Skeleton Lode (27 page)

“That’s exactly what was done to him,” Kelsey said bitterly. “So let’s hold on to the frontier as long as we can. Even with its faults, I love it. We’re going to find that mine of Uncle Henry’s, and if we have to fight to hold it, I’m ready.”

Cass Bowdre’s men kept an uneasy vigil for the rest of the night. The second watch—Three-Fingered Joe, Zondo Carp, Yavapai, Sanchez, and Mose Fowler—had little to say among themselves. The ghastly skeleton had
further unnerved them, as had Pod Osteen’s foolish stunt. Not one of the men faulted Cass Bowdre for his brutal treatment of Osteen. The two were obviously headed for a showdown that might destroy the gang’s already shaky alliance, dooming their chances of ever finding the gold. But that was the way of the frontier, and they all understood that.

“Come on,” Bowdre growled, “roll out.”

Having been part of the second watch, Mose Fowler already had a breakfast fire going and the coffee boiling.

“I’m goin’ out there where that rack of bones drifted across the canyon,” said Zondo Carp, “and see if there’s any sign.”

“I’ll go with you,” Sandoval said, grinning derisively at Osteen. “Maybe the varmint’s layin’ out yonder shot dead, and we just can’t see him from here.”

While it was an obvious dig at Pod Osteen, it struck the rest of the gang as hilariously funny. Mose Fowler slapped his hat against his thigh, and even the superstitious Yavapai and Sanchez joined in the laughter. Bowdre grinned, and the furious Pod Osteen turned away, his face flaming with embarrassment. He distanced himself from the rest of the men, sat down on a stone pillar, and ignored them. Carp and Sandoval soon returned, having found nothing.

“I never seen a man empty a Colt,” said Os Ellerton, “and not make at least one hit. If the Apaches attack, he might as well throw rocks.”

There was more laughter, and they finished breakfast without Osteen. But the laughter soon ceased, for the power struggle between Osteen and Bowdre was yet to be resolved. As long as the two men were at odds, the search for the mine would suffer. Would Osteen continue to take orders from Bowdre? They would soon know. Bowdre still limped, but he could walk, and he began the day by addressing the sulking Osteen.

“Are you goin’ to join us. Pod, or do you just aim to perch on that rock for the rest of the day?”

His back to them, Osteen said nothing, and Bowdre
began walking slowly toward him. Halting a few steps away, Bowdre spoke, his voice cold.

“Pod, I ain’t one to leave loose ends danglin’ that might trip me up somewhere down the trail, when I ain’t expectin’ it. There’s more’n one way we can settle this, but I reckon the best way is for you to saddle up and ride. And keep ridin’.”

Slowly Osteen got to his feet, and when he faced Bowdre, the hate in his eyes said he had an alternative in mind. He hooked his thumb over his pistol belt, just inches above the butt of his Colt. Slowly he backed away until he and Bowdre were a dozen yards apart. Sidewinder quick, Osteen had his Colt out and spitting lead before Bowdre drew, but Osteen’s first shot went wide. Bowdre fired once, and Osteen’s Colt began to sag. His second shot drove a slug into the ground at his feet, and he stared at Bowdre with venom in his eyes, as his own blood soaked the front of his denim shirt. He stumbled backward, his knees buckling, and fell on his back. Bowdre waited a moment before reloading his Colt, but Osteen didn’t move. Bowdre holstered the Colt and turned to face the rest of the men.

“That leaves us a man short,” said Bowdre, “but he wouldn’t have it any other way. The bone orchard’s full of damn fools with more pride than horse sense. I’ll be taking Osteen’s place in the tunnels. Mose, I want you, Yavapai, and Sanchez to watch the hosses. We’ll be back here before dark. Any questions?”

There were none. Bowdre and his companions set out for the mountain and its tunnels while Mose, Yavapai, and Sanchez watched them until they were out of sight. Sanchez stood slightly behind Mose, so the Negro couldn’t see the look Sanchez passed to Yavapai. It was time.

There was no talk until Bowdre and his men entered the mountain and reached the point where the passage divided.

“So you follered the stream to the end,” said Bowdre, “and took the only other passage until it ran out.”

“We did,” Carp said. “When we got back to here, we took just a few steps on into the mountain, and that’s where we found the hat.”

“We’ll foller the other leg of this passage, then,” said Bowdre, “and go as far as it’ll take us.”

They passed other tunnels, but Bowdre kept straight ahead. He paused only when the passage narrowed down until they could no longer stand.

“Git on yer hands and knees,” Bowdre said. “We’ll foller it a ways. Maybe it’ll widen some, and if it don’t, we’ll turn back.”

“Waste of time,” answered Sandoval. “It’ll likely pinch down to nothin’. We might as well backtrack and try another tunnel.”

“Only if this one plays out,” Bowdre said. “Let’s go.”

Bowdre took the lead, laughing exultantly as the passage expanded. They soon found themselves in a huge cavern, and although their original passage had ended, there were two others leading out in different directions.

“Let’s try the one on the right,” said Carp. “I’m bettin’ it’ll take us to Wells and Holt. Or at least to the camp they’ve been usin’.”

The rest of the men enthusiastically agreed, and Bowdre went along with it. The way grew steeper, and there were other passages leading off, but they kept to their original course. From somewhere ahead, they could hear falling water.

“Hold it,” Bowdre said. “They would have needed fresh water. This
could
be Wells and Holt’s hideout.”

