If he had patience, so had they, and they could afford to wait. He could not. It was not merely a matter of getting home before the six-month period was up—and less than two months remained of that—it was a matter of getting home with enough money to pay off the loan. And with the best of luck it would require weeks upon weeks of hard, uninterrupted work.
And then he saw the wolf.
It was no more than a glimpse, and a fleeting glimpse. Billy Dunbar saw the sharply pointed nose and bright eyes and then the swish of a tail. The wolf vanished somewhere at the base of the shelf of rock that shaded the pocket. It vanished in proximity to the spring.
Old Billy frowned and studied the spot. He wasn’t the only one holed up here! The wolf evidently had a hole somewhere in the back of the pocket, and perhaps some young, as the time of year was right. His stillness after he had finished work on the entrance had evidently fooled the wolf into believing the white man was gone.
Obviously the wolf had been lying there, waiting for him to leave so it could come out and hunt. The cubs would be getting hungry. If there were cubs.
The idea came to him then. An idea utterly fantastic, yet one that suddenly made him chuckle. It might work! It could work! At least, it was a chance, and somehow, some way, he had to be rid of those Apaches.
He knew something of their superstitions and beliefs. It was a gamble, but as suddenly as he conceived the idea, he knew it was a chance he was going to take.
Digging his change of clothes out of the saddlebags, he got into them. Then he took his own clothing and laid it out on the ground in plain sight—the pants, then the coat, the boots, and, nearby, the hat.
Taking some sticks, he went to the entrance of the wolf den and built a small fire close by. Then he hastily went back and took a quick look around. The draw was empty, but he knew the place was watched. He went back and got out of line of the wolf den, and waited.
The smoke was slight, but it was going into the den. It wouldn’t take long. The wolf came out with a rush, ran to the middle of the pocket, took a quick, snarling look around, and then went over the parapet and down the draw.
Working swiftly, he moved the fire and scattered the few sticks and coals in his other fireplace. Then he brushed the ground with a branch. It would be a few minutes before they moved, and perhaps longer.
Crawling into the wolf den, he next got some wolf hair, which he took back to his clothing. He put some of the hair in his shirt and some near his pants. A quick look down the draw showed no sign of an Indian, but that they had seen the wolf, he knew, and he could picture their surprise and puzzlement.
Hurrying to the spring, he dug from the bank near the water a large quantity of mud. This was an added touch, but one that might help. From the mud, he formed two roughly human figures. About the head of each he tied a blade of grass.
Hurrying to the parapet for a stolen look down the draw, he worked until six such figures were made. Then, using thorns and some old porcupine quills he found near a rock, he thrust one or more through each of the mud figures.
They stood in a neat row, facing the parapet. Quickly he hurried for one last look into the draw. An Indian had emerged. He stood there in plain sight, staring toward the place.
They would be cautious, Billy knew, and he chuckled to himself as he thought of what was to follow. Gathering up his rifle, the ammunition, a canteen, and a little food, he hurried to the wolf den and crawled back inside.
On his first trip he had ascertained that there were no cubs. At the end of the den there was room to sit up, topped by the stone of the shelving rock itself. To his right, a lighted match told him there was a smaller hole of some sort.
Cautiously Billy crawled back to the entrance, and, careful to avoid the wolf tracks in the dust outside, he brushed out his own tracks, and then retreated into the depths of the cave. From where he lay he could see the parapet.
Almost a half hour passed before the first head lifted above the poorly made wall. Black straight hair, a red headband, and the sharp, hard features of their leader.
Then other heads lifted beside him, and one by one the six Apaches stepped over the wall and into the pocket. They did not rush, but looked cautiously about, and their eyes were large, frightened. They looked all around, then at the clothing, and then at the images. One of the Indians grunted and pointed.
They drew closer, and then stopped in an awed line, staring at the mud figures. They knew too well what they meant. Those figures meant a witch doctor had put a death spell on each one of them.
One of the Indians drew back and looked at the clothing. Suddenly he gave a startled cry and pointed—at the wolf hair!
They gathered around, talking excitedly, and then glancing over their shoulders fearfully.
They had trapped what they believed to be a white man, and, knowing Apaches, Old Billy would have guessed they knew his height, weight, and approximate age. Those things they could tell from the length of his stride, the way he worked, the pressure of a footprint in softer ground.
They had trapped a white man, and a wolf had escaped! Now they found his clothing lying here, and on the clothing the hair of a wolf!
All lndians knew of wolf-men, those weird creatures who changed at will from wolf to man and back again, creatures that could tear the throat from a man while he slept and could mark his children with the wolf blood.
The day had waned, and, as he lay there, Old Billy Dunbar could see that while he had worked the sun had neared the horizon. The Indians looked around uneasily. This was the den of a wolf-man, a powerful spirit who had put the death spell on each of them, who came as a man and went as a wolf.
Suddenly, out on the desert, a wolf howled!
The Apaches started as if struck, and then as a man they began to draw back. By the time they reached the parapet, they were hurrying.
