Skeleton Lode
Page 17
At that point, Kelsey opened her eyes. “R. J. Bollinger,” she gasped. “He … shot me.”
“And I shot him,” said Arlo. “With your pistol. Mine was empty.”
“How bad … am I?”
“You’re hurt some,” Arlo said, “and you’ll be sore as hell for a while, but the slug went on through. I reckon you have a loose rib or two, because of the way the lead angled out. We’re going to pour some whiskey into the wound and then bind it well. Sometime tonight, you’ll have a fever, and you may have to drink half a quart of the whiskey. It’ll sweat the fever and infection out of you. If that fails—and I don’t expect it to—we’ll take you to a doc.”
“I’m not much good… in a gunfight,” she said. “I … I’m sorry.”
“The hell you aren’t!” said Arlo. “By the time I saw Bollinger comin’, my Colt was empty. If you hadn’t drawn his fire, he’d have shot me dead before I could have reloaded. He did get one slug in my thigh, though. That’s why my britches are off. I don’t usually hunker down next to a female in my drawers.”
She tried to laugh, but it trailed off into a groan of pain. Dallas handed Arlo the whiskey bottle while Kelly busily ripped what was once a petticoat into bandages.
“Was that mine or yours?” Kelsey asked.
“I’m not sure,” said Kelly, “but in Arizona I reckon bandages are more useful than fancy female underwear.”
“By God,” Dallas said, delighted, “she’s got the hang of it!”
“Kelly,” said Arlo, “make me a thick pad of … whatever it was. I’ll soak it with whiskey and place it over the wound where the slug came out. And then I’ll need a second bandage to cover the original wound.”
He poured the potent brew into the wound, and Kelsey gasped.
“Now,” Arlo said, “raise her up, so I can cover the exit wound.”
Arlo soaked the makeshift pad with whiskey, and when Kelly lifted Kelsey high enough, he placed the pad over the wound where the lead had torn its way out.
“Bring me the second pad,” said Arlo.
He placed the second pad over the entry wound and soaked the cloth with whiskey. He then returned the two-thirds empty bottle to Dallas.
“Now, Kelly,” he said, “bring me some long strips that’ll reach all the way around here, so I can bind these pads in place.”
Kelly brought the strips, then lifted Kelsey again, allowing Arlo to pass the strips around her middle, securing the pads. Kelly then brought all the blankets they had, tugged off Kelsey’s boots, removed her Levi’s, and rolled her naked into the mass of heavy wool blankets. Arlo leaned forward and kissed Kelsey on her pale cheek. Already her skin felt dry and feverish.
“Thank you,” said Kelsey, “but you’ve been shot too. You should have let Dallas and Kelly do for me.”
“Couldn’t do that,” Arlo said. “I have a personal interest in you, and I want you around to live up to that promise.”
“Kelly,” said Dallas, “there’s things we ain’t bein’ told.”
“There’s things you never will be told,” Arlo said. “Now bring me that bottle of whiskey, else I’ll have some infection of my own. I could live with the pain, but not without the leg.”
“I’ll see to your wound,” said Kelly, “unless you’d rather do it yourself or have Dallas do it.”
“You do it,” Arlo said. “Dallas is likely to get nervous, me and him havin’ been pards for so long. I just ain’t comfortable, standin’ around nine-tenths naked.”
“Be thankful you weren’t hit higher up,” said Kelly. “You might have lost more than blood, and you wouldn’t even be wearing your drawers. Hand me the rest of that whiskey, put your head on your saddle, and stretch out that leg. Dallas, make yourself useful. Bring me the pot with the rest of the hot water.”
Dallas and Arlo watched admiringly as Kelly cleaned Arlo’s wound, applied the whiskey, and tied the pads in place. She had cleaned and bandaged Arlo’s wound as efficiently as he had seen to Kelsey’s.
“Kelly,” Dallas said, “you’ve just learned half of everything a Western woman needs to know.”
“Oh?” said Kelly, suspiciously, “what’s the other half?”
