locate Don Francisco’s cache today and our quest will be over.”
Preacher had a hunch it wouldn’t be that easy, but he didn’t say anything. It wouldn’t hurt to let Esteban feel optimistic for a while.
A short time later, while Preacher was getting Horse ready to ride, the sound of loud, angry voices came to his ears. He glanced toward the mission and saw Father Hortensio and Professor Chambers standing outside the walls, arguing about something. Preacher couldn’t catch all the words, but it was something about the Catholic Church’s role in helping Spain colonize Mexico. Chambers said something about the Aztecs, and Father Hortensio disputed it.
Preacher shook his head as he tightened the saddle cinch. He looked down at the big wolflike creature sitting near him and said, “I don’t know about you, Dog, but I’m mighty glad we’re ridin’ out and won’t have to listen to them two squabble all day.”
Dog just sat there, tongue lolling out, but Preacher would have almost sworn that he nodded in agreement.
TWELVE
It was still fairly early when Preacher and Esteban rode out. Preacher let Esteban take the lead, since the young man was the one who had studied Don Francisco’s manuscript and had some idea where they were going. After they had followed the river for a short distance, though, Preacher said, “Maybe you better give me some idea what the old don had to say, Esteban. I might see some landmark he mentions that you wouldn’t notice.”
“The same thought had occurred to me,” Esteban agreed. “I was just waiting until we got away from camp, so that we could discuss the situation in peace.”
Preacher thought about the argument between Father Hortensio and Professor Chambers and grinned. “Probably a good idea,” he said with a chuckle.
“Don Francisco knew he did not have much time,” Esteban began as he reached inside his short, charro-style jacket and brought out a sheaf of folded papers: the pages he had copied the night before. He unfolded them as he went on. “It was feared that the Indians would attack at any moment, so he had to move quickly. The relics were wrapped in cloth and placed in heavy bags. The gold bars were loaded in wooden chests. Don Francisco picked ten of his most trusted men to go with him, and they loaded the treasure onto pack mules. Then they set off from the mission into the mountains, following this river at first.”
Preacher could see it in his mind’s eye: the soldiers in their armor and plumed helmets; the proud grandee who was their commander, also wearing armor but set apart by his silks and finery; the line of heavily laden pack mules plodding over the rocky ground, bearing their load of treasure toward the rugged peaks.
“Do them papers say how far they followed the river?” he asked.
Esteban shook his head. “Not exactly. According to the manuscript, the party branched off into a dry canyon that rose steadily, taking many turnings, until it reached a high plateau. There they located a suitable hiding place and concealed the treasure before returning to the mission
and the violence that awaited them there.”
Preacher frowned. “That’s all it says? No offense to your old ancestor, Esteban, but shoot, that ain’t much to go on!”
“I know,” Esteban said with a sigh. “Don Francisco was writing this not as directions for finding the treasure, but only as part of the story of his life. Therefore he was not as . . . specific . . . as he might have been.”
“Any mention of any other landmarks besides the twisty canyon and the high plateau?”
“Only one. Let me see . . .” Esteban turned through the pages he had copied so laboriously, frowning as he searched for the reference he was looking for. His expression cleared a moment later as he said, “Ah, here it is. He says that the treasure will be protected by the wolves of God.”
“The wolves of God,” Preacher repeated. “Wonder what in tarnation he meant by that.”
Esteban shook his head. “I have no idea. There is no explanation in the manuscript.”
“Well, whatever he was talkin’ about, maybe we’ll know it when we see it.”
“This is my fervent hope,” Esteban said.
He put the papers away inside his jacket, and the two of them got their horses moving again. Preacher kept his eyes open for any likely-looking canyons. Some landmarks might change over the course of a century and a half, but he doubted if an entire canyon would just close up and disappear.
Unfortunately, anywhere there were mountains, there were also lots of canyons. It might take days, even weeks, to search all of them in the area.
But if it took that long, so be it. The Alvarezes had brought along plenty of supplies from the trading post, and if they ran low on food, there was abundant game in these parts, not to mention edible plants. Preacher had lived off the land many times in the past and had no doubt that he could do so again.
About an hour after they rode away from the wagons, Esteban pointed and asked excitedly, “What about that canyon there? Do you think that might be the one?”
“Only one way to find out,” Preacher said. He had already noticed the canyon mouth, but had been waiting to see if Esteban would see it, too. He would have spoken up if the young man hadn’t, but he wanted to find out just how keen-eyed Esteban was. The canyon mouth was partially concealed by brush, but Esteban had seen it anyway.
They rode around the brush and into the canyon, which cut into the side of a mountain like a knife slash. It didn’t look to Preacher like it had any twists and turns, but maybe those started farther up. They couldn’t afford to ignore any possibility, so he pushed on and Esteban followed.
After a mile or so, however, the canyon came to an abrupt end against a stone wall. Preacher studied the barrier. In a hundred and fifty years, a rock slide could have blocked the canyon they were looking for. However, this wall appeared to be a solid sheet of stone, making it unlikely that it had been formed by such an avalanche. This canyon had probably come to an end right here in this spot for untold centuries. It couldn’t have been the one that Don Francisco and his men had followed with their mule train.
“All right,” Preacher said. “Looks like a dead end, so we turn around and head back.”
Esteban couldn’t conceal his disappointment. “I was hoping this would be the one.”
“So was I, but I didn’t figure it would be that easy. Most things in life that you’re lookin’ for take a whole heap o’ time and trouble to find, leastways if they’re worth havin’.”
“What about you, Preacher? What are you looking for in life?”
Preacher flashed a grin. “I ain’t quite sure. But like we said before, I’m hopin’ I’ll know it when I see it.”
“That may require a great deal of searching.”
