Skeleton Lode Page 6

  This activity wasn’t lost on Gary Davis and his companions.

  “These hombres ride along the river, Señor,” said Yavapai. “Do you wish we follow?”

  “No,” Davis said. “They’re not breaking camp, and it’ll soon be dark.”

  Arlo and Dallas rode west of the Superstitions until they could see a good portion of the western rim stretching away, to the north, then waited until the sun had slipped beyond the horizon, leaving only a crimson glow.

  “I reckon we just ruled out the sunset,” said Dallas, “unless we ain’t readin’ this like Hoss intended. I don’t see a single peak along the western rim that stands out enough to be the one the map points to.”

  “I didn’t think there would be,” Arlo said, “but I wanted to be sure. Now look at that western rim again. While none of the peaks stand out above the others, it is kind of a jagged line, like the line on the map Hoss drew. Why can’t that ragged rim of the Superstitions be the horizon behind the map’s setting sun?”

  “By God,” Dallas shouted, “that’s got to be it! Once we’re up there in the mountains with our backs to the western sun, we’ll be facing the peak Hoss drew on the map!”

  “Before you get too excited,” said Arlo, “remember there are peaks all along the eastern rim. Even if the western rim is the horizon on the map, there’s miles and miles of mountain. We still won’t know at what point we must stand or how we’re to recognize the particular peak Hoss refers to.”

  “We’re missing something Hoss is trying to tell us,” said Dallas. “I can’t believe he’d leave us without some sign to identify the peak.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Arlo replied. “We’ll have to wait until we get up there. Maybe Hoss is just gettin’ us into position for the mountain to tell us what we need to know.”

  It was near dark when Arlo and Dallas returned to camp. They found Paiute frying fish. He nodded toward a willow thicket, and there they saw the pack mule, fully loaded. Without a word, Arlo and Dallas led their still-saddled horses into the willows and picketed them with the mule. Once supper was done, they put out the fire, and when a full moon rose over the Superstitions, Paiute mounted his mule. Arlo and Dallas followed suit and, leading the pack mule, trailed Paiute into the forbidding mountains. It was hard going for a while as the three made their way up the southern end of the range. Then the underbrush began to thin out, and they eventually reached a plateau. In the Superstitions, as in most western mountain ranges, a series of saddlebacks connected the different peaks. As they progressed to the higher elevations, Arlo and Dallas made an alarming discovery. There was no graze! The mountain’s surface seemed flint-hard—and where there was no vegetation, there certainly would be no water.

  Eventually Paiute led them through a gap in the western rim, and they followed a deep gash down the side of the mountain, with stone walls towering above their heads. It was a trail that would be invisible from below, ending on a narrow ledge that became a tunnel angling into the side of the mountain. Paiute slid off the mule and led the animal. Arlo and Dallas dismounted also and followed, with their horses and the mule. They could hear the welcome sound of running water somewhere ahead. Their footsteps and those of the shod horses and mules rang hollow on the solid rock beneath their feet. The passage soon widened into a cavern as large as Hoss Logan’s cabin, water splashing down a back wall to form a pool and starlit sky visible through an aperture high above their heads. Clearly, this had long been a haven for Hoss, for there was every evidence of a permanent camp. A good supply of firewood had been laid in, and near the center of the cavern was a stone fire ring. From some concealed nook, Paiute brought out a quart bottle in which a cork stopper protected a supply of sulfur matches. The Indian lit one and used it to fire a pine pitch torch, allowing Dallas and Arlo to better appreciate the sanctuary. At one end of the cavern, a portion of the floor had been covered with straw, obviously as an accommodation for Hoss Logan’s mule. There was half a sack of barley and a second unopened hundred-pound sack. Camp utensils consisted of a three-legged iron spider, an iron pot and skillet, and a blackened coffeepot.

  “No wonder Hoss could stay out for months at a time,” said Dallas. “With enough grub, a man could spend his life here.”

  “That hole in the roof opens out somewhere on the western rim,” Arlo said, “likely up high enough that it’s never been discovered.”

