by Max McCoy
“Let’s try something special,” she told Gamble in a conspiratorial tone. “Do you think Amarillo might be continental enough to serve absinthe? Let us find out.” Then, to the waiter: “Absinthe, s’il vous plaît?”
“Of course,” the waiter said.
“Three glasses, and make sure there is plenty of ice.”
“Two glasses,” her uncle said.
“Two, then.”
The waiter nodded and went to the bar.
“Bourbon suits me just fine.”
“Have you ever had absinthe?”
“Never felt that poetic.”
“Indulge me,” Anise said.
Gamble removed the smoke-colored glasses and fished the leather patch from his pants pocket, threw the strap over his head, and tugged it into place.
“Better,” he said.
Anise was resting her chin on her hands.
“At least hear us out,” she said.
Gamble waved her off.
The waiter brought a tray with a pair of glasses, two flat spoons, some sugar cubes, a thin dark bottle, and a pitcher of ice water.
“Would you like me to bring forth the spirit?”
“I’d prefer to do it myself, thank you,” Anise said.
She placed a glass in front of Gamble, poured about an ounce of green liquid from the bottle, then put a sugar cube on the spoon and rested it on the rim of the glass.
“This is an art,” Anise said as she tilted the pitcher of ice water with a steady hand, wetting the sugar cube. “The trick is to place just the right amount of water on the sugar—thus. Now, watch the louche.”
As the sugary water dripped from the spoon into the green liquid, opalescent pearls formed and swirled. Soon, the entire glass was a milky white.
“There,” Anise said.
Gamble picked up the glass and held it to the light.
“Isn’t this made with a kind of poison? Wormwood?”
“It is a plant from the Holy Lands.”
“And in the Book of Revelation, a star which falls and poisons a third part of the waters,” Gamble said. “Or maybe an angel. I don’t remember which.”
He brought the glass to his lips and sipped.
“Bitter,” he said. “Like licorice.”
“Of course,” she said, preparing her own drink. “It’s flavored with anise.”
Weathers took a leather case from his jacket, flipped open the top, and offered him a cigar. Gamble took it, cut the end with his pocket knife, stuck the cigar in his teeth, then leaned forward toward the candle flame.
“Good smoke,” Gamble said, puffing. He took another sip of absinthe. “All right, I’m comfortable. Talk if you want.”
“This must remain strictly between us,” Weathers said.
“I’m a man of discretion.”
“Uncle!” Anise said. “Get on with it.”
“Of course,” Weathers said. He glanced around, to make sure nobody was close enough to overhear, and then leaned forward conspiratorially. “What we told you before is true—we are on our way to New Mexico Territory, but not to Skeleton Canyon. Simply put, we are on our way to recover a fortune in Confederate money that lies in the Apache treasure cave somewhere along the Jornada del Muerte.”
“The Jornada?” Gamble asked.
“You know it?”
“It’s a hundred-mile stretch of hell on earth,” Gamble said. “The conquistadores named it, and they named it well—‘the Journey of Death.’ It was the roughest part of the old royal road from Mexico City to Santa Fe, it’s still so rough and so remote that it’s like heading back to the middle of the seventeenth century.”
“I understand the difficulties,” Weathers said.
“Do you?” Gamble asked. “Have you been there?”
“No,” Anise said softly. “My uncle has not. But I have.”
Gamble puffed on the cigar.
“After I was sold to the Apaches,” she said, “I was with Geronimo and his band of Chiricahua during the final years of the fighting, around the Southern Four Corners area—where Arizona, New Mexico, Chihuahua, and Sonora meet.”
“You said as much before.”
“You can see me in those famous photographs made by Fly during the surrender,” Anise said. “He took pictures of the captive white boy, Santiago McKinn, standing with a group of starving Chiricahua children in front of a falling down wickiup. Then he posed me on a blanket and took a lurid close-up of my face—of the tattoos. It has been widely reproduced—on the front pages of all the Hearst papers and in the Police Gazette. Surely you’ve seen it.”
