by E. R. Slade
He saw movement in the bushes where Pirate and Elliot should be, maybe a little this way of where he’d left them. They were moving, keeping their positions difficult to place. Littleton was using the rock to cover his back and was watching the area where Pirate and Elliot were.
All of a sudden, two guns began firing—Pirate and Elliot. Littleton got off two shots and then seemed to waver a little. Riley began firing along with Pirate and Elliot.
Littleton dropped to the ground. Then someone’s bullet hit Littleton in the head, for it jerked and the man subsided, face sinking to the hot dusty ground.
The gunfire stopped from the thicket to the right and Riley also quit, putting his gun away. They all three came to the body on the ground and looked down at it. Littleton was still breathing unevenly, but Riley noticed blood beginning to trickle from his mouth. The man was finished.
“Get the kid?” he asked Pirate.
Pirate nodded, putting away his unwieldy gun.
“Don’t know how you manage to use that hawg leg of yours,” Riley said.
“The kid wanted a knife fight,” said Pirate. “I gave him one. He’s probably still busy breathing his last.”
Riley looked at him sharply.
“Ain’t he dead?”
“Good as. He’ll never get nowhere out here without a horse. He won’t have one, if we take his. He won’t be able to walk, if he can get up at all.” Pirate grinned as if he took professional pride in his handiwork. “Just like you ain’t kilt this one either. You figure he’ll die soon enough, right?”
“That’s what I figure. We’ll save our bullets for Calloway. We may need ’em. Which reminds me. We still got a bit of business to attend to with the girl.”
Pirate looked eager.
“I reckon we do,” he said.
They went to get the horses belonging to the two men they considered to be as good as dead.
~*~
Lee finally could stand it no longer. He had to do something. With the canteen slung over his shoulder, he went climbing up the hillside. He hoped that from the top of the hill he could at least see the town and the first part of the route over which he’d driven the wagon. Maybe he could even find a place from which he could see the whole route.
It took twenty-five minutes to make the climb. He felt exposed when he arrived at the top of the rounded, barren rock. It was, perhaps, unwise to show himself this way. Yet, if he could see something from here, the risk might be worth it. He lay down to keep as inconspicuous as possible.
For some minutes he surveyed the route along which anyone following the wagon tracks would go—he could see nearly all of it. There was no sign of movement, but part of the trail lay through a section of fairly thick and large bushes—good and thorny, as he recalled. If men and horses were in them, he might have some difficulty seeing them, particularly if they didn’t want to be seen.
The sun was hot, and Lee’s shirt was plastered to his back with sweat. There was little movement of air, just a slight motion up the hill from the direction of the Gap.
Then he thought he smelled gun smoke, faintly. He sniffed at the air again and again, trying to detect it a second time, but could not. It must have been imagination.
But something was unsettling about this thing. It didn’t feel right. Riley must be on the trail by now. Yet, where exactly was he?
~*~
Doctor Morris left the stage road east of town only after checking in all directions to see if he was being watched. He paused again, off the road, well hidden in the dry wash of a creek bed, to take his bearings and take a long pull from a bottle of whiskey. It was really so very convenient that Calloway had come along when he had. He kept Riley’s gang occupied.
Morris went south, staying inside the route the ore wagons took when they came back from the mines on the south side of South Hill. It wouldn’t do to be out there without an excuse. Word could get around. That was why Sheriff Tracy had had to be eliminated. Too bad, because Tracy had been a decent man. But when you are one of only three people who know about that much gold in one place and you have a chance to get rid of one of the others, so as to keep the thing quiet, you make use of your chance. Rumors of gold flew around Golden Gap all the time, yet there was always some hopeful panner to check them out. That couldn’t be risked.
As he rode across the bleak landscape, just skirting the base of the hill, Morris relived in his mind that night on which the sheriff had gotten himself killed.
An ore wagon had come into town before making the trip to the stamp mills on the south fork of the Little River just north of South Hill. The driver had said that the doctor was needed by some men who had been in a cave-in over at the Whiskey Diggings Mine. Since the managers of the Whiskey Diggings were under investigation by Sheriff Tracy for some claim jumping onto the neighboring mine’s territory, the sheriff was on his way out to look the situation over and invited the doc to ride along with him.
“Some mighty dangerous types out there,” Tracy had warned. “You’ll be safer with me.”
So he’d accepted the offer, and they rode out to the mine. While Tracy had done his investigating, Morris had seen to the problems of the men who’d been dragged out of the tangle of rock, earth and timber in the mine. Afterwards, he and the sheriff started on the return trip to Golden Gap.
It was getting on in the day. The light was failing.
“There’s a trail up over the hill,” Tracy suggested. “It’s an old Indian route, ain’t been used in years. It’s a bit rougher that way, but a whole lot quicker.”
So they took the trail, and at one place there’d been a slide; the headwall of the upper fork of the canyon had crumbled some in the weather, and a good-sized chunk had slid down over the steep rocky trail. In finding a way around it, they came across the small opening in the hillside, about the height of a man, and barely as wide.
They would have gone right past it, except that Tracy had seen something on the ground just outside the opening that interested him. He dismounted.
