by Tim Champlin
The woman gasped and jumped, standing closer to him. “Something touched me.”
“Sshhh!” He didn’t know how long they should stay here. It was very possible the men would not even enter this building. He had no matches left to take a quick look at their surroundings, or to check his watch.
They waited… and waited… Time came to a halt. The woman had no choice but to endure this as well, and she did so quietly, without complaint.
Just when he began to think eternity must have started, Charvein heard muffled voices and the thudding of boots on the floor above. He listened. The sounds came closer, boots clumping overhead, atop the rug on the trapdoor.
Charvein went up the three steps and pressed his ear to one of the planks above.
“Somebody’s been here,” Stepenaw said. “That Injun brought her here. Look, the dust is all scuffed around. Can’t tell me spirits did that. They don’t have no bodies.”
Weasel’s whiny voice piped up. “Spirits can do physical things, too. Ain’t you never heard of doors slamming and drawers opening by themselves, and objects rising up in the air? Happens all the time in haunted houses. Spirits have control of our world, too.”
The big man exploded. “Bullshit! Show me a ghost, and I’ll believe you.”
“Spirits don’t have bodies. You can’t see them. You can only see what they do.”
“Ya know, to look at you, nobody’d think you’re that damned stupid,” Stepenaw said.
“Who’re you calling stupid, you big pile o’ mule dung?”
Charvein heard a clatter and the skittering of feet on the floor. Apparently, the big man was attacking the Weasel. “That’s it. Go after each other,” Charvein muttered. He heard nothing from Boyd, who was probably hoping the same thing.
A terrified yell. Sounded like Savage. Feet pounding. The sounds receded.
Charvein sighed. They’re gone. But the next second he caught his breath. Footsteps inches from his ear. Boyd was walking around the room above. The steps paused, then moved. The smartest of the three must be inspecting the room and the partially wiped-out tracks in the dust. Boyd, the only one with sense, was figuring out that two sets of tracks came into the room, but none led out. Boyd was the one to be feared, yet he was probably still unarmed—the prisoner of the other latecomers.
Charvein eased his Colt out of its holster to be ready in case Boyd discovered the trapdoor. A scraping noise sounded just above, as if the rug were being scuffed aside with a boot.
This was not the time for confrontation. Let them think for a while longer they were dealing with actual ghosts in this ghost town. He stepped down and took the woman’s arm. “Feel around and see if this room is any larger,” he whispered in her ear. He swung his arm slowly, probing, feeling for the walls. On one side he encountered packed dirt. He could hear her bumping against something on the other side of him. He holstered his gun and ducked under the steps. His questing hands encountered nothing but cottony cobwebs. “This way,” he whispered. If Boyd lifted the trapdoor and looked down, but didn’t enter, they could flatten themselves against the wall under the steps or in a corner.
Charvein held the woman’s hand and drew her after him, taking one tentative step after another into the blackness. Encountering no resistance and no wall, he moved a little faster, spurred on by the hollow sounds of someone fumbling with the ring in the trapdoor. He doubted Boyd, or either of the others—even if they weren’t fighting in the street—was carrying more than a match to illuminate the underground passage. Four steps, five steps, ten… It was obviously a tunnel, but leading where? There was no smell of fresh air; in fact, the musty odor was becoming more pronounced, the air fouler.
They went thirty paces, then the trapdoor’s dry hinges squealed. Charvein pushed the woman ahead of him and turned to walk backward, drawing his gun. Light shone down the steps, and Boyd’s voice shouted something at the other men. “Hurry!” Charvein whispered. “If they come down the hole, we’ll stop so they can’t hear us.”
The floor of the tunnel was level and fairly smooth. At intervals, Charvein’s shoulder brushed an upright support post. He constantly raked cobwebs from his face. He was almost glad he could see nothing of their surroundings.
Loud, threatening voices came from behind them, and Charvein heard boots clumping on the board steps. The legs he could make out appeared to belong to Boyd, judging from the fancy, red-toed boots. No doubt the others had forced him to go down first and investigate.
Marc pulled the woman to a halt. They watched as Boyd took a few tentative steps into the darkness. Then a match flared in his hand. He held the tiny flame aloft and peered around. There was no way he could see beyond three or four feet.
Charvein held his breath. If they were using matches, it meant they had no torches, lanterns, or even candles. As he saw it, the men had two choices—they could give up the search and look for any stored coal oil, candles, or lanterns, or they could block the trapdoor and go on with their quest for water and gold. He much preferred the first choice. They knew the woman would not try to leave town on foot. As long as they guarded their mounts, they’d be reasonably sure she was still close by. They could afford to be patient about the hostage, but not about water. Every hour that passed meant the three men and their animals were becoming more and more desperate to reach the only source of water they’d discovered, at the bottom of the deep mine shaft.
He listened but couldn’t make out the conversation between Boyd and the men above. Then Boyd retreated through the trapdoor, and Weasel stepped down into the hole, drew his Colt and fired three times in their direction. The muffled shots boomed like cannon fire, yellow flame lancing from the muzzle. At the first shot, Charvein grabbed the woman and threw her to the ground. The second ricocheted off the tunnel wall and clipped the top of his ear. The third missed. Charvein swore fervently to himself, though he couldn’t hear his own muttering because of being momentarily deafened by the blasts. He touched his ear; his fingers came away wet and sticky.