“Removin’ Injun arrows,” Dallas said.
“Save the rest of the lesson for the next Indian attack,” said Kelly. “I’ve learned enough for today.”
Pod Osteen, Joe Dimler, and Zondo Carp stood looking at the lifeless body of R. J. Bollinger. Yavapai and Sanchez had reined in their horses a few yards away. Yavapai had caught Bollinger’s horse before it could run. Osteen spoke to the Mexican riders.
“I reckon you Mejicanos know that pair we chased off the mountain. Who are they?”
“Señor Wells,” said Sanchez, “and one of the señoritas that be lost in the mountain after the fight with the Indios.”
“There ain’t nobody been swallowed by that damn mountain,” Osteen said. “Can’t you see that? This Wells and Holt grabbed the Logan women while the rest of you were being attacked by the Apaches.”
“This pair we was shootin’ at sure wasn’t afraid of that mountain and its tunnels,” insisted Zondo. “They got Logan’s old Injun with ’em, and they’re holed up in the belly of one of these mountains.”
“That makes more sense than anything I’ve heard since we rode into this place,” said Three-Fingered Joe, “but I still ain’t wantin’ to go wanderin’ through the guts of these mountains in the dark. I say we wait for Cass and tell him what we stumbled onto.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Zondo answered. “Whatever we do, let’s do it together. If we got to search these tunnels, then let it be all of us, with loaded guns and plenty of light.”
“By God,” said Osteen, “it’s about time you gents seen what’s got to be done. We ain’t goin’ to find rich claims layin’ out in some open canyon. So what if this Wells and Holt are guided by some old Injun? Ain’t we got a pair of Mex guides that knows these mountains?”
“We know the outside of these mountains, Señor,” said Sanchez, “but not their bellies, where the Thunder God lives.”
“So you ain’t goin’ in the tunnels with us,” Osteen mocked. “Why’n hell do we need you pelados? That’s a question I aim to put to Bowdre when he gets back.”
“Señor Bowdre be gone for horses,” said Sanchez, with his infuriating grin. “When each of you are in the belly of the mountain, per’ap you take your horse with you. Indios have take them before, no?”
Bowdre’s men looked at one another. They were going to have to split their forces or again risk losing their horses to the Apaches.
“Cass will decide who stays with the horses,” Osteen said grudgingly. “The rest of us will go look for the gold, wherever the search takes us. But if I got any say, them that ain’t got the sand to take a turn in the tunnel, they don’t share the gold.”
Yavapai and Sanchez said nothing, but their easygoing grins vanished. New battle lines were being drawn.
All Gary Davis and Cass Bowdre had in common was mutual distrust, so they rode south to Florence in virtual silence. Davis had made up his mind he would share only the cost of grub. The horses—or lack of them—were Bowdre’s problem. They were nearing the town when Bowdre finally spoke.
“I can inquire about the hosses, if you want to see to the grub.”
“No,” said Davis, TU go with you to see about the horses, and then we’ll both go for the grub. What’s the use of buyin’ anything until we have a pack mule? I’ll split the cost with you, if we can find one.” He wanted to make it clear he wouldn’t share the cost of the horses Bowdre needed and that he had no intention of paying for supplies for Bowdre’s outfit.
The livery owner was a thin old man named Boggs. He had watery blue eyes and an outward meekness that belied his inner strength.
“Sorry,” he said, in response to Bowdre’s inquiry. “No mules. I reckon I can spare you three horses. They ain’t prime, but they’re all I got, an’ they’re forty dollars apiece.”
“You need horses, and I got horses to sell,” said Boggs, unperturbed. “Take ’em or leave ’em.”
“I’ll take ’em,” Bowdre huffed and followed Boggs to the barn.
Davis grinned at the sour expression on Bowdre’s face when he led the three animals out. There was a roan, a black, and a bay, and they all had some years on them. Having been a freighter, Davis was familiar with horses and mules used as pack animals, and he guessed these horses had been used to pack ore. Now they had been retired to whatever use could be made of them.
