by Tim Champlin
“Your man?” Sandoval whispered.
Charvein nodded, eyeing the stock of the rifle protruding from an overlong scabbard on the riding mule. He knew of only one man in this day of lightweight repeating rifles who carried a long-barreled, heavy Sharps like that. It was the man he was certain had ambushed him—Denson Boyd. But what was he doing? Was the gold stashed inside that abandoned bank? How ironic!
Half a minute later Boyd stepped out onto the boardwalk, put his hands on his hips, and looked up and down the street. Then he stretched his arms over his head. “YEEEHAWW!!” he roared, his bellow echoing off the empty buildings.
Charvein glanced at Sandoval, whose dark eyes remained expressionless.
Had Boyd gone mad in this vast desert with only the mules and wind for company? Charvein guessed it was a shout of exuberance or frustration, but he couldn’t tell which. If the man had found the stolen gold, he didn’t have any of it in his hands. Maybe he was just letting off steam after being unexpectedly freed from prison.
Boyd stepped down to his riding mule, detached a canteen, and tipped it up to drain the last few swallows.
Charvein’s hand went to the butt of his Colt. He could take this man into custody right now. But for what? As far as he knew, Boyd had committed no crime, broken no law since he had been released from prison. He wasn’t even in possession of stolen gold—yet. Small bags of thick canvas were tied to the empty pack saddle. As they watched, Boyd loosed the mules and led them away down the street. He stopped at one of the town pumps and tried to work it, but the rusted handle wouldn’t move. He muttered under his breath and then led the mules down a side street and out of sight.
“Where’s he headed now?” Charvein muttered, sitting down to tug his boots onto his bare feet.
“Probably to find water,” Sandoval guessed. “There’s a stream in the bottom of Nightwind Canyon, but it’s dry most of the year.”
“Let’s get out of here.” Charvein grabbed his rifle, and Sandoval led the way carefully past the collapsed back wall of the stable. They crept behind the row of stores, saloons, and a theater, until they reached the end of the dusty thoroughfare. A worn tin sign, fastened by rusty nails to the side of a corner building, identified this as Center Street—doubtless named by some Lodestar founder who lacked imagination. The town was larger than Charvein had realized, extending five blocks, with several cross streets.
They finally arrived at the cleft in the hillside where they’d eaten the night before. So skillfully had Sandoval scuffed out all evidence, Charvein could hardly tell anyone had been here. To his surprise, the cleft where they’d eaten opened up into a spacious chamber, fifteen by twenty feet and seven feet high, with a packed dirt floor. A burro and a mule, with feed bags over their muzzles, looked up curiously as the two men entered. Apparently Sandoval, or someone before him, had excavated an old mine tunnel, turning this into a snug living quarters. Boxes of supplies were stacked around the walls—even a few sacks of oats to supplement the animals’ sparse grazing.
“Do any of those other town pumps work?” Charvein asked.
“No. The ones that aren’t rusted have no suction. Leather pistons are rotted out.” When Sandoval squatted beside a fire ring of dead ashes, his cotton poncho swung outward, and Charvein noticed a gleaming blue-black Colt revolver thrust under his belt. It looked to be a popular open-top, .36-caliber Navy model, converted to fire cartridges. A Henry rifle stood against the cave wall. The well-kept appearance of the weapons indicated this man was prepared to hold his own against man or beast.
“No fire until he’s gone,” Sandoval said, nodding toward the town. He lifted a blackened coffeepot from the iron spiderweb and filled two tin cups. “Warm barley coffee—until my next trip to town,” he explained, handing one of the cups to Charvein. “What is your next move?” he asked, calmly sipping the brew.
“Watch where he goes and what he does, but stay out of sight. And you have to keep your animals quiet.”
“All our tracks will be blown away, but my animals have left manure.”
Charvein bit his lip. “Can’t be helped. With those piles dusted over, maybe he’ll think the manure is old.”
“I’ll cover your back,” Sandoval offered.