* * * * *
Old Billy stayed the night in the wolf hole, lying at its mouth, waiting for dawn. He saw the wolf come back, stare about uneasily, and then go away. When light came, he crawled from the hole.
The burros were cropping grass and they looked at him. He started to pick up a pack saddle, and then dropped it. “I’ll be durned if I will!” he said.
Taking the old Sharps and the extra pan, he walked down to the wash and went to work. He kept a careful eye out, but saw no Apaches. The gold was panning out even better than he had dreamed would be possible. A few more days—suddenly he looked up.
Two Indians stood in plain sight, facing him. The nearest one walked forward and placed something on a rock, and then drew away. Crouched, waiting, Old Billy watched them go. Then he went to the rock. Wrapped in a piece of tanned buckskin was a haunch of venison!
He chuckled suddenly. He was big medicine now. He was a wolf-man. The venison was a peace offering, and he would take it. He knew now he could come and pan as much gold as he liked in Apache country.
A few days later he killed a wolf, skinned it, and then buried the carcass, but from the head he made a cap to fit over the crown of his old felt hat, and, wherever he went, he wore it.
A month later, walking into Fremont behind the switching tails of Jennie and Julie, he met Sally at the gate. She was talking with young Sid Barton.
“Hi,” Sid said, grinning at him. Then he looked quizzically at the wolf-skin cap. “Better not wear that around here! Somebody might take you for a wolf!”
Old Billy chuckled. “I am,” he said. “You’re durned right, I am. Ask them Apaches.”
Trail To Pie Town
Dusty Barron turned the steel-dust stallion down the slope toward the wash. He was going to have to find water soon or the horse and he would be done for. If Emmett Fisk and Gus Mattis had shown up in the street at any other time, it would have been all right. As it was, they had appeared just as he was making a break from the saloon, and they had blocked the road to the hill country and s
afety. Both men had reached for their guns when they saw him, and he had wheeled his horse and hit the desert road at a dead run. With Dan Hickman dead in the saloon it was no time to argue or engage in gun pleasantries while the clan gathered.
It had been a good idea to ride to Jarilla and make peace talk, only the idea hadn’t worked. Dan Hickman had called him yellow, and then gone for a gun. Dan was a mite slow, a fact that had left him dead on the saloon floor. There were nine Hickmans in Jarilla, and there were Mattis and three Fisk boys. Dusty’s own tall brothers were back in the hills southwest of Jarilla, but with his road blocked he had headed the steel-dust down the trail into the basin.
The stallion had saved his bacon. No doubt about that. It was only the speed of the big desert-bred horse and its endurance that had got him away from town before the Hickmans could catch him. The big horse had given him lead enough until night had closed in, and after that it was easier.
Dusty had turned at right angles from his original route. They would never expect that, for the turn took him down the long slope into the vast, empty expanse of the alkali basin where no man of good sense would consider going.
For him it was the only route. At Jarilla they would be watching for him, expecting him to circle back to the hill country and his own people. He should have listened to Allie when she had told him it was useless to try to settle the old blood feud.
He had been riding now, with only a few breaks, for hours. Several times he had stopped to rest the stallion, wanting to conserve its splendid strength against what must lie ahead. And occasionally he had dismounted and walked ahead of the big horse.
Dusty Barron had only the vaguest idea of what he was heading into. It was thirty-eight miles across the basin, and he was heading down the basin. According to popular rumor, there was no water for over eighty miles in that direction. And he had started with his canteen only half full.
For the first hour he had taken his course from a star. Then he had sighted a peak ahead and to his left and used that for a marker. Gradually he had worked his way toward the western side of the basin.
Somewhere over the western side was Gallo Gap, a green meadow high in the peaks off a rocky and rarely used pass. There would be water there if he could make it, yet he knew of the gap only from a story told him by a prospector he had met one day in the hills near his home.
Daybreak found him a solitary black speck in a vast wilderness of white. The sun stabbed at him with lances of fire and then, rising higher, bathed the great alkali basin in white radiance and blasting furnace heat. Dusty narrowed his eyes against the glare. It was at least twelve miles to the mountains.
He still had four miles to go through the puffing alkali dust when he saw the tracks. At first he couldn’t believe the evidence of his eyes. A wagon—here!
While he allowed the steel-dust to take a blow, he dismounted and examined the tracks. It had been a heavy wagon pulled by four mules or horses. In the fine dust he could not find an outlined track to tell one from the other.
The tracks had come out of the white distance to the east and had turned north exactly on the route he was following. Gallo Gap, from the prospector’s story, lay considerably north of him and a bit to the west.
Had the driver of the wagon known of the gap? Or had he merely turned on impulse to seek a route through the mountains. Glancing in first one, and then the other direction, Dusty could see no reason why the driver should have chosen either direction. Jarilla lay southwest, but from here there was no indication of it and no trail.
Mounting again, he rode on, and, when he came to the edge of the low hills fronting the mountains, he detected the wagon trail running along through the scattered rocks, parched bunch grass, and greasewood. It was still heading north. Yet when he studied the terrain before him, he could see nothing but dancing heat waves and an occasional dust devil.