  “Why don’t we just unload the pack mule and let this be our permanent camp?” Dallas suggested.

  “Good idea,” said Arlo, “but we’ll have to come and go at night. We also have to find some graze for the horses and mules. They can’t survive on just grain, even if we could afford to buy it. Sooner or later, that bunch that’s been followin’ us will find their way to the top, and I don’t want them knowing about this camp. Before we’re done, I think we’ll need the security we have here.”

  Dallas and Arlo unsaddled their horses, unloaded the pack mule, and leading their animals, followed Paiute and his mule out of the cavern. The Indian understood the need for graze, and once they again reached a plateau, Paiute mounted his mule. There was nothing for Dallas and Arlo to do but mount their horses bareback, and leading the pack mule, follow the Indian. Paiute took them to yet another exit from the mountain, a dangerously steep one that a rider unfamiliar with the trail wouldn’t have dared. They emerged on a grassy plateau that seemed unreachable from the parapets above or from the foothills far below. If the grazing animals strayed, it would have to be back to the hazardous trail down which they’d come.

  “Not a lot of graze here,” Arlo noted, “but enough for our horses and mules for a few days. If we’re here longer than that, one of us will have to slip into town after dark for another sack of barley and some grub for ourselves.”

  Dallas and Arlo loosed the animals to graze and followed Paiute back up the side of the mountain on foot. Even in the cool of the night, they were sweating by the time they reached the rim.

  “By God,” Dallas panted, “that Indian’s a better man than I am. We’ll still have to climb back down here for the horses and mules before dawn.”

  The trio returned to their hidden camp and slept. Dallas and Arlo awoke long before first light, preparing to go for the horses, but the Indian was gone.

  “Well, that beats the goose a-gobblin’,” Dallas said. “I doubt we can even find that straight-down drop-off in the dark.”

  But by the time they got their boots on, they could hear the clop-clop-clop of hooves, and they soon saw Paiute leading the horses and mules into the cavern. While the old Indian could not or would not help them in their search for the mine, his knowledge of the Superstitions was proving invaluable. Though it was still dark outside, so well were they concealed that Dallas was able to start their breakfast fire.

  * * *

  Come the dawn, Gary Davis turned his eyes downriver, where Dallas and Arlo had set up their camp the night before. His angry bellow alerted his own camp that something was wrong, and he turned on Yavapai and Sanchez.

  “Damn it, get down there and find their trail!”

  “We have no breakfast yet, Señor,” said Yavapai, unperturbed.

  “By God,” Davis shouted, “find that trail! Then you can eat.” Furious, he glared at Kelly and Kelsey just as they were starting the breakfast fire. The look in their eyes warned him to back off.

  By the time Yavapai and Sanchez reached the deserted camp; the remaining gold seekers from town—fifteen men in all—were there, cursing, shouting, and destroying what trail there was, even as they sought it. The two Mexicans fought their way into the thickets of the Superstitions and eventually found tracks.

  “I think per’ap it is yesterday’s trail,” Yavapai said.

  “Por Dios,” said Sanchez in disgust, “it is a trail. He do not say it must be today’s trail. Let us eat.”

  Davis ignored breakfast himself and hurried his companions through the meal. By the time they were saddled and ready to ride, the rest of the gold seekers wer
e already well into the thorny thickets of the Superstitions.

  “Where the hell is that trail?” Davis demanded.

  “The others have ridden over it,” said Yavapai.

  “Well, follow them,” Davis snarled.

  For three endless hours, Davis and his disgruntled companions struggled to penetrate the undergrowth of the Superstitions, eventually catching up to the frustrated men who had gone before them. The bunch sat in their saddles in silence, wiping sweaty faces on their shirtsleeves.

  “If you men can’t follow the trail,” Davis growled, “get out of the way and let us have it.”

  “It’s all yours,” said one of the disgusted men. “It’ll take you right to Saguaro Lake.”