Charvein drained the cup of strange-tasting barley coffee, then took up his rifle. “I can handle this. Thanks for everything you’ve done for me. If he pulls out of town, I might have to ask for your help to follow.”
Sandoval nodded.
Charvein grabbed a canteen hanging on a hook, uncorked it, and took a long drink.
“There is plenty of good water at the end of that tunnel,” Sandoval said, pointing at a dark opening that led off the cavern.
“Thanks.” It was a relief not to have to conserve.
Rifle in hand, Charvein went outside through the screening brush and cat-footed along the flank of the mountain, taking advantage of every building and shed for concealment as he approached Center Street.
From a distance, he could see the mules now tied in front of a saloon.
A two-story hotel stood across the street from the saloon. Being careful not to kick any rusted cans or trip over any loose boards, Charvein found an outside stairway to the second floor of the hotel and crept up the weathered steps, eased open the warped door, and entered the hallway. He found a room that overlooked the street. The place was littered with broken bottles, fallen curtains, and pack-rat droppings. He shoved an iron bed frame away from the window and looked through the streaked, wavy glass. From this vantage, he had a good view of the saloon where the mules stood. It wouldn’t be a long vigil because of Boyd’s need for water, Charvein thought. He was still thirsty himself, although he’d drunk the barley coffee and taken a parting swig from Sandoval’s canteen.
He leaned his rifle against the wall and knelt by the window. He sorely missed a pair of field glasses to get a closer view of the saloon, although he doubted he’d learn any more unless he were close enough to see inside.
The hours of the morning dragged, and Charvein caught himself dozing in the heat, head in hands, as he sat cross-legged on the floor beside the window.
The braying of a mule jolted him. One of the mules no doubt voicing his protest at having nothing to drink.
Charvein peeked out the streaked window. The mules weren’t braying for water—they were welcoming company. Three horsemen slowly approached from the far end of the street. They reined up at the saloon. Boyd appeared at the door, pistol in hand. There was a quick, heated exchange, but Charvein couldn’t hear the words.
Two men on horseback raised their hands to show they intended no harm. Boyd let them dismount. The larger of the two dragged off the third rider, whose hands were tied in front of him—or rather, her. Her long dress was ripped up the center to facilitate riding astride. The big man shoved her aside. She stumbled and her straw hat slipped off, allowing shoulder-length hair to fall across her face. The two men paid her no attention.
Boyd kept them covered while they talked. The big man took off his hat and wiped a sleeve across his face. Charvein recognized him: Martin Stepenaw, a slow-witted, brutal giant reputed to be impervious to pain. The smaller man, then, must be Glen Savage, dubbed “the Weasel” by the newspapers.
“All hail! The gang is back together,” Charvein breathed, surveying the reunion. Had the governor been bribed into releasing these two as well, knowing they’d follow their leader to the gold? Doubtful. It appeared they’d coerced a woman to accompany them.
Charvein felt confident he could deal with one man—even one as dangerous as Boyd—as long as the ex-convict didn’t know anyone else was in town. But now there were three, and the woman was an added complication. Charvein took a deep breath. He’d have to be extra cautious and somehow get closer to find out what they were talking about.
Just then, Boyd motioned for them to come inside. Stepenaw grabbed the woman by the arm and yanked her with him as they entered.
Charvein gripped his rifle and crept out o
f the room and down the outside stairway. Having made sure they weren’t in sight, he darted across Center Street and between two buildings. The growing heat of the sun was causing the breeze to stir. A tumbleweed bounced along the street to where it finally joined several others banked against the wall of a shed.
Charvein moved toward the rear of the saloon, sliding along behind the buildings, then squeezed into a four-foot-wide space between the saloon and an empty store. There were no windows in this side of the saloon, but the weathered boards had warped and shrunk, opening a crack where he could listen to what was said. He squatted beside a rain barrel and put an eye to the crack. He could see only partial figures moving.
“Gimme one o’ them sarsaparillas you’re drinking,” a voice demanded.
“You boys ain’t gonna offer the lady a drink first?” Boyd’s mocking voice said.
