Cold Cache

by Tim Champlin

  “Keep your head down,” Thorne warned. “Nothing to see, anyway.”

  Ortiz struck a match to a coal-oil lamp. Its warm glow dispelled a little more of the interior gloom in the dank room.

  Not expecting a protracted struggle, they hadn’t brought food or water. To distract himself from his growling stomach, Rasmussen wandered about the room. There was little to see beyond a makeshift altar at one end, surmounted by a small cross. Two carved wooden santos, dark-visaged with pointed beards, adorned two niches in the wall.

  “What’s this?” Rasmussen asked Ortiz, picking up a small model of a two-wheeled Mexican cart with a skeleton seated in it. The skeletal figure was holding a bow and arrow.

  Ortiz hesitated, taking the model from his hand and replacing it on a small table. “This is a model of the death cart. Los Hermanos have a full-size cart like this that a penitent pulls in the Holy Week procession. Sometimes it is loaded with rocks to make it more difficult to pull. It reminds us to keep our own deaths constantly before our eyes. We must never lose sight of where we are bound.”

  Rasmussen nodded, wondering if a real human skeleton were used. Something of a morbid practice, he thought, akin to depictions of the Grim Reaper as a skeleton in a hooded cape, wielding a scythe. But, then, he wasn’t about to judge someone else’s cultural or religious practices.

  Time began to drag as the stalemate outside continued. Now and then a shot or two punctured the afternoon stillness. Every few minutes Rasmussen checked the view from the window. Only the dead horse and the dying campfire were visible of what otherwise was a peaceful day. The sun beat down from a cloudless sky, and three black vultures appeared, wheeling on thermals high overhead, apparently attracted by the scent of death.

  Another hour passed, and the inside of the morada grew warm and stuffy. Thorne propped open the end door to admit some fresh air.

  “I will go back to the village and bring us food and water,” Ortiz finally said.

  “Good idea,” Thorne said. “That way we can last as long as they can.”

  Rasmussen followed the storekeeper outside and unsaddled their rented mounts and tethered them closer to some browse. His own horse, that had bolted at the initial blast of gunfire, was cropping sparse grass nearby, and Rasmussen quietly gathered the dragging reins and tethered him near the same mesquite thicket.

  Ortiz mounted his mule and rode away, keeping the stone building between himself and the stalemated gunfight.

  An hour and a half later, Ortiz was back. He dismounted, tossing a sack to Rasmussen, who’d gone out to meet him.

  “I have bread and cheese and jugs of water. Also a blanket for each of us, if we must sleep here tonight.”

  Apparently Ortiz had borrowed a saddle and bridle while in the village. He reached under the flap of the saddlebags and brought forth a fat bottle encased in wicker. “I even bring some very good red wine.” He grinned like a mischievous boy on a camping trip.

  Rasmussen was tempted to pull the cork and sample it right now, but knew he’d be asleep in a half hour if he did. He must keep his senses sharp in case something erupted in the quiescent battlefield in the brush beyond the morada.

  He carried the food, jugs of water, and blankets inside while Ortiz followed with the wine. They all sat on the floor to eat, the men cross-legged, Nellie leaning back against the stone wall, munching on a piece of cheese.

  They’d all been keyed for action, for some climactic ending to this situation, but now were somber and quiet as the Mexican stand-off continued.

  “I reckon we ought to rotate the watch through the night,” Rasmussen said to Thorne as the sun disappeared behind the mountain and the long summer twilight began to settle across the land.

  “I’ll take the first three hours,” Thorne said, “then Ortiz and Nellie can each do a couple of hours. You take the pre-dawn guard. But we’ll all be awake if something happens.” He gestured toward the hidden gunmen. “Lying out there in the dust and sun all afternoon, they’re ready to end this stand-off. I fully expect a few of ’em won’t see the sun come up tomorrow.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Rasmussen had never been so glad to see the coming day.

  With a blanket around his shoulders against the chill, he stepped out the end door and looked toward the eastern sky that was at long last beginning to pale slightly, allowing him to distinguish the ragged horizon and the outline of the hotel roof in the distant village. Thorne, Nellie, and Ortiz huddled in oblivion on the floor inside, wrapped tightly in their blankets.