“By God, if you’re in there, woman, you’d best be haulin’ your ass out here. Your only chance of survival is with us. We ain’t gonna kill you, but you’ll die soon enough on your own in this place.” He paused. “We don’t need you no more since we got away safe. If some Injun’s got you, you’re likely a lot worse off than you would be with us.” A harsh laugh followed, then he climbed up. The trapdoor thumped closed, plunging them into darkness.
“You think they’ll wait for me to come out?” she asked, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“I think those shots were meant as a warning,” Charvein said, holding a dirty bandanna to his stinging ear. He had a sudden urge to rush out and take them all on, but his judgment told him this was neither the time nor the place for that. His job was to locate the gold and report back to the man who’d hired him. A simple enough assignment, but one that was turning out to be a lot more complex than he’d imagined.
“I doubt they really expect you to come out, even if they’re convinced you’re down here,” he replied. “Let’s wait thirty minutes to make sure they’re gone, then try the trapdoor. They might wait a few minutes, but then they’ll figure either one o’ those random shots got you, or else you found another way out.”
He knew he was taking a big chance. Even if he waited a half hour, he might push up the trapdoor into a hail of bullets. He hoped he was judging the short patience and long desperation of these three correctly. Boyd would have the most patience, but he was a virtual prisoner himself and would be forced to leave with the others. Besides, he had no stake in the welfare of this woman hostage; he was a man who looked out for his own interests.
Charvein waited a slow estimated half hour; in reality, it was probably fifteen minutes. The woman at his side did not utter a word the entire time.
“Okay,” he finally said. “Let’s give it a try.”
He took her hand, and they retraced their steps. He counted their paces, but there was no way they could miss the spot,
because he swung his arms in front of him and his hand bumped the steps.
“Stay here,” he said, drawing his gun. Two steps up and he bent over and leaned the flat of his back into the door and pushed with his legs, exerting slow, upward pressure. The door did not budge. His heart sank, but he tried again, straining with all his strength. The door moved less than an inch.
He stepped back down to the floor and wiped a sleeve across his sweating brow. “They blocked it. Feels like something really heavy is holding it down.”
“What do we do now?” she asked, her voice slightly shaky.
“Well, before we go any further, let’s introduce ourselves. We haven’t had time to formally meet. I’m Marc Charvein.”
“Lucinda Barkley,” she replied. “Just Lucy will do.”
“Nice to know you, Lucy,” he said, fumbling to take her hand.
“I… I want to thank you for rescuing me.”
“Some rescue,” he replied. “Took you right from the frying pan to the fire.”
“You tried.”
“For now, we’re just two blind people who must rely on our other senses.” He was stating the obvious, but he thought the sound of his voice would soothe her and talking would possibly give him time to think and formulate some plan of action. “Listen, Lucy, there must be something at the end of this tunnel. People don’t dig tunnels that lead nowhere, unless they are in a mine.”
“What if it’s caved in?” she asked, her voice now calm, as if she were anticipating and accepting the worst.
He wished he could see her face to read her feelings.
“We’d gone nearly fifty yards before we came back. Let’s go on until we find something—even if it’s just a dead end.”
She followed, holding on to his gunbelt as he led the way.
Breathing as shallowly as possible, he put the foul air out of his mind and focused on what might be ahead. But the total blackness was like a velvet glove smothering him. He hoped her thoughts were elsewhere.
The tunnel led on another seventy paces, although Charvein had lost exact count. He was walking with his Colt in hand, arm straight out and swinging slowly from side to side.
The barrel of his gun bumped something solid. He felt with his hand and encountered what seemed to be a door. This time they were certainly at the end. But why a door in a tunnel, unless it was to close off something on the other side?
“What is it?” she asked.
“A door, but not made of solid planks. Uhh! Got a handle, but it’s rusted. Feels like an interior door with panels. Partly rotted. Move back a step. I’ll try to bust through.”
He aimed the thick sole of his right moccasin at the panel near the bottom. On the third kick with the ball of his foot, the panel splintered. Dim light filtered through. With renewed vigor, he thrust his shoulder at the upper portion and it splintered with little resistance. He kicked it down sufficiently for them to duck through. Dusty shafts of light sliced between the cracks in the floor overhead.
“Let there be light!” he intoned gratefully.
Six feet beyond, the tunnel ended in solid earth. After quickly piling larger pieces of the broken door atop one another, Marc stepped up but could barely touch the overhead boards. When his eyes got accustomed to the dim light, he saw that several steps had dried out and fallen in. They’d led up to another trapdoor.
Piling more debris of ruined stairs against one wall for support, he carefully climbed up, braced himself, and began to push. The overhead door gave, dirt sifting down into his face. He spat and snorted dusty air out his nose, then renewed his effort, shoving the door up several inches. A rush of sweet-smelling fresh air greeted him. “Lucy, come up here beside me. That’s it… be careful. Now I’ll boost you up on my shoulder while I brace us against the wall. You’ll have to push up that trapdoor and wedge a few chunks of wood into the crack until I can shove you up through the hole. Then you can help me up.”