“Just gimme one o’ them damned bottles,” Stepenaw rumbled.
After a moment of silence he said, “That’s some better. But it didn’t hardly knock the edge off my thirst.”
“That’s all you get for now,” said Boyd.
Although Charvein could barely see movement inside, he suspected Boyd was backing up his statement with the point of a gun. “Didn’t you boys bring any water?”
“Some,” another, higher voice said. The Weasel was speaking. “But we come away in one helluva hurry. Just had time to scoop three water bags full from a horse trough.”
“You had time to pick up this woman,” Boyd said.
“It ain’t what you’re thinkin’,” Savage said. “If we hadn’t snatched her outta the warden’s office, we never woulda got outside those walls alive. Kept the guards from gunnin’ us down.”
“So, what are you going to do with her now?” Boyd asked.
“Hang on to her for a while. She might be our insurance yet.”
“You sayin’ you and Marty will use her for a hostage because you led a posse right to this town?”
“Ain’t no posse coulda followed us through that windstorm last night. I couldn’t have followed us, and I knew where we were headed. We damned near lost our way as it was. Naw, our trail was wiped clean by the blowing dust.”
“So let me get this straight,” Boyd said. “Three horses and three people survived on three bags of water all the way out here?”
“We found us a little tank cupped in hollow rock in one o’ them canyons back yonder or we woulda died. Scummy water. About dried up. Just enough to keep the horses going. But if we don’t get these horses water soon, they’re gonna die and we’ll be stranded in this town.”
Several moments of silence followed.
“Let’s split up that gold, then look for water in these here mountains,” Stepenaw said in a deep, raspy voice. “All this palavering is making my throat drier and wasting time.”
“There’s no gold to split up,” Boyd said.
“We ain’t got time for no damned jokes,” Weasel said.
“I already looked where we hid it and it’s not there.”
In the silence, Charvein could hear floorboards creaking as the men shifted and moved.
“Then where do you think it is?” Savage asked.
“Beats me. Somebody musta took it while we were in prison.”
“We hid it good.”
“I know, but it’s not there now,” Boyd insisted.
“You think some animal drug it off?”
“Gold ingots don’t smell like food. What animal would mess with them? The shiny color might’ve attracted some kind of birds, but it woulda taken a condor or eagle to lift a two-pound ingot.”
“Pack rats, maybe? They’re probably all around this place.”
“There were sixty of those bars, and they were in twelve canvas sacks, five ingots to a sack, each sack weighing ten pounds. Weren’t no evidence of the sacks or the gold. You telling me some critter, or even a pack of critters, made off with them?” Boyd said, derisively. “I been to the Yukon and seen wolverines strong enough to do it, but there ain’t no wolverines here. I searched for a sign of any kind, but it was like nothing had ever been there.”
Charvein heard Martin Stepenaw clump across the floor and out the front door, followed by the other two. Marc’s legs were cramping in his squatting position so he stood up and stepped silently along the wall toward the front of the building, watching where he placed each foot to avoid the empty bottles and trash in the narrow passage. He reached the corner and crouched, removing his hat, then slid one eye around the corner. The big man laid his hand on one of the folded canvas bags on Boyd’s pack mule. Boyd was watching him, curiously, but had holstered his own Colt.
“These the sacks you were gonna haul it in?” Stepenaw asked.
“Yeah,” Boyd said.
Charvein withdrew and listened.
“I don’t believe you needed these sacks,” Stepenaw’s slow, raspy voice said. “I got a strong hunch them old sacks was still good and you got the gold and stashed it away someplace before we got here.”
“Why in hell would I do that?” Boyd asked. “I didn’t even know you were coming.” He sounded frustrated. “I just got here a few hours ago myself.”
Sudden scuffling and grunting—the sounds of a fight. “What the hell you doing?” Boyd yelled.
Charvein gripped his rifle and risked a peek. The big man had Boyd’s arms pinned in a bear hug. “Git his gun!” he rasped to Weasel.
Glen Savage snatched the Colt from Boyd’s holster.