  Rasmussen felt dragged out by too little sleep. He’d been awake most of the night, half expecting gunfire or screams to erupt. But, unless there’d been some stealthy stalking and knife fighting, the night had passed peacefully. Would full daylight reveal more food for the buzzards? Or an abandoned battlefield?

  Pacing slowly around the outside of the morada, he mentally savored the taste of a hot cup of coffee. He paused in the darkness to urinate, then moved to the end of the building, straining his eyes in a vain attempt to see what lay beyond to the west.

  Dawn crept silently over the New Mexico landscape, graying the bushes, the tethered horses, the blocky morada. Objects could be now be distinguished, but the sun had not yet cleared the horizon.

  The door to the morada opened and Nellie emerged, wrapped in a blanket.

  “You’re awake,” he greeted her.

  “Haven’t slept much,” she said, yawning. “Too cold.” She hugged the blanket closely as Rasmussen moved up and put an arm around her shoulders.

  “Want a drink of water?” she asked as he released her.

  “Sure. I….”

  A scuffling in the mesquite nearby made him jump back and snatch his pistol. His heart pounded as he tried to make out the source of the noise. Probably some animal.

  Hee-Haw! Hee-Haw!

  The mule’s raucous braying was followed by the voice of a man, cursing.

  Rasmussen sprinted around the mesquite thicket, gun drawn.

  “Hold it right there!” He thumbed back the hammer.

  The man let go of the mule’s headstall and lifted his hands.

  Nellie came up from behind. Rasmussen heard her gasp: “DJ!”

  The hatless man looked haggard in the pale morning light, deep pouches under his eyes. “Nellie?” His hang-dog face melted into a grin and he lowered his hands. “By God, what’re you doing here?”

  “Long story. Let’s get you inside. You’re hurt.”

  He glanced at his left shirt sleeve that was ripped to the shoulder. A blood-stained rag was crudely tied around his upper arm.

  “Second time I’ve bled for the sake of that damned gold,” he muttered as they led him inside and closed the door.

  “Got any water?” he asked, sagging against the wall.

  Nellie handed him a jug and he tipped it up, taking a long drink.

  “Needed that,” he gasped, handing it back.

  Ortiz and Thorne were awakened and gathered around.

  “My cousin, Darrel Weaver,” Nellie said. “He’s one of us.” She introduced the three men to DJ.

  “What’s going on out there?” Thorne demanded.

  “The Claytons jumped us yesterday. Lucky we’d posted a look-out, or they would’ve finished us quick. Settled into a stalemate.”

  “We saw that much,” Thorne said impatiently.

  “We followed them out here and we’ve been watching,” Rasmussen explained. “Anybody killed?”

  “Not so far. Couple of minor wounds.” He glanced at his own arm that Nellie was tending as they talked. She’d removed the piece of dirty undershirt that bandaged the small, purplish bullet hole in the outer edge of the triceps. She washed off the caked blood and poured wine on it.

  “Where were you going just now?” Rasmussen asked.

  “I’d had enough. Don’t know what Nellie told you about me, but I’m not here because I want to be. Old Silas Newburn offered me a decent sum to come along, but it’s gotten to the po
int where it’s not worth it. He can keep his damned money, and I’ll keep my life.” He grimaced as Nellie bound his arm with a clean bandanna. “When I saw how things were going, I figured it was time to leave. Slipped away from the cover of the wagons while it was still dark, and started for the village. Saw the mule and figured to snatch him and ride as far as I could.”

  “Where is the treasure and why didn’t you go after it a couple of days ago?” Thorne asked.

  The young man looked at them, one at a time, amazement growing on his long face. “You mean it’s still a secret? Thought everybody knew by now. It’s right over there.” He pointed west, through the unshuttered window. “In that quarry. Hidden in plain sight. Sunk in eighty feet of water.”

  “I’ll be damned!” Thorne said.

  “How did you plan to get it?” Rasmussen asked.