  There was no denying the truth of it. They were following yesterday’s trail. Davis turned angrily to his Mexican guides. They sat lazily in their saddles, Sanchez with a leg crooked around the horn, rolling a quirly. At their seeming indifference, Davis backhanded the Mexican, slapping the unlighted cigarette out of his lips. Sanchez moved as fast as a striking rattler and smashed his fist full in Davis’s face. His nose spurting blood, Davis was swept out of his saddle onto his back. He went for his gun, only to find himself looking into the ugly muzzle of the Colt that Sanchez held cocked and rock-steady.

  “Lift the pistola with the thumb and finger and leave it on the ground,” commanded Sanchez.

  Without a word Davis lifted the Colt free of his holster and dropped it.

  “Now, Señor Gringo, get to your feet.”

  Shakily, Davis stood up, his nose dripping crimson, his eyes killing mean.

  “You pay Sanchez and Yavapai,” Sanchez said coldly. “Two days each, you pay. Then we leave you to ride any trail you wish.”

  R. J. Bollinger had been in a bad position, at the rear. All his companions had been between him and the two Mexicans. He gradually sidestepped his horse, hoping for a shot at one or both of them. By the time he had a clear view of Yavapai, he found the Mexican watching him, expecting just such a move. Bollinger relaxed. It wasn’t his kind of odds. All eyes were on Gary Davis as he took a pair of gold eagles from his pocket. One he gave to Sanchez, the other he gave to Yavapai. The pair backstepped their horses into the brush, keeping their eyes locked on Davis and his companions, as well as the bunch of gold seekers from town. Finally hidden from view, they turned their horses, hit the back trail, and headed for the Salt River.

  It was still dark when Dallas, Arlo, and Paiute finished breakfast. Paiute lit one of the pine pitch torches from the fire, walked toward the wall to the left of the cascading water, and just disappeared. Shocked, Dallas and Arlo were on their feet in an instant. The passage veered away at an angle and couldn’t be seen when looking straight at the stone wall. Paiute was waiting for them to follow him. The torch almost went out as cool air sucked at the flame, telling them that somewhere ahead, this tunnel opened to the outside. There were other passages, their dark maws appearing, then vanishing instantly as the flickering light moved beyond them. Finally they reached a ledge that, except for the tunnel they had just exited, was inaccessible. To the west, winking like distant fireflies in the predawn darkness, were the lights of Phoenix. Having no idea why the Indian had brought them here, Dallas and Arlo followed Paiute back to the cavern in which they had made their camp.

  “That makes me feel better,” Dallas said. “Secure as this seems, I’d hate to be trapped in here, with no means of escape. I wonder if some of those tunnels are somehow connected to the mine?”

  “I don’t think so,” replied Arlo. “Hoss wouldn’t risk that, and if Paiute could lead us to the mine, we wouldn’t need a map. If anybody even suspected that Paiute knew where the mine is, his life wouldn’t be worth a plugged peso. From what I’ve heard, the Spanish used to torture the Apaches, trying to force them to reveal the whereabouts of gold and silver mines. That’s why the Apaches, even after two hundred years, don’t trust white men who come looking for gold.”

  “Now that you mention it,” Dallas said, “I remember some of the tales Hoss told us. He said the Apaches claim they don’t kill the white men who come to the Superstitions. They say that they’re killed by the Apache Thunder God and the spirits that live in the mountains. Remember Hoss telling us about the dead men who were found without a mark on them?”

  “I remember,” said Arlo, “and I think Hoss believed it, but I find it hard to swallow, myself. He never seemed to have trouble with the Apaches.”

  “I’m startin’ to wonder if Paiute hasn’t had somethin’ to do with that,” Dallas said. “We don’t know what Hoss might have told him, or how much he knows, but he’s sticking with us. This old boy may be the biggest ace in the hole we’ve ever had.”

  When Yavapai and Sanchez reached the Salt River, they rode across it and secreted themselves in some willows on the south bank.

  “Por Dios,” said Yavapai, “we have lose our job and our food in all the same day.”

  “Per’ap I will kill the gringo dog for his money and his food,” Sanchez said angrily, “but I will not have him put his hands on me.”

  “These other gringos are many,” said Yavapai. “Per’ap they pay us and feed us while we seek the gold.”