They moved cautiously ahead until Bowdre could see into the cavern that had so recently been occupied by Arlo, Dallas, and the Logan girls.

“Nobody here,” he said.

His companions followed, and immediately they took the second passage that opened beneath the mountain’s west rim, where the horses and mules had been taken in and out.

“By God,” Os Ellerton said, “this is some dandy camp. We been rained on, dodged Apaches and lightnin’ bolts, an’ hunted water, while these hombres and their horses was kept safe an’ dry, with fresh water a-plenty.”

“Yeah,” said Three-Fingered Joe, “and it’s damn strange. Don’t make sense, runnin’ out on a camp like this.”

“The hell it don’t,” Zondo Carp responded. “We run a pair of ’em into the tunnel, didn’t we? They was smart enough to know we’d foller ’em into the tunnels and end up here. So they skedaddled.”

“That’s it,” Bowdre agreed.

“Since they knew of this passage,” said Sandoval, “maybe they have another one, down another tunnel.”

“I doubt it,” Bowdre said. “They’d expect us to find any other such camp the same way we found this one.”

“This is one damn fine camp,” said Ellerton. “Since they pulled out, why don’t we take this place for ourselves?”

“Because we got eight hosses that have to eat,” Bowdre said, “and even if they could live on nothin’ but grain, we can’t afford it.”

“Could get damn unhealthy in here, anyhow,” said Sandoval. “If this Wells and Holt took to throwin’ lead in here agin these stone walls an’ ceilin’, the ricochets would be hell. I reckon we’d all end up as coyote bait.”

“There must be some kind of trail down this side of the mountain,” Three-Fingered Joe offered. “Why don’t we take this other passage to the outside and find out?”

“Because we don’t need it,” replied Bowdre. “Not unless we decided to make this our camp. We’re goin’ back the way we come, and when we get to the bottom of this mountain, we’ll try that other passage.”

They hadn’t traveled far on their return journey when they reached a side passage that angled off to their right. They paused when their torch flickered, a draft sucking at the flame.

“That’s bound to lead to the outside,” said Three-Fingered Joe. “Let’s see where it comes out.”

It was the passage Paiute had once shown Dallas and
Arlo. It led to a point well below the western rim, without access to the top or to the foot of the mountain. But it afforded a view for miles, and after dark the lights of the distant town would be visible. Once Cass Bowdre and his companions discovered it was a dead end with only hundreds of feet of empty space below, they lost interest. All but Sandoval, for he had seen something the others had missed.

“Horses and men,” Sandoval called out. “Over yonder to the northwest.”

The midmorning sun bore down with a vengeance, and heat waves danced across the distant plain, making visibility difficult. The tiny figures appeared, vanished, and appeared again.

“Two riders,” said Bowdre, “and eight riderless horses, trailin’ northwest. Who are they, and where…”

“By God,” Sandoval roared, “them’s got to be our horses, and I’d bet a pair of Texas boots the coyotes drivin’ ’em ain’t Apaches.”

The terrible truth hit them with the force of a buffalo stampede. Bowdre, cursing under his breath, lit out down the passage, the others following. They ran through the cavern and fought their way up the crevice to the mountaintop. They paused, breathing hard, and then set out for the east rim. They slipped and slid down the precipitous trail, crossing the canyon where the Apache attack had taken place, then entering the adjoining, canyon where they had made their camp. They saw and heard nothing. Not a horse was in sight. Mose Fowler lay facedown, his hands bound behind his back, his feet raw-hided together. There was a nasty gash across the back of his head, still oozing blood. Bowdre cut the man loose and he sat up, blinking in confusion.

“What the hell happened?” Bowdre demanded.

“Them no-account Mexes,” said Mose bitterly. “The rest of you not be more’n out of sight, when the varmints wallops me on the head and takes the hosses. I be ’shamed, bein’ took so easy. I git the hosses back.”

“Wasn’t your fault, Mose,” Bowdre said in a rare
moment of compassion. “Them two played us all for suckers, and I oughta be hung upside down over a slow fire for believin’ they was anything more than thievin’
pelados.
They ain’t been interested in lookin’ for gold. The coyotes just hung around until the time was right to steal our hosses.”

“They ain’t got that much of a start on us,” said Sandoval. “They jumped Mose early, figurin’ to have a whole day before we come out of the passages and found they’d robbed us. They wasn’t expectin’ us to see ’em from the mountaintop.”

“But we’re afoot,” Three-Fingered Joe pointed out. “There’s no way in hell we’ll ever catch up to ’em before they sell the horses.”

“Maybe not,” said Bowdre, “but we’re gonna give it one hell of a good try. While they got our hosses, they got no bills of sale. They’ll have to ride long and hard, and sell where nobody knows ’em. Let’s get on their trail.”

Yavapai and Sanchez took their time, secure in their belief that Bowdre and his men would spend most of the day in the passages beneath the Superstitions before learning that their horses were gone. Including the mounts Gary Davis and Pod Osteen had ridden, the Mexicans had eight horses besides their own mounts. Good horses weren’t that plentiful in the territory, and these animals might bring as much as four hundred dollars. It would be more money than the ne’er-do-well pair had seen in a while.

“Por Dios,”
Yavapai sighed, “Señor Wheaton’s town be so close, but this
diablo
of a
gringo
sheriff do not trust us.”

“Si,”
Sanchez laughed. “He see us, he say there be that damn Yavapai and Sanchez. When they speak they be lying. When they have somethings—especially horses— they have steal them.”

Yