Incident at Coyote Wells

by Paul Lederer

  The restaurant did burn a good steak. They also baked a good potato overflowing with butter. As well, there was someone in the kitchen who knew how to bake apple pies. Trying to make up at once for days of deprivation, I did justice to the meal. I’m not sure that Beth didn’t out-do me, though where she was putting it all, I couldn’t guess. Content finally, we leaned back and smiled at each other in a way that meant nothing but everything.

  When the judge returned we once again proceeded to the bank. Seeing us escorted by the representative of the law the little teller grew suddenly apprehensive, fearing that he had done something wrong.

  Re-entering the small room where the safety-deposit boxes lined the walls, we opened the drawer again. The judge made small noises in his throat, riffled through the money without actually counting it, and made his decision.

  ‘We should leave it right here for the time being. I intend to place notices in the local newspaper and in the Phoenix and Tucson papers. Anyone who has a claim against any part of the money and can prove it, can apply to have it returned. Does that seem fair?’

  ‘It does,’ I agreed. ‘Although I have the idea, Judge, that half of the people who have a claim to any part of this are no longer alive to pursue it.’

  ‘No,’ he answered. ‘no, I suppose you’re right. I don’t know what else to do. The money is the one thing Jefferson Pulver was not very specific about. You would have thought he’d have left a clue.’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t,’ I told him. ‘If Pulver was going to die, he wanted the men who had turned against him to be hung. But, if he had somehow managed to live, he wanted to make sure he had money to live well on. Even a dying man has hope.’

  Exiting the bank into the cool, bright day, Mitchell told us, ‘I have appointed a temporary sheriff and advised him to hire half a dozen deputies just in case Driscoll and Art Corson show up in Flagstaff again. I won’t send a posse out on to the desert – they wouldn’t sign on if I asked them to do that anyway.’

  ‘I don’t see what else you could have done,’ I commented.

  ‘There are two other things.…’ Beth began. Before she could finish, the judge had reached into his shirt pocket and withdrawn two folded sheets of paper. One he handed to me. It was a notice that my warrants had been withdrawn and the charges against me dropped. I didn’t have to ask what he had given Beth. Her smile was enough.

  ‘Ben will be freed,’ she told me. Then she took my arm and clung to it. ‘All thanks to you, John.’

  That wasn’t quite true, but I felt better about the turn my aimless life had taken than I had in a long, long while. The judge was still speaking:

  ‘This isn’t going to happen overnight, Miss Tolliver. The warden at Yuma Prison will have to be very cautious that he is not making a mistake. This afternoon, however, I intend to send a telegraph message to the governor in Phoenix and explain – try to explain – matters. The governor will then wire the warden in Yuma. By the time you can ride back there, your brother should be ready for release.’ He looked at me, ‘Anything else, Mister Magadan?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘which hotel in town offers the softest beds?’

  TEN

  Judge Mitchell saw to it that we were provided with a second horse, a piebald mare with a cast in one eye. It was an ugly-looking little pony, but spirited and willing and as it came to know Beth’s hand, it minded the reins well and provided her with an easy-striding ride.

  We had decided to leave at the hour before sunset after a long, sybaritic day of sleeping and rising only to eat once again at the restaurant. We reached the flats once more as sunset flashed deep violet across the land and sketched a long crimson pennant across the darkening sky. Beth had been silent for miles, and it was troubling. Finally she reined up and I circled back to pause Buck beside her. The last light of the day glinted on the gold band on her third finger. She reached out for my hand and asked quite intently.

  ‘Tell me I didn’t trick you.’

  ‘You didn’t trick me,’ I said, smiling at her through the purple light of the desert dusk.

  ‘I mean when I said we had spent too many nights alone out on the desert and Ben wouldn’t approve.…’

  ‘I know what you mean, Beth. Don’t ever give it a thought again.’

  She smiled faintly, turning her eyes down with apparent embarrassment and we started on through the cool hours, wishing the yellow moon would rise to show us the trail although we knew the road to Yuma well enough by now.

  ‘At least we know now why Art Corson avoided the posse, the rest of his gang in the canyon,’ Beth said.