  “Si,” Sanchez said. “We jus’ kill three times as many gringos.”

  When Yavapai and Sanchez had ridden away, Gary Davis took stock of his situation. Besides Barry Rust, R. J. Bollinger, Paulette, and the Logan girls, all of the gold seekers from town had witnessed his falling-out with his Mexican guides. Striving for some dignity, Davis spoke to the men from town.

  “We’ll have to ride back to the river and start over. Why don’t we join forces?”

  “You’re as lost as we are,” answered a surly rider. “What’n hell do we need you for?”

  “Maybe because I have half a map,” Davis said angrily.

  “I wouldn’t take orders from you if’n you had a saddlebag full of maps,” said another rider. “Now either ride ahead, ride back, or just git the hell out’n the way.”

  Without a word Davis mounted his horse and rode back toward the Salt River, his companions falling in behind him. It being their only option, the disgruntled bunch from town wheeled their mounts and followed.

  In the hidden camp, Dallas punched up the fire, set the iron spider in place, and suspended a pot of water to heat. When it was ready, Arlo dug out a piece of soap, and the partners shaved, taking turns with the razor. Paiute watched in obvious amusement—like most Indians, he had not a trace of a beard.

  “Now,” Arlo said, “let’s go up on top and look around. With our horses and mules hidden, maybe we can disappear for a few days. That bunch lookin’ for us won’t expect us to be afoot.”

  When they left the cavern, Paiute made no move to accompany them.

  “He’s led us to a hidden camp,” Dallas said, “and he’ll get the horses and mule to graze at night, but I think that’s as far as he aims to go.”

  “Maybe as far as he can go,” said Arlo. “If only for his own safety, I doubt Hoss ever took him to the mine.”

  Before leaving the crevice that led to their hidden cavern, Dallas and Arlo looked around carefully. Since they stood on solid rock, there were no telltale horse or mule tracks.

  “Still too early for them,” Dallas said, referring to their followers. “I’m bettin’ they’ve all lit out along yesterday’s trail and they’ll end up backtracking.”

  “Now that they’ve lost sight of us,” said Arlo, “we’ll find out if there’s any trackers in the bunch.”

  “I’d put my money on those shifty-eyed Mex varmints Davis brought with him,” said Dallas. “That pair looks like the kind who’d know every mountain grizzly hole in Arizona Territory.”

  “I won’t bet with you,” Arlo replied. “Yavapai and Sanchez have been in trouble with the law before. They may be taking pay from Davis and eatin’ his grub, but before this search is done, those Mex owl-hoots will come after us in their own right. Secure as our camp seems, I think we’d
better sleep with our Colts in our hands.”

  Gary Davis was in a foul mood by the time he and his companions reached the Salt River. They had wasted half a day and accomplished nothing.

  “We’ll rest and water the horses,” said Davis, “and then we’re going up that damned mountain.”

  “With or without a trail?” Barry Rust asked.

  “With, if we can find it, without, if we can’t,” said Davis shortly. “We know they’re up there somewhere, by God, and I’ll look behind and under every rock until I find them.”

  “Gary,” Paulette said, “I’m exhausted. Since there’s no trail anyway, why can’t we wait until morning?”

  “Because that bunch from town will get ahead of us,” said Davis, “and because I said we’re going today.”

  Davis led the party out, forcing his horse through the brush, briars, cactus, and catclaw at the foot of the mountain. They fought their way up the southern flank of the Superstitions, and by the time they reached a plateau where they could rest the horses, even Davis could see this was not a thing to be undertaken when the day was half spent. Horses and riders were drenched with sweat, and the dust stirred by their treacherous ascent coated them with a film of mud. They rested, then moved on, finding each plateau more barren than the last. The uppermost region of the mountain was so desolate that even Davis was speechless. There wasn’t a blade of grass, not a drop of water. Depressions in the rock that might have held water now contained only sun-dried mud, spiderwebbed with cracks. Suddenly Paulette laughed at their plight, a shrill sound, touched with madness. Davis cursed long and low.