“Let’s ride on to Globe,” said Bowdre, stuffing the bills of sale into his pocket. “We can get grub there and we won’t have to pack it as far.”
Arlo and Kelsey spent the day in pain, for they had nothing to lessen it.
“I could slip into town after dark,” said Dallas, “and get some laudanum.”
“If we can make it till after dark,” Arlo said, “we can down that other quart of whiskey. It should make us sleep the night, rid us of fever, and by tomorrow, have us on the mend.”
“It’s only midday,” said Kelly, “and Kelsey’s already feverish.”
“So am I,” Arlo said, “but let’s hold off on the whiskey. Since we have nothing for pain, it’ll be easier on us if we can sleep the night through.”
“I reckon we’d better stay in hiding,” said Dallas, “until you and Kelsey are well enough to continue the hunt for the mine. This is a hardcase bunch that took after you two, and by now they know we have a hidden camp. They’ll be back.”
“When they do return,” Arlo said, “I just hope they don’t come in through the passage from the bottom of the mountain.”
“Oh, Lord,” said Kelly, “they could.”
“They could,” Arlo said, “and eventually they will. They saw Kelsey and me run for the cavern, and from there we had nowhere else to go but back into the passage. They’ll know we have some knowledge of these tunnels beneath the mountains, and while they’ll have to move slowly, they’ll be coming after us.”
“I’m going to slow us down,” said Kelsey, awake now. “The rest of you should go on and look for the mine. Leave me here. I’ll have my pistol.”
“Let’s do this,” Dallas suggested. “Once the both of you are free of fever, Kelly and me can travel back down this passage to the foot of the mountain. From there, we can look into that other passage that angles off to the left, the one Hoss marked as safe. Since there’s a chance they’ll find this camp, we ought to be finding ourselves another.”
“Easier said than done,” Arlo said. “Even if you find an ideal camp down some other tunnel, we’ll have a pair of problems. We can’t take our horses and mules, and if we could, there’d be no graze. We need the little bit of grass we’re able to reach from here, but this bunch that’s after us will soon get wise to how we’re grazing our stock. All they’ll have to do is stake out the top of the mountain until they see us taking our stock to and from grass.”
“Now that they have some idea where we are,” said Kelly, “they’ll just forget the map and spend their time looking for us.”
“That’s what I expect,” Arlo said. “I figure Davis has thrown in with this new bunch of coyotes, since Bollinger rode in shooting. I doubt that Davis has even told them he has a map, or what he thinks is half a map. I look for the whole bunch to come after us, because we’re able to find our way around in these tunnels. Davis may have convinced them we’ve already found the mine, or at least know where it is.”
“We have to buy ourselves a little time,” Dallas said. “At least until it’s safe for Kelsey to be up and around.”
By early afternoon the blue of the far western horizon had changed to a dirty gray, and the west wind had freshened. The sun set crimson behind a cloud bank, sending heavenward an aura that began as fuchsia, faded to pink, and finally became dusky rose. Far to the west, lightning did a brief dance and was gone. A roiling mass of thunderheads soon swallowed the sun, sweeping eastward before a rising wind.
Cass Bowdre and Gary Davis didn’t fare much better in Globe than in Florence. The town was smaller, and Bowdre had to do some searching to find even three horses. Again, prices were outrageously high—it rubbed him the wrong way to buy horses, anyhow. Cass Bowdre was accustomed to taking what he needed, when he needed it, but that nosy county sheriff knew Bowdre and his men were in the area. Being hanged for horse stealing would be a disgrace, since they were wanted for far more heinous crimes. Bowdre had found no mules for sale at any price, nor had he located a packsaddle. Their provisions had been gunnysacked and the necks of two sacks tied together, then roped to the backs of two horses.
“Storm comin’,” Bowdre observed as they rode west. “You know of a camp with any shelter where we can watch the hosses?”
“No,” said Davis truthfully. “Yavapai and Sanchez knew the place where you stayed last night, but if they know of anything better, they’ve kept it from me.”
“I’ll have some words with that pair of varmints,” Bowdre said.