  ‘Now. At the time it puzzled me. But Corson thought you could show him where the key to the safety-deposit box was hidden, and he knew what was inside the box. He had no intention of sharing the money with the rest of the gang if he could help it.’

  ‘Not much honor among these thieves, was there?’

  ‘There never is,’ I answered.

  The land grew dark and we were forced once again to wait for the moon to rise. Beth was trying to nap, using her blanket for a pillow. I stood watching the night, determined that no one would come upon us unseen. Looking to the north, toward Flagstaff I saw a black curtain drawn over the face of the desert sky. The stars had vanished behind it.

  Frowning I considered it. Then suddenly the sky flared to brilliance. A staghorn-shaped streak of white lightning above the hills gave warning. In another few moments the awful bellow of rolling thunder shattered the stillness of the night. Beth sat up, rubbing her eyes.

  ‘What was that!’

  ‘A thunderstorm moving in.’

  ‘Will it make its way this far on to the flats?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ Sometimes these summer storms rose above the mountains, flared with violent lightning and grumbled like a giant stalking beast and then simply retreated from the sky as if not liking the broad expanse of the lonesome desert. When the storms did come in, however, they were frequently the cause of dangerous, destructive flash floods, capable of washing away all in their path.

  ‘Should we continue on our way?’ Beth asked. She now stood beside me. Gripping my arm and by another flash of lightning I could see concern.

  ‘Probably.’ The moon had not yet risen, but if we continued on slowly, carefully, I thought we would be safe enough. Still concerning me was the posse – and Art Corson. I didn’t see how the posse could pick up our trail. If they had seen enough sign to indicate that we had been riding back to Flagstaff; it would have puzzled them greatly. They might have followed, but we were now riding south once again, and no one, no matter how good a scout, was going to pick up our tracks in the darkness.

  We started on, walking the horses. There were small sounds beneath their hoofs as we passed, nothing more. But behind us lightning continued to flare and the thunder boomed like a cannonade. The wind began to rise as well, and it was by far a cooler breeze than we had been used to, slapping at our backs, lifting the horses’ manes and tails.

  I saw the vaguest hint of the rising moon’s light beyond the western hills, and knew that soon we would be able to pick up the pace and perhaps reach safety by sunrise. Then it began to rain. A few cold, scattered drops at first, and then with thunder exploding over us, rattling our ear drums, it started to fall Biblically. I lowered my head and pushed Buck on. The night had gone dark again, the moon hidden away behind the roiling storm. The rain continued to fall in silver pitchforks.

  I knew where we were now, even in the darkness. Coyote Wells was not far ahead, to the east. If we could find the wells again, we should be able to reach Henry Tyler’s farm and hole up until the storm blustered its way past. It was difficult to see the land at all in the darkness, through the mesh of the rain. Only by the occasional flashes of lightning could we correct our blind course. Drenched to the bone now, buffeted by the wind, we couldn’t have been much more uncomfortable. I had one consoling thought to cling to – no one would be moving out on the flats, no one could possibly hope to find us in t
he darkness of the storm-battered night.

  No one will ever call me a prophet.

  For by sheer chance, they had come upon us. I saw four men whipping their ponies, approaching us at a dead run. It was Sheriff Driscoll’s posse, and they were riding down on us hard, guns in their hands. They meant to kill me, of course. What they would do to Beth once they recognized her for a woman, I did not care to speculate upon.

  There was no hesitation in their demonic charge as they closed ground on us. I did not know if they had recognized my big buckskin horse in the feeble light or simply decided that anyone riding the desert in these conditions must be a desperate man. I didn’t spend much time thinking about it.

  I unsheathed my Winchester from its scabbard and aimed through the rain at the lead raider. I recognized Sheriff Tom Driscoll by his flowing silver mustache. I settled my sights on his chest and squeezed off a shot. Driscoll fell from his horse’s back to lie against the sodden earth, unmoving. A half dozen poorly-aimed shots sang past Beth and me. Two of the men had only handguns, and all three of the remaining men were tying to shoot from their galloping horses’ backs. I had halted Buck and took my time, levering through two shots and then a third. Buck stood stock-still as he had been trained to do and the third bullet from the muzzle of my needle gun caught another of the posse members. I couldn’t tell where I had hit him, but he veered aside in panic.