“Missed it,” Gamble said. “The treasure cave?”
“A month or so before the surrender, Geronimo’s band raided a ranch house and made off with some household silver and a small quantity of Double Eagles the family had been saving. My sister and I were given pack mules and made, under guard, to haul the loot up the Jornada to about where Engle is now, and then west into the mountains to the treasure cave. Geronimo said he was born at the headwaters of the Gila River, that his Apache ancestors had come from those mountains, and the area was sacred to him.”
Gamble sipped some more absinthe. Strangely, he felt both drunk and keenly awake.
“The cave was terribly frightful,” Anise said. “Not only was the climb tortuous, but the narrow cave entrance was guarded by human skeletons, and in their rib cages were coiled the biggest rattlesnakes I had ever seen. One of our band, the warrior named Massai, was able to calm the snakes with a few words so that we could pass. Inside, there were the strangest objects—medicine objects. Relics, mainly. Armor from the time of the conquistadors, a Spanish bit, an old bowie knife, a mountain rifle. It was like an Apache museum and treasury, but the treasury was running low. There were little piles of gold ore and a few coins here and there, Double Eagles and old Spanish eight reales, mostly. A few bars of silver.”
“And the rebel money.”
“Yes, the Confederate money,” she said. “It was in a strongbox against the wall, and on the side of the box it said, ‘Territory of Arizona, CSA.’ I asked Massai about it, and he said the Apaches had taken it during a raid on Rebel soldiers when he was a boy. He said it was worthless because the gray coats lost.”
“The rebels did hold southern Arizona and New Mexico territories during 1861 and 1862,” Weathers said. “It ended when Sibley tried to capture northern New Mexico—and the entry to the Colorado gold finds and the California ports—and was pushed back at Glorieta Pass. During those two years, the Apaches made constant war on the Rebels—just as they had on the Spanish, the Mexicans, and the Yankees. It is not inconceivable that these native fighters managed to capture some of the funds used to mount the New Mexico Campaign.”
Gamble shook his head.
“Let’s say for a moment that I believe your story,” he said. “This Massai fellow was right. By the end of the war, Confederate notes were shin plaster—less than worthless. Their primary use was to start the morning fire or to chink cracks in the walls. It’s not worth braving the Jornada for a pile of moldering banknotes that amount to nothing more than a historical curiosity.”
“I didn’t say they were banknotes.”
“You said Confederate money.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, paper was the only kind of Confederate money there was. Oh, there were plans for all kinds of coins—and Dixie had plenty of gold, early in the war—but it was all in Yankee coins, which were mostly melted down into ingots.”
“Not all of it,” Anise said.
Gamble stared at her.
“You’re saying that you saw a crate of Confederate gold coins.”
“I’m saying exactly that.”
“I am hesitant to call a woman a liar,” Gamble said, snubbing the cigar out in a saucer. “But what you saw fourteen or fifteen years ago could not have been Confederate gold coins. It must have been a dream, or some kind of waking fantasy. The Apaches were starving by the time of the surrender,
and if Geronimo had access to any quantity of gold, he would have used it to buy food and guns. Especially guns.”
Anise smiled wickedly.
“You think I had the fantods, lieutenant?” she asked. “You think I was delirious and imagined the gold? You must think I invented this episode of my life from whole cloth. Oh, I am sorry to have wasted your time. But there is one thing.”
She opened a silk purse and removed a golden coin.
“How do you explain this?” she asked.
The coin gleamed in the candlelight.
“The Apaches considered the Rebel coins next to worthless—they even used a few to cast bullets for some of the older rifles. Because he considered them trash, Massai let me take this one.”
“You mind if I see it?”
She placed it in his palm. It was heavy, like a Double Eagle.
Gamble turned the coin to catch the light and tried to read the inscription, but found it was too close to focus on. He held it out at nearly arm’s length, but it was too far to see any detail.
“Damn it,” Gamble said.
“I have the same problem with newspapers,” Weathers said as he removed a magnifying glass from a coat pocket. “Here, I find this helpful.”
Gamble took the magnifying glass.
On one side, the coin had an engraving of Liberty holding a shield emblazoned with the Rebel battle flag, and symbols of the southern economy around her, including stalks of corn and a bale of cotton. Arrayed around Liberty was CONFEDERATE STATES OF AMERICA, and at the bottom, 1861. The edge was fluted, just like a Double Eagle.
Gamble turned the coin over.
CSA TWENTY DOLLARS, it said in the center. Around this were thirteen stars, and around the stars was a chain with thirteen links. The links were named for the eleven seceded states and the two divided border states, Missouri and Kentucky.
“I’ll be damned.”
“Possibly,” Anise said. “But we shan’t worry about that now.”
“Are you sure it’s real gold?”
“For God’s sake, don’t bite it,” she said. “Yes, we’ve weighed it and it’s the same as one of your twenty dollar American coins.”
She held out her hand. Gamble placed the coin in her palm.
“There are other tests,” he said. “Specific gravity, for example. Acid.”
“Yes, yes,” she said, returning the coin to her purse. “We’re quite satisfied. It’s real gold.”
Gamble studied the reflected candlelight in her eyes.
“Do we have your interest, Lieutenant?” Weathers asked.
“I’ll allow that,” Gamble said. “What’s my role in all of this?”
“Troubleshooter,” Weathers said.
“Hired gun,” Anise added.
“A fortnight from now, we expect to have recovered the lost Confederate gold from the Apache treasure cave and to have returned to civilization. We will pay a thousand dollars for two weeks of work.”
“I’d like that in advance.”
“You’ll get half now,” Anise said. “The other half when we recover the gold.”
“No,” Gamble said. “The full thousand, no matter what, because I’m not convinced you can find that cave again. And if you do recover any gold, I want a share.”
“We will not pay the full amount now,” Anise said. “Half now, as I said. The other half upon reaching the cliffs below the cave by the twentieth of June, no matter if the gold is recovered or not.”
“Why June twentieth?”
Anise smiled.
“Is this acceptable or no?”
“I still want a share, should this fairy tale come true.”
“All right, Jacob Dunbar, you may have a share, but that thousand dollars that you’ve been paid for your services as a gunslinger is deducted from your share. There, you have the best of both worlds—you are paid for your time if there is no gold, and you become a partner if there is.”
“How much of a partner would I be?”
“Ten percent,” Anise said.
“A third,” Gamble said.
“Out of the question,” Weathers said.
“Twenty percent,” Anise said.
“A third.”
Weathers shook his head.
“Dash doesn’t come cheap,” Gamble said. “If I’m going to put my neck on the line in the Jornada, then I get a full share or I don’t go.”
“You seem to be forgetting that there would be no chance of recovering this hoard if I hadn’t suffered years of humiliation by savages,” Anise said. “If not for me, none of this would be possible. You may be a hero, Lieutenant Dunbar, but you are a greedy one.”
Gamble smiled.
“We will not give you a full third and a guarantee of a thousand dollars for your services as a hired gun if our campaign fails,” Anise said.
“Your campaign will fail,” Gamble said. “It all sounds too good to be true, some type of classic con, although I don’t understand your angle yet.”
“There’s no angle,” Anise said. “You get rich or go bust just like us.”
“I’m already bust,” Gamble said, his head swimming from the bourbon and buzzing from the absinthe. “What do I have to lose?”
“Just your life,” Anise said under her breath. “Or worse.”
“What?”
“Nothing,” Anise said.
Gamble finished his drink.
“We leave tomorrow, early,” he said. “We have only ten days to get you to this mysterious place before the twentieth day of June. Do you have a map I can study?”
“Of course,” Weathers said. “But what about the Pinkerton man coming to see us?”
Gamble shrugged.
“To hell with the Pinkerton,” Gamble said.