Davis said nothing, but he’d had his fill of Cass Bowdre. The man’s arrogance exceeded even Davis’s own, and Davis decided their alliance would be brief and volatile. While he doubted his own influence with Yavapai and Sanchez, it irked him to have Bowdre step in and start giving orders. Davis clenched and unclenched his big fists as he rode. Somebody had to lead this gold-hunting expedition. Perhaps it was time he, Gary Davis, challenged Cass Bowdre. However, Davis admitted, one wrong move on his part could turn every man against him. He would hold his peace until the odds favored him.
“Hell’s fire,” Pod Osteen observed, when Bowdre and Davis rode in, “I never seen a more scrubby-lookin’ bunch of cayuse. They look like they pulled a stage from Saint Loo to San Diego without a rest.”
“Well, by God,” Bowdre snarled, “you don’t like ’em, leave ’em alone.”
“Let’s pitch camp and eat,” Zondo said. “After that, you jaybirds can cut each other’s throats with dull knives for all I care. I’m half starved, and I ain’t waitin’ no longer.”
“Hey,” said Davis, “I got a man missing. Where’s Bollinger?”
“He be dead,” said Sanchez.
“Onliest one of your bunch with any sand,” said Pod Osteen, his eyes on Davis.
“Damn it!” Davis shouted. “I didn’t ask for a character reference. Can’t somebody just tell me what the hell happened to Bollinger?”
“What difference does it make?” Bowdre asked sarcastically. “It won’t make him any less dead.”
Gary Davis saw red. He brought his big right fist around all the way from his boot tops. Bowdre was totally unprepared, and the blow caught him on the point of his chin. He went down on his back in a cloud of dust. Slowly he struggled to hands and knees, blood dripping from the corners of his mouth. Davis had backed away so that he faced them all, his right hand only inches from the butt of his Colt.
“I ain’t fist-fightin’ all of you at once,” Davis said, “and I ain’t riskin’ bein’ back-shot while me and this coyote are settlin’ our differences. Anybody else wants to buy in, do it now or stay out of it.”
Nobody made a move. Their eyes were on Cass Bowdre. Unsteadily he got to his feet, spitting blood. “Stay out of this,” he told them when he finally could speak. “I stomp my own snakes, and it’ll go hard on any one of you gettin’ between me and this damn fool.”
Chapter 11
A cool wind swept through the canyon, and thunder rumbled closer. Davis waited, more sure of himself now that the threat of gunplay was past. Now, but for the questionable loyalty of Yavapai and Sanchez, he was alone. He must win acceptance if not respect, at least until they found the mine. The blow to the chin had temporarily stunned Bowdre, but by the time Davis had flung down the challenge to the rest of the men, Bowdre was ready. He came after Davis, his bloody lips making his wolfish grin all the more hideou
s.
Davis back-stepped to avoid Bowdre’s vicious right, moving under it with one of his own. But Bowdre was expecting that, and he countered the blow by seizing the arm and dragging Davis toward him. Bowdre brought up a hard-driving left knee, and Davis twisted away just enough to avoid taking it in his groin. Instead, it smashed into his thigh, numbing the leg and leaving him off balance. Bowdre’s left came streaking in, smashing Davis full on his right ear, driving him to his knees. Davis recovered barely in time to seize the booted foot aimed at his head. He twisted the foot savagely, and Bowdre cried out. Davis flung Bowdre away from him, and at that point the storm broke. The first wind-blown sheet of rain drenched them all. The rest of the men moved back into what shelter the mountain’s overhang afforded, leaving Bowdre and Davis in the driving rain and the mud. Bowdre was on hands and knees, Davis aiming a murderous kick at his head, when lightning struck a few yards away. A pinnacle of stone exploded and fragments were flung everywhere. Some of the horses were pelted, screaming in pain as the men fought to hold them. Davis took a blast of the stone shrapnel in the seat of his pants. With a howl, he ran for the meager protection of the mountain’s overhang, where the rest of the men had taken refuge.