“What is that?” Morris asked Tracy.
“Nugget of gold. I wonder ...”
So they went into the opening, and after a short walk along a narrow passage, stepped into a large cavern. There was very little light coming in the passageway, so Tracy struck a match.
What they saw was a sight Morris had immediately known he would never forget. Standing in a group were Haversam, his wife and daughter—all made of solid gold, life-sized. Tracy just stood there gaping at the sight and at the gold bars lying in a pile to one side.
That was when he first realized why Haversam had died rather than reveal the whereabouts of the gold. Haversam had believed in the fountain of youth, but, not finding it, he had wanted the closest thing to immortality and youth for himself and his family. To his strange cast of mind, making golden images of himself and his family was apparently that closest thing.
“Well,” Tracy drawled finally, after he’d had his fill of admiring the statues, “old Haversam might have been crazy, but he sure was crazy in a right talented way. I always wondered why he was gone from home so much. Must have been up here makin’ these.”
“Looks like it must have been quite a project for one man alone. Still, you can do nearly anything, if you set your mind to it.”
“I reckon so.”
They left the place then, agreeing between themselves to keep the secret, both in honor of old Haversam, who both of them had liked in spite of his queer ways, and for Carmen’s benefit. There was no need of allowing Riley or his ilk to find out where the statues were.
That night, late, Doc Morris lay awake thinking of all that gold and of the long, hard life he’d led. If he were to take that gold for himself, load it into an ore wagon and drive it to San Pablo to sell, he would be able to retire in some civilized city in style. It would take care and planning, but it could be done. If Haversam had somehow managed to get all that gold there alone, it was possible for a man to get it out alone.
&nb
sp; It had been a particularly noisy night, and he had noticed the sheriff sitting in his office having a coffee break. The sheriff would be right on the trail in no time, once the gold was discovered missing.
But murder?
The sheriff on his coffee break, though. Just step in and do it. No one would notice the shot in the bedlam that was Golden Gap at night. How easy, how convenient. And how little difference it made whether you did good or evil in the world: it didn’t care.
In the end he had done it. Gold fever, he supposed. He couldn’t seem to help himself. When would he ever get another chance like this?
Now, as he rode up the south side of South Hill, keeping to cover as much as possible, Morris felt the gold fever gripping him again.
Chapter Sixteen
Harold Ford clamped his jaw tightly shut against the pain. He held his right hand over the slit in his belly and waited for the pain to subside. Pirate was wriggling off out of the bushes. He had almost made a final jab with the dirk into Ford’s heart, but then had grinned maliciously and turned away. Apparently he enjoyed the idea of making his victim die a long, painful death.
Ford was both frightened and furious. He still couldn’t see what had become of his gun. It must have fallen out somewhere under the bushes, but when he tried to move a little to look around, the pain was intense and blood came oozing out.
Ford finally lay back on the ground and wondered how long it would be before he died.
Then there was gunfire. In spite of his pain, Ford sat up again to listen and try to look out through the brambles. He could see nothing, but he caught the whiff of gun smoke. The gun had sounded like Spike’s pistol. It would be just like Spike to get up as soon as he became conscious and get on his horse and go after Riley. Spike was one hell of a tough man. It took a lot to stop a man like him.
Inspired, Ford tried again to move, and again blood came out, and the pain made his eyes water. He felt weak. If he tried to go far, he’d lose a lot of blood; he’d lost a fair amount already.
With the tail of his shirt and his neckerchief he managed to make a rough-and-ready bandage and bind it around his middle, covering the wound. The effort took a lot out of him, made his head pound with pain, and tear water ran in rivulets down his cheek. Afterwards, he felt lightheaded.
Gunfire went on sporadically around him. He hoped it would keep him conscious long enough to find his pistol, and also his Henry. It was quite possible that Pirate had found and made off with them. But there was nothing to do but look.
He struggled a short distance on his hands and knees, and then the world went out of focus and spun away.
~*~
When he came awake again, it was to the pain of his wound. At least his head was clear. He sat up cautiously and was encouraged to find that he no longer felt lightheaded. The wound was a raw throb, but it was now bearable.
Then he noticed that the gunfire had stopped. How long he’d been out, he had no idea. He went searching for his weapons and finally found them both.
Having crawled out from under the bushes, he rested a while, just beyond reach of the sun’s full force, and then made a supreme effort to get to his feet.
He had indeed become very weakened. Other knife wounds, of a more superficial nature—not to mention the earlier bullet wound—complained along with the serious one, warning that he should be sensible and lie down. Only this was not the time to lie down. He had to find out what had happened and whether there was anything he could still do towards his original goal.
His knees wobbled and his balance seemed questionable, but with the help of the rifle, which he used as a third leg to steady himself, he went around to where he had left his horse.
No horse.
No hope of getting it back, either. It had been led away by Pirate, judging from the tracks on the ground in the area.
So, what now?
See if he could find out what had happened to Spike. The gunfight had been close by. He remembered the general direction the shots had come from and went that way to investigate.