  I didn’t wait to watch him flee. I fired again at the closing riders, taking one shot at the one man on my left, switching my sights to the rider on my right. I hit one of them, low on the leg, I thought, missed my second shot. These two, whoever they were, suddenly decided they had no stomach for this kind of fight, and they raced away though the driving rain. I sent a barrage of five bullets after them to accompany them on their way. It would have been a miracle if any of those bullets tagged flesh under these conditions, but that was of no concern. I only wanted to let them know that a second try might leave them as their two friends were – sprawled on the muddy floor of the long desert.

  We continued on our way, still wary. I now carried my Winchester free of the scabbard, across my saddle bow.

  Beth and I both recognized it at once and she laughed out loud, pointing. ‘Now!’ she said with irony.

  For Coyote Wells, far from being a dry hole, was filled almost to its banks with run-off from the storm. By morning the cattails would have lifted their unattractive heads and begun to green. The stubbornly resilient willows might even have begun to leaf. Wildlife would begin to creep back to its edge to slake their thirst. The Yaquis would return to fill their waterbags.

  There was an irony to it, I thought as we passed the watering hole. If I had not ridden mistakenly to the dry wells, believing that I would find enough water to let me continue on my way to California … I glanced at Beth and smiled. There are all sorts of ironies in this world.

  By the time we reached Henry Tyler’s small cabin, the rain had abated somewhat. Still the night was gloom and thunder, and we were damp and cold. I sent Beth to the house to dry out as best she could and took the two horses to the lean-to. I unsaddled them and slipped their bits. The hay was a little damp, but the animals seemed not to mind. They immediately began nibbling at it with enthusiasm.

  I made my way back through the rain, stepped up on to the porch and entered the cabin. My first glance around the room sent a chill through me. Beth lay on the cot, her eyes wide open. There was a large bruise on her forehead.

  ‘Finally caught up with you. Drop that rifle, Magadan!’

  I shifted my eyes to see Art Corson seated in the single wooden chair. He had a pistol trained on me. The cabin had been savaged, searched with manic energy. The contents of Henry Tyler’s pantry had been strewn around the room. I hesitated a bit too long for Corson’s liking. He switched the sights of his pistol toward Beth and told me again: ‘Drop the rifle.’ I let my weapon clatter to the floor.

  Corson’s small eyes were feverish. He had been long on the desert and it showed. The knees of his jeans were out. There was a three-day growth of stubble across his lantern jaw and knobby cheekbones.

  ‘Back away from the rifle a way,’ he ordered. And I did so. Beth had managed to sit up on the bed. She stared vacantly at Corson. ‘I couldn’t find the key after all,’ he said as if we should feel sorry for him. ‘I want it now.’

  ‘It won’t do you any good,’ Beth began but I gave her a look she understood across the room. If Corson knew that we had already been in the safety-deposit box, we had nothing left to bargain with.

  ‘I’ll give it to you, Corson. If you let the woman ride off.’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. I think she’s riding back to Flagstaff with me – in case you try to catch up. If you do … well,’ he shrugged.

  His eyes returned to Beth and I tried jumping him. It was a wild chance, but I knew he had no idea of letting either of us live after we gave him the key. I slammed my shoulder into him and the chair toppled, sending us sprawling on to the floor. Corson still had his gun in his hand. I clawed at it, but he managed to roll away. From hands and knees I dove toward my rifle, figuring it for my last chance.

  The two pistol shots exploded inside the cabin’s confines before I could reach the Winchester. He had missed me, but had he shot Beth! I glanced at Corson, but he was not moving. He was propped up in a seated position in the corner of the room, his eyes open and quite vacant. I turned toward the cot where Beth sat and saw the little .40 caliber derringer in her hand, smoke still curling from its twin barrels.

  I rose stiffly, deliberately and went to sit beside her. Blue eyes lifted to meet mine. ‘I didn’t want to do that,’ she said in a small, shaky voice. ‘I never wanted to shoot anybody.’