  “Silas was here years ago and had it figured out. He knew there was no way anyone could retrieve rotted sacks and boxes of heavy metal from that depth by trying to snag it from a boat, even if a man knew exactly where to drop grappling hooks. The water had to be drained.” He stopped to nod his thanks to Nellie for a hunk of cheese on bread she handed him. He tore off a mouthful and chewed like a starving man while Rasmussen waited impatiently for him to continue.

  “That’s a big body of water,” Darrel finally went on. “Old Silas isn’t an engineer, but he figured if dynamite were set at the right spots, the lower side of that rock basin would cave in, releasing all the water down the cañon and giving easy access to the submerged treasure.” He shook his head. “Damned dangerous, though, for the man touching off the charges. More than a dozen small bundles of dynamite sticks with blasting caps are set into strategic points along that rock. Then all the fuses are twisted together into one that stretches two hundred feet. Has to be long enough to give the fool who lights it a chance to get away before tons of rock and water come crashing down on him.”

  “You’re saying that the charges have already been set?” Rasmussen asked.

  “Yeah. Did it myself,” he added with a hint of pride. “Had to have some help doublejacking holes in the rock to plant the dynamite. Told Silas I’d set the stuff but somebody else would have to light it.”

  “So that’s why you’ve been out here all this time,” Nellie said.

  “Yeah.” Darrel nodded. “Silas knew the noise would bring people from the village, so he was hoping a thunderstorm would come up to disguise the boom.” He shook his head. “Nature didn’t cooperate.”

  A distant shout interrupted, and they all went to the window. The yell came from someone hidden in a dry wash and was answered by a man on the Newburn side. The five in the morada were too far away to distinguish the words. But a minute later, a small man with a limp emerged from the brush, waving a white rag tied to a stick.

  “Johnny!” Nellie said.

  Rasmussen couldn’t tell from the quiet intensity in her voice if it was meant as an expletive, or a lingering endearment.

  A big man came slowly from behind a freight wagon and approached Johnny Clayton who held the flag of truce. They met in the clearing by the dead campfire.

  The discussion took place out of earshot, with some pointing and nodding. Then the two men returned to their respective lines.

  Ten minutes dragged by. Nothing could be seen or heard from either side.

  “Wonder what that was all about?” Thorne finally said.

  “Some kind of agreement,” Rasmussen guessed.

  “If so, it’s the first compromise I’ve ever heard of,” Nellie said.

  “Not in their nature,” Darrel agreed. “More likely a demand for surrender, or no quarter will be given.”

  Finally the unmistakable rotund figure of Walter Clayton moved out of the brush, Johnny Clayton following two steps behind. Moments later, a lean man approached from the opposite camp. The rising sun shone on the silver hair of Silas Newburn.

  “That’s Uncle Tad with him,” Nellie said.

  “The two patriarchs meeting face-to-face to work out a deal,” Rasmussen said.

  “Actually looks that way.” Nellie’s tone was incredulous.

  Johnny Clayton and Tad Newburn came together and spoke briefly. They separated and each helped his boss out of his coat. The two old adversaries stepped forward and began to circle each other cautiously, fists at the ready.

  “Oh, my God! They’re going to fight!” Nellie cried. “This is ridiculous!”

  “About as ridiculous as this whole damned feud,” Darrel said.

  Silas feinted, but the phlegmatic Walter didn’t take the bait. The lean man shot a left jab to the face, followed by a quick, one-two to the body. The fat man kept coming, shuffling forward as Silas dodged and skipped around.

  More than a minute passed before the pugilists stopped feeling each other out and began to land some blows. It was apparent Silas considered himself a boxer, with quick footwork and lightning jabs, while Walter came shuffling in, flat-footed, not giving an inch, looking for a killer blow to end it in one punch.

  The men from both sides of the conflict began to creep forward out of their hiding places to get a closer look at the fun, forming a loose circle around the perimeter of the clearing. But it was fun with a purpose. Could this be a winner take all contest?

  “Damn,” Darrel breathed softly. “Those two old fighting cocks think they’ve still got spurs.”