When he rounded the rock and found Spike lying there, the first impression he had was that the man was dead. Blood had dried in a rivulet down from the corner of Spike’s mouth. It appeared to be an internal wound. But when he collapsed onto the ground beside the still form, he suddenly noticed that Spike was breathing. He was either asleep or unconscious.
A closer examination showed a superficial head wound, a furrow similar to the one Spike had already received back at the ranch. The blood had coagulated, and the wound had hardly swollen at all. Probably it wouldn’t have knocked Spike out except that he’d already been wounded once in the head, and it hadn’t taken much to do the trick. The blood coming from Spike’s mouth appeared to be simply the result of a cut lip. Spike should be able to make it, then. But they would need at least one horse.
He shook Spike, first gently, then as hard as he could, but did not succeed in awakening him. Ford decided to take a look for Spike’s horse, on the off chance it was still nearby somewhere, though he doubted it would be.
After another struggle, he once more gained his feet and began the arduous process of making the search. Some while later, after numerous rest stops, and sure many times that he was about to take his last step, he finally found what he’d been suspecting he would all along: hoofprints and the footprints of the man who had led the animal away.
Upon his return to Spike Littleton’s side, he sat down heavily and put his back to the rock. He was sweating and shaking with weakness. Spike had still not come around. Ford felt very thirsty and thought of the canteen on the saddle of his horse, then remembered the river some distance to the south through the area of brush. He wondered what he should do, or if he should bother to do anything at all. Unless he was dying, Pirate would never have left him. Wasn’t the fight really all over now? Why bother?
~*~
Sometime later, Spike still could not be shaken awake. Ford, rested somewhat and even more thirsty, decided he owed it to Spike to at least try to rescue them. Ford knew he stood no chance of doing anything for Carmen, if she was still alive. He owed a lot to Spike, though. It might be possible to find some way to help him. But first, Spike had to be brought around, if possible. There was no way he could carry Spike any distance. Ford had trouble enough going anywhere on his own.
He’d bled some more by this time, in spite of the bandage. He found getting to his feet to be twice as difficult now as before. The hot, bright desert around him swam for some time before his eyes after he’d stood up. He felt nauseated but, determined, stayed propped up, leaning on the rifle.
In a few minutes, he began to make his way slowly, painfully, towards the river, twenty-five or more yards away.
~*~
In the cottonwoods, Riley stood tapping the blade of the knife against his palm thoughtfully as he contemplated Carmen, who was still tied to the tree. She had closed her eyes again when he returned to her and started her infernal praying. It made him furious. But he knew he could not allow his fury to take hold of him. If he wanted her to talk, he would have to do his torture in such a way that she didn’t die until she had.
He went around behind the tree and took hold of her left pinky again, forcing it out of the tight, white-knuckled first. He placed the blade of his knife against the second joint and once again drew blood, as he began the process of slowly cutting off the tip of the finger.
“Mother of God,” Baldy, standing nearby, said. Riley thought at first it was Baldy’s reaction to the torture, but then others began to murmur and he realized that something else must be happening, so looked up before really getting started on the amputation.
Walking towards them across the bare stretch of barren ground to the west of the cottonwoods was Two Fingers. He was as tough and sinewy as a piece of old sun-baked rawhide, and wore a strange mixture of clothing. There was the usual Indian breechclout, but also a ratty cotton shirt stolen from some wash line; he wore n-deh b’keh, the Apache equivalent
of a pair of thigh-length boots, and he also wore a Stetson, battered nearly beyond recognition. Riley knew why he wore it—because he thought it made him look like a white man from a distance. He was, essentially, a scavenger. But a wily and dangerous old scavenger; even Riley, whom Two Fingers had raised and taught to fight and live in the desert, had thought it best to promise part of the gold to Two Fingers in order to go hunting for it unmolested. Two Fingers had learned enough to know that gold was valuable to white men, and he therefore wanted some of it for himself. Riley was not exactly sure what Two Fingers thought he was going to do with the gold, didn’t know if Two Fingers knew. But that was not a question of real importance at the moment.
Two Fingers walked directly into the cottonwoods fearlessly, followed by six braves, all of whom were lesser versions of Two Fingers. They stood around, darting their sharp eyes about as if all ready to pounce on anything of the least value.
Without greeting, Two Fingers began to speak in his brief, though generally clear English. “You follow wagon,” he stated. “See wagon go to hill.” He pointed at South Hill. “We follow. One man. He in cabin. Wagon in front. Tracks deep. He have gold maybe?”
Riley nodded. “Did you see what was in the wagon? What it looked like?”
“No. Not get close.” Two Fingers turned to Carmen, who was now watching them. “What you do with white squaw?”
“For trading,” Riley said. “Just one man in the cabin? You’re sure?”
Two Fingers gave him a withering look.
Riley figured two things: one: Calloway wasn’t going to be a problem after all, and two: Calloway was a foolish man to think he could stand off the whole lot of them. It didn’t seem reasonable that a man as smart as Calloway would try a thing like that. Maybe he was crazy over the girl, or maybe he was crazy over the gold. A man would do foolish things for either one.
“Come,” Two fingers said, “we go take gold now.”