Then he called for the waiter to bring him another bourbon.
SEVENTEEN
Jaeger knelt in the remains of the ruined express car and shook his head. The interior smelled of burned wood and smoke and dried blood. Flies buzzed in the stifling heat.
“Amateurs,” he said.
He picked a letter from the pile, one with a heavy rust-colored smear, and glanced at the address. San Antonio. He let it fall back to the floor. The wind had spilled some of the mail outside the car, onto the side of the tracks.
“What are you looking for?” the new express messenger asked. He had come with Jaeger on the train from Liberal.
“A letter,” Jaeger said. “Addressed to the governor of New York. It will have a special delivery stamp.”
“That would make it United States property,” the messenger said. “It’s a felony to tamper with the mail.”
The messenger waited a moment, then couldn’t control his laughter.
“Sorry, I can’t hold a poker face,” he said, slapping his thigh. I’ll see what I can find.”
“Good,” Jaeger said, annoyed.
While the messenger and his assistant started going through the bag, he took his field glasses from the leather case slung around his neck. He began to scan the landscape, and most of what he saw was sand and scrub. The glasses passed over the old soddie on the south ridge, then came back to it. He had seen something flick out from behind a ruined mud wall. He waited, and in ten seconds he saw it again, and this time he was sure that it was the swish of a horse’s tail.
“Ah, that’s where you hid them.”
He climbed down from the car and started hiking across the prairie. Halfway to the soddie, he removed his jacket and flung it over his shoulder. When he reached the broken mud house, his shirt was heavy with sweat.
He rounded the corner of the soddie’s longest wall and stared for a moment at the three horses, all saddled, and tied to a stake driven in the ground.
“Of course,” Jaeger said.
They were fine horses, a dun and two sorrels, and they were undoubtedly stolen. He reached out to touch the saddle of the dun, but the horse snorted and thrust its head back, nipping Jaeger on the back of the hand.
“Schiesse,�
�� Jaeger muttered.
He drew the Reichsrevolver, shoved the barrel toward the horse’s skull, and pulled the trigger. The horse staggered, but did not fall. Jaeger shot again, and this time the animal collapsed.
The sorrels cried and backed away, straining against the tether. Jaeger pointed the revolver at the closest horse and had nearly fired another round when he checked himself. He held the barrel up, the blood running from the back of his hand and staining his shirt cuff. Finally, he put the gun back in the flap holster.
He knelt, using his knife to cut away the saddle and other tack from the dead horse. He found nothing of value, not even a name on the saddle. He drew the brand on the flank of the horse in his notebook—a Rocking K—but expected it to confirm that it was a stolen animal.
Jaeger took the leads of the sorrels and led them down the hill to the train, where he handed them off to one of the train crew. He told them to unsaddle the horses so that he could inspect those rigs as well.
“What were the shots?” the messenger asked. “Rattlesnake?”
“Ja—yes, snake,” Jaeger said, not wanting the messenger to know he had shot a horse for biting him. In the West, Americans took abuse of horses almost as badly as they took mistreatment of children. Germans serve horses in Sauerbraten.
“Damned rattlers are thick this year,” the messenger said. “He didn’t get you, did he?”
“No,” Jaeger said. “Scraped my hand against the wall.”
“Good,” the messenger said. “These rattlers wouldn’t kill you, but will make you damned sick. Now, the rattlers down in the Arizona and New Mexican territories, some of those will kill you deader than Julius Caesar. Oh, we found your letter.”
Jaeger took the envelope and slit the end with his knife. He shook out the letter, sat down in the shade of the express car, and spent the next twenty minutes reading and re-reading the pages. When he was done, he folded the pages and slipped them back into the envelope, which he tapped against his knee while he pondered his options.
“Can’t kill a war hero,” he muttered. “That would make the agency look bad. But if I bring the bastard in to stand trial, he’s likely to get acquitted or receive some kind of pardon because of his uniform.”
“What’s that you say?” the messenger asked.