Without question or complaint, she did as instructed. Within ten minutes, she climbed out and threw back the door, and then Charvein muscled his way up and over the lip.
“I think we’re in the back room of a bank,” Lucy said.
“Good as any,” Charvein muttered. “If they decide to get a lantern and explore that tunnel, we’ll be long gone. Be careful where you step in this dust. Let’s see if we can muddle up any telltale signs for them, just in case.”
Papers and ledger books lay scattered on the floor, among shards of broken glass and bird droppings.
“Walk on the balls of your feet out the front door,” he said, gently setting the trapdoor back into place. Then he slid a filing cabinet over it. Pulling open one of the full drawers, he took out a sheaf of papers and scattered them over their tracks as he backed toward the front of the building. “That won’t fool’em long if they’re serious about hunting us,” he said, dusting off his hands.
The grimy front window was still intact, much of it covered by large peeling letters, painted in reverse on the inside of the glass.
He eased open the front door and looked back up the street. They were two blocks from the saloon—farther than he’d guessed. He suddenly felt uneasy when he realized the horses and mules were no longer standing out front. He looked down the street in the other direction. No sign of man or beast. As long as their mounts were visible, he had a fix on where the outlawas had set up headquarters. But now… “Maybe they took them to the old stable where I spent the night,” he said aloud.
“What?”
“Their horses and mules.”
“They’ll have to water them soon or they’ll die,” she said. “They were in sad shape even before we got here.”
He nodded.
“Can you spare another drink from your canteen?” she asked, licking her lips.
He handed her the canteen and she took a long drink. “I didn’t leave you much,” she said, shaking the container.
“I’m taking you where there’s plenty more,” he said. “Come on.” He grasped her hand. “I guess we’d better go out the back way. Safer than the main street.”
They found a side office door leading into the alley. From there, they crept close to the backs of the buildings until they reached the edge of town. Charvein guided Lucy to Sandoval’s screened hiding place, a quarter mile away along the base of the mountain. They brushed aside the thick bushes and entered. It was empty.
Sandoval stepped out from the mouth of the tunnel and eased down the hammer of his rifle. “We’ll have to arrange a signal,” he said. “This town is getting crowded.”
“Good idea.” Charvein made introductions and explained the situation.
“A hostage?”
“I don’t think they care if I escape,” she said, “now that they’re not responsible for me. Besides, I’m stuck here, just like they are.” Then her eyes fell on the burro and the mule at the far side of the cavern.
“Only as a last resort,” Charvein said, noting her glance.
“You hungry?” Sandoval asked the woman. “When did you last eat?”
“Yesterday morning. No… the night before,” she said. “But I was so thirsty, I wasn’t hungry.”
Sandoval nodded. “Sit down here and rest. I will prepare some food.”
“Did you know about that tunnel between the assay office and the bank?” Charvein asked.
“Yes.”
“I wanted to steal their animals,” Charvein said. “But three horses and two mules were too many for me to handle at once. Besides, they might have brayed or whinnied and sounded the alarm. As it happened, I didn’t have time, anyway. I was damned lucky to get her out before they came back.” He sat down beside Lucy on the blanket. “These moccasins you gave me left tracks in the dust on the saloon floor.”
Sandoval’s serious face nearly relaxed into a grin. “So now they think there’s an Indian in town.”
“A ghostly Indian with water who made her ropes dissolve and disappear,” Charvein added, throwing his head back with a heart
y belly laugh that felt good. It had been too long.
“After dark, I’ll risk a small fire just outside,” Sandoval said. The thick brush will dissipate the little smoke.”
“Not a good idea,” Charvein said.
“Another strong southwest wind tonight,” Sandoval said. “Thick with dust from the playa as it was the last two nights. They will never smell our tiny bit of smoke.”
“Good,” Charvein agreed. “As long as those men think we’re ghosts and they don’t have the water or gold, we’re safe,” he went on. “And… as long as they continue fighting among themselves. I hope they haven’t given Boyd back his long Sharps.” He stepped toward the entrance to the cavern. “Do those westerlies blow often, or in a certain pattern?”
Sandoval nodded. “I usually know when they will come. Tonight the wind will be strong enough to toll the bell in the San Juan tower, just as you heard it.”
“Maybe I can work on their imaginations some more.”
“The Paiute spirits will howl. They can be heard for a mile or more.”
“Even better,” Charvein grinned. “But these men have been here before—when they hid the gold someplace nearby. If they were here when the wind was strong, they’ll know that sound for what it is.”
They were interrupted by a squeal that rose piercingly on the breeze and then died. A chill went up Charvein’s back, and his hand dropped to his Colt.
The look on Sandoval’s face showed he was just as startled.
Then it came again—a long, wavering screech, fading into silence.
“Catamounts in these hills?” Charvein asked.
“I have never seen one, señor—unless they’ve been drawn here by the scent of game—horses and mules.” His eyes were wide in the dark, somber face. “But what we just heard is not the scream of a wild creature—or anything else I’ve ever heard in my years upon this earth.”