  The derringer dropped from her hand and thudded against the floor. I put my arm around her narrow shoulders and drew her near.

  ‘No one ever does, Beth, unless they’re quite mad. He,’ I nodded at Corson, ‘was a mad dog. There was no other way.’

  ‘I didn’t want to do it,’ she said again, closing her eyes. The tears leaked out from between her eyelids and streaked their way down her cheeks. We sat in silence for a long while after that, listening to the sound of the falling rain on the thin planks of the little hut’s roof.

  Two weeks on it seemed we were making little progress. The government was moving as slowly as all governments do in all circumstances. Beth and I had been given a small cottage near the Yuma Prison walls, one of a group of six built for the use of visiting officials and other guests. Beth was growing increasingly frustrated with the slowly moving wheels of bureaucracy. She would pace the floor, staring out at the desert for hours on end and then go out into the tiny yard, continuing her pacing there. She visited Ben Tolliver twice a week – the maximum allowed to prisoners. Sometimes we would take a ride out on to the desert. Beth was eager to go out with me, but just as eager to return to the cottage, as if she might miss something concerning Ben.

  ‘It’s torturing him!’ she complained to me. ‘I told him that we have gained his freedom, but each night he has to go back to his tiny cell. Maybe he doesn’t even believe now that we have had his sentence commuted.’

  ‘If he knows you, Beth, he knows that he should have faith in you.’

  At the beginning of the following week as the sun was rising to scorch the white desert sands anew, there was a small tap at the door and I opened it to find a man in a blue uniform standing there, an envelope in his hands.

  ‘This was sent to the prison mail room. It’s got your name on it.’

  ‘Is it about Ben!’ Beth asked, rushing to where I had seated myself at the small wooden table.

  ‘I don’t know. Give me a chance to look at it, young lady.’ Beth drew another chair up beside me so that she could read the letter at the same time.

  It was from Judge Mitchell. He wrote: ‘I hope you both are well. Following our plan to try to find the rightful owners of the stolen money, I placed notices in all of the area’s
major newspapers. As you predicted, Magadan, not all of it can be accounted for.

  ‘Wells Fargo claimed at least half of the cash, proving their claim by virtue of shipping records. A few other small claimants showed up. Some of these had compelling evidence that they were rightfully due some of the fortune. Of course there were also a few con artists who came just to see if they might be able to cut themselves in on the money.

  ‘Two weeks on, we have no verifiable outstanding claims. The remainder cannot be turned over to you, of course! After all, you did not exactly find it, more discovered it. The city council voted to place the bulk of the cash into a fund to be used for civic improvements. The fund will not be tapped for six more months, however, as other bona fide claimants may eventually show up.

  ‘In gratitude for your breaking up the Pulver gang, and for recovering the stolen money, the council also voted to give you a reward. I hope the enclosed in some small way recompenses you for your efforts and wrongful conviction.

  Nathan Mitchell.’

  ‘There’s something else,’ Beth said eagerly.

  There was indeed, a draft on the Territorial Bank in the amount of $1,500. Beth glanced at it without comment, and stood, placing her chair back at the head of the table.

  ‘It’s a good start for us, Beth,’ I said as I sat staring at the green bank draft.

  ‘Yes, it’s fine,’ she said distantly. She was staring out the window of the cottage at the high white walls of the prison. The money meant nothing to her, not just then. Not while Ben was still locked up, suffering deprivation and degradation. I folded the bank draft carefully and placed it in my pocket. Then I sat for a moment, watching her small back, wanting to alleviate her suffering, knowing that there was nothing at all that I could do for her. I rose, went and saddled Buck and rode out by myself, a long way from the prison and Beth’s unhappy eyes.

  On the seventeenth day of our stay there a messenger rapped on the door of the cottage. I was sitting at the table mending a strap of Buck’s bridle which was on the verge of coming loose, and so Beth answered the knock. I couldn’t hear what the messenger said, but the beaming look on Beth’s face told me all I needed to know. Her fingers moved in agitated little motions as she beckoned me.