Charvein’s heart was beating faster as he pulled back and crouched down.
Boots scuffed and clumped across the boardwalk, and there were sounds of heavy breathing. “Get him inside and tie him to that post!” Stepenaw said. “Then we’ll git the truth out of him.”
FOUR
“Roust yourselves outta there, you lazy bastards!”
Buck Rankin, former deputy U.S. marshal, shoved each of the four blanket-humped figures with his boot toe.
One of the men sat up and squinted at him in the gray light. “What’s the big rush, Buck? We’ll catch up.” He raked his fingers through disheveled hair, an untamed rooster tail springing up. “Storm likely got them like it got us.”
The other three stirred, coughing and spitting as they crawled, fully clothed, from under the protective blankets, shaking off a coating of dust.
“Damned good thing there’s a reward for those two,” one of the men mumbled.
“Hope it’s worth it,” another said.
“A thousand per man. How long would it take you coffee coolers to earn that kind o’ money?” Rankin said. “Scrounge up some brush and get a fire going for breakfast. And hustle it up. I want to be in the saddle by sunup.”
Rankin turned his back and walked away from the group so they wouldn’t see the frustration on his stubble-covered face. He stretched his sore leg but made sure he exhibited no limp. He and his makeshift posse of volunteers had gotten a quick jump on pursuing prison escapees Stepenaw and Savage and their female hostage. He’d hoped to overtake and capture them before they could get a long head start. But Mother Nature had stepped in to stop the chase by buffeting them with a furious dust and sand storm. They were caught in the open and became disoriented. Forced to dismount, they’d huddled under their blankets and covered their horses’ heads from the stinging blast that howled through the night.
The men behind him grumbled about lack of sleep as they untied two big coffeepots from the saddles and rattled around in their saddlebags for tin cups and bacon.
Buck admitted to himself that it didn’t really matter if they were on the trail by sunup or a little later. Their advantage was gone; and worse, he had no idea what direction their quarry had taken, since all tracks on the soft crust of the playa had been swept away. There was a good chance the two convicts and their hostage were bogged down somewhere by the storm. But now pursuit would settle into a dogged chase, and he didn’t relish that since he had to drag along these soft amateurs as his posse.
Only one me
mber of his posse deserved respect—Schooner Douglas—a saloonkeeper and as hard a man as Rankin had ever encountered. But Douglas was addicted to drink and couldn’t be trusted long enough to get the job done right.
The other problem was more personal. Rankin rubbed the bulging muscle behind his right thigh, stiff and sore from long hours in the saddle. Four years ago a bullet had ripped through his hamstring. The wound had not healed properly, causing much pain when he tried to run or climb or otherwise put pressure on the leg, but mostly when he had to sit a saddle for long stretches. He suspected his superiors in the U.S. Marshal Service had used not only the wound but also his age—fifty—as an excuse to force him into retirement. Since then, he’d survived on odd jobs to supplement his meager pension. That was the reason he was here now. The sheriff in Carson City had needed someone with experience to pursue the two men who’d overpowered a guard and taken a woman hostage to force their way out of state prison. They’d stolen guns, horses, and even taken the precaution of loading up with three water bags before riding east into the desert.
The sheriff, who was involved in a court case, quickly hired Buck to recruit a posse and give chase. Rankin was more than happy to have the job, especially since he’d be in line for a sizable reward put up by the state and by the wealthy brother of the woman being held hostage.
Inhaling a deep lungful of the fresh morning air, Rankin could hardly believe it had ever been clouded with dust. Why in hell did he put up with this harsh country? He should’ve gone back years ago to the more temperate climate of Missouri. But the bitterness and hatred surrounding the Civil War had driven him to seek a fresh start in Nevada—and he’d just stayed.
Even without a reward, he would draw his pay for the time spent on the chase. He wondered briefly if he should just abandon the pursuit and return to Carson, saying they’d lost the trio in the storm. Then he could shed these other men and start out again on his own. If successful, he would not have to share the reward. But that would mean publicly admitting defeat, not to mention four more days of extra riding back and forth.