The problem of the wagon occupied his mind to forgetfulness of his own troubles. It had come across the alkali basin from the east. That argued it must have come from the direction of Manzano unless the wagon had turned into the trail somewhere farther north on the road to Conejos.
Nothing about it made sense. This was Apache country and no place for wagon travel. A man on a fast horse, yes, but even then it was foolhardy to travel alone. Yet the driver of the wagon had the courage of recklessness to come across the dead white expanse of the basin, a trip that to say the least was miserable.
Darkness was coming again, but he rode on. The wagon interested him, and with no other goal in mind now that he had escaped the Hickmans, he was curious to see who the driver was and to learn what he had in mind. Obviously the man was a stranger to this country.
It was then, in the fading light, that he saw the mule. The steel-dust snorted and shied sharply, but Dusty kneed it closer for a better look. It had been a big mule and a fine animal, but it was dead now. It bore evidence of that brutal crossing of the basin, and here, on the far side, the animal had finally dropped dead of heat and exhaustion.
Only then did he see the trunk. It was sitting between two rocks, partly concealed. He walked to it and looked it over. Cumbersome and heavy, it had evidently been dumped from the wagon to lighten the load.
He tried to open it, but could not. It was locked tight. Beside it were a couple of chairs and a bed.
“Sheddin’ his load,” Dusty muttered thoughtfully. “He’d better find some water for those other mules, or they’ll die, too.”
Then he noticed the name on the trunk: d.c. lowe, st. louis, mo.
“You’re a long way from home,” Dusty remarked. He swung a leg over the saddle and rode on. He had gone almost five miles before he saw the fire.
At first, it might have been a star, but as he drew nearer, he could see it was too low down, although higher than he was. The trail had been turning gradually deeper into the hills and had begun to climb a little. He rode on, using the light for a beacon.
When he was still some distance off, he dismounted and tied the stallion to a clump of greasewood and walked forward on foot.
The three mules were hitched to the back of the wagon, all tied loosely and lying down. A girl was bending over a fire, and a small boy, probably no more than nine years old, was gathering sticks of dried mesquite for fuel. There was no one else in sight.
Marveling, he returned to his horse and started back. When he was still a little distance away, he began to sing. His throat was dry and it was a poor job, but he didn’t want to frighten them. When he walked his horse into the firelight, the boy was staring up at him, wide-eyed, and the girl had an old Frontier Model Colt.
“It’s all right, ma’am,” he said, swinging down, “I’m just a passin’ stranger an’ don’t mean any harm.”
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“Name of Dusty Barron, ma’am. I’ve been followin’ your trail.”
“Why?” Her voice was sharp and a little frightened. She could have been no more than seventeen or eighteen.
“Mostly because I was headed thisaway an’ was wonderin’ what anybody was doin’ down here with a wagon, or where you might be headed.”
“Doesn’t this lead us anywhere?” she asked.
“Ma’am,” Dusty replied, “if you’re lookin’ for a settlement, there ain’t none thisaway in less’n a hundred miles. There’s a sort of town then, place they call Pie Town.”
“But where did you come from?” Her eyes were wide and dark. If she was fixed up, he reflected, she would be right pretty.
“Place they call Jarilla,” he said, “but I reckon this was a better way if you’re travelin’ alone. Jarilla’s a Hickman town, an’ they sure are a no-account lot.”
“My father died,” she told him, putting the gun in a holster hung to the wagon bed, “back there. Billy an’ I buried him.”
“You come across the basin alone?” He was incredulous.
“Yes. Father died in the mountains on the other side. That was three days ago.”
Dusty removed his hat and began to strip the saddle and bridle from the stallion while the girl bent over her cooking. He found a hunk of bacon in his saddle pockets. “Got plenty of bacon?” he asked. “I ’most generally pack a mite along.”
She looked up, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. She was flushed from the fire. “We haven’t had any bacon for a week.” She looked away quickly, and her chin quivered a little and then became stubborn. “Nor much of anything else, but you’re welcome to join us.”
He seated himself on the ground and leaned back on his saddle while she dished up the food. It wasn’t much. A few dry beans and some cornbread. “You got some relatives out here somewhere?”
“No.” She handed him a plate, but he was too thirsty to eat more than a few mouthfuls. “Father had a place out here. His lungs were bad and they told him the dry air would he good for him. My mother died when Billy was born, so there was nothing to keep us back in Missouri. We just headed West.”
You say your father had a place? Where is it?”
“I’m not sure. Father loaned some man some money, or, rather, he provided him with money with which to buy stock. The man was to come West and settle on a place, stock it, and then send for Dad.”
Dusty ate slowly, thinking that over. “Got anything to show for it?”
“Yes, Father had an agreement that was drawn up and notarized. It’s in a leather wallet. He gave the man five thousand dollars. It was all we had.”
When they had eaten, the girl and boy went to sleep in the wagon box while Dusty stretched out on the ground nearby. What a mess! he told himself. Those kids comin’ away out here, all by themselves now, an’ the chances are that money was blowed in over a faro layout long ago!
Golden Gunmen Page 7