  The five of them went outside and moved forward as well, staying hidden in the mesquite thickets. No one even glanced their way, so absorbed in this spectacle were the eight men. By the time Rasmussen, Thorne, Nellie, Darrel, and Ortiz had moved close enough to view the contest clearly from the lip of an arroyo, the backers of each fighter were cheering on their champions. The old men were grimly serious; something vital was at stake here. Had the patriarchs agreed to fight it out in one last, grand battle?

  Rasmussen wondered if the loser and his entourage would go home and allow the winner’s side to retrieve the treasure. Not likely. Whatever had been agreed to, this truce would erupt in gunfire as soon as the fight was over. He felt sure of it.

  With their heads above the lip of the dry wash and concealed by brush growing along the edge, the five watched, fascinated by the wheezing combatants.

  Walter’s left eye was swollen shut from the jabs, and he constantly wiped a forearm across his mouth to clear the blood trickling from his nose.

  Silas still circled, but slowly. His arms had apparently taken on a load of lead and were hanging at his sides, his mouth slack, chest heaving.

  There were no knockdowns—no rounds called to give the fighters a chance to recuperate. They would fight continuously until only one remained standing.

  A much heavier Walter Clayton couldn’t land any telling punches on his constantly moving opponent. Silas was still sidling around, but had slowed until Walter saw his chance and, blocking a weak punch, tied up the lean man in a clinch. The two of them tripped and fell hard. They went down grunting, rolling in the dust, gouging, kneeing, biting each other’s thumbs and ears. Dust powdered the sweaty fighters until they looked like two giant gingerbread men.

  They punched and butted with ever-decreasing ferocity, until finally the two men slumped apart. Walter rolled to his hands and knees and attempted to stand up, but couldn’t raise his bulk off the ground. His head hung down, mouth open, like a buffalo bull who’s received his death wound. Silas, only his bloodshot eyes showing through a mask of dust and white beard, doubled up on his knees, and coughed until he gagged.

  “One more punch will do for him, Walter!” somebody yelled.

  “Come on Silas!”

  “Don’t give up now. Get up! You can do it!”

  “Kick the shit out of that fat bastard!”

  But the shouts of encouragement became sporadic and melted away to silence. Black Rogers looked at Johnny Clayton who was squatting on his haunches, holding Walter’s coat. The two of them looked across at the Newburns. Tad Newburn, his father’s second, glanced back at
the two other men behind him, and then looked away, apparently unable to meet their eyes. The other three men on the Clayton side, eyes fixed on the ground, began to shuffle back toward their shelters in the dry washes.

  An embarrassed silence followed.

  Nellie slid down behind the lip of the arroyo, motioned for the men to follow her, and they retreated silently, carefully to the shelter of the morada.

  “Most ridiculous spectacle I’ve ever witnessed!” Darrel spat to one side, grabbed the wicker-covered bottle of wine, and turned it up.

  “That’s what years of feuding amounts to,” Nellie said.

  “Gold fever, robbery, shootings, ambitious plans, hatred, greed, vengeance…it’s all come to nothing,” Darrel said, wiping his mouth with his shirt sleeve. “Two old weak men with the toes of their boots in their graves making fools of themselves. Everyone out there realized it, too.”

  “But the treasure is still here for somebody to take,” Thorne said.

  The words were hardly out of his mouth before the morning stillness was shattered by gunfire. They rushed to the window and saw the clearing deserted. Four black vultures flapped heavily away from the swollen body of the dead horse at the edge of the brush.

  “The battle’s on again,” Rasmussen said. “And this time they won’t stop until one side or the other’s wiped out.” He turned to Darrel. “Do the Claytons know the treasure’s in the quarry?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t know, but I’d suspect so.”

  “Then we need to create a distraction. You got any ammunition for that Colt?” He pointed at the holstered pistol on Darrel’s belt.

  “Five in the chambers and this many more.” He pulled a small handful of cartridges from his pants pocket.

  “Enough. Thorne, what about you?”

  The loops on his gun belt were over half filled with cartridges.

  “And I’ve got about twenty,” Rasmussen said.

  “I left Otto’s Thirty-Eight at the hotel,” Nellie added. “Only five shots in it, anyway.”