Preacher thought about all the places he had never been before and said, “That’s all right by me.”
From the top of a pine-covered hill overlooking the Purgatoire River, Cobey Larson peered down at the old, abandoned mission through the lens of a spyglass. He followed the movements of Professor Chambers, Hardy Powers, and George Worthy, as the professor poked around the ruins and pretended to be studying them. Hell, thought Cobey, for all he knew, Chambers really was studying what was left of the mission. He was from back East somewhere, and a professor to boot, and everybody knew folks like that were all crazy.
Chambers was set on getting his hands on that treasure, though, and not only was he willing to pay good wages to the men who were helping him, he also didn’t care who got hurt in the process, which made things a little easier. He wouldn’t get squeamish if they had to get rough with the girl while they were trying to get the location of the loot out of her. Chambers didn’t mind if they killed the boy and the priest and those Mexican Injuns, neither.
Preacher, now . . . Preacher might be a problem.
Cobey had heard of the rugged mountain man. Preacher was supposed to be as dangerous as a sack full of wildcats. He had survived numerous Indian fights as well as his legendary hand-to-paw battle with a grizzly bear.
But Cobey was tough, too, and he thought he could take Preacher if it ever came down to that. Maybe it wouldn’t, though. Maybe they would be lucky and would find a way to kill him easier than that.
Arnie Ross came up and knelt beside the place where Cobey was stretched out. “What’re they doin’ down there?” he asked.
“More of the same. The professor’s putterin’ around, and Powers and Worthy are tryin’ to stay out of the way.”
“Is Chambers still arguin’ with that priest?”
“No, that seems to be over with, at least for now.”
“So what the hell are we supposed to do?”
Cobey grunted. “Wait, I guess. We could jump those Yaquis and kill them and the priest, but then we’d have Preacher and the boy to deal with when they get back.”
Arnie licked his lips. “You think they went off lookin’ for the treasure?”
“No place else I reckon they’d go.”
“Maybe they’ll find it and bring it back to the mission. Then we wouldn’t even have to look for it. We could just take it away from ’em.”
“Yeah, that’d be mighty pretty, wouldn’t it?” Cobey laughed humorlessly. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
Arnie hesitated and then said, “Speakin’ of takin’ that treasure away . . . we ain’t gonna let the professor pay us some piddlin’ wages and then ride off with that whole dang fortune in gold and silver and gems, are we?”
Cobey lowered the spyglass and turned his head to look over at his partner. An ugly grin spread across his face as he asked, “What do you think?”
The priest was insufferable, Rufus Chambers thought. Stiff-necked, judgmental, smug, and arrogant . . . Father Hortensio seemed to think that he knew more about the history of the Church in Mexico and South America than he, a professor at the greatest institution of higher learning in the Western Hemisphere, did. Father Hortensio refused to admit that the Church had been responsible for more bloody-handed conquest than the Aztec, Mayan, and Incan empires combined. It was a simple matter of history as far as Chambers was concerned. It did no good to deny the facts.
But soon the priest would be dead, along with the Yaquis and Esteban Alvarez and the man called Preacher. Chambers consoled himself with that thought. Soon he would have not only the fortune that old Don Francisco had hidden in these mountains, but he would have Don Francisco’s beautiful great-great-great-granddaughter, too. Was that enough generations? Chambers asked himself with a frown. Well, it didn’t really matter. What was important was that he would be rich, and Juanita Alvarez would be his to do with as he wished.
She was a bonus. When Enrique Gallardo, his friend from the university in Mexico City, had written to him about the lost treasure of Mission Santo Domingo, he hadn’t said anything about a beautiful young woman being involved. Enrique had read about the treasure in an old manuscript written by Don Francisco Alvarez, and he had immediately thought of his friend from Los Estados Unidos, Rufus Chambers. Enrique could not, or wo
uld not, abandon his position in Mexico City just to go on a treasure hunt that might turn out to be futile, but Rufus Chambers might. After all, Chambers was at loose ends after having been dismissed from his teaching position at Harvard following that unfortunate incident with the daughter of a fellow instructor. He had left Cambridge and crossed the Charles River to Boston, where Enrique’s letter had found him. For a percentage of the profits, Enrique was willing to pass along the secret he had discovered. Chambers had agreed, of course. Whether or not he would ever live up to that part of his bargain . . . who could say? Perhaps he would; Enrique, like all Latins, was possessed of a fiery temperament and an easily offended honor. If Chambers double-crossed him, Enrique might hunt him down to the ends of the earth. Easier to just pay him, take the lion’s share of the treasure, and the girl as an added treat.
Chambers paused in his study of the tumbled-down walls and cast a glance toward the camp where Juanita and Father Hortensio were talking. She was beautiful, as lovely in her dark, volatile way as any of the more pallid young women with whom he had dallied in Cambridge and Boston. He couldn’t wait until the first time they were together. Taming a spitfire like that would be very enjoyable indeed!
Lost in those thoughts, he didn’t hear George Worthy until the man came up behind him and said, “Professor, me and Hardy been thinkin’.”
Chambers jumped a little, then turned and said, “You startled me.”
“Sorry. Anyway, we been thinkin’—”
“Not your strong suit,” Chambers cut in. “You should leave that to me.”
The frontiersman frowned. “You got no call to talk to me that way, Professor. We’re part of this business, too, and we know a lot more about some things than you do.”
“Yes, of course, you’re right,” Chambers said easily. “My apologies, George. Now, what’s on your mind?”
“Well, we were just wonderin’. . . . Seems to us we could go ahead and kill them Yaquis now, and the priest, too. They ain’t expectin’ any trouble, so we could take ’em by surprise.”
Preacher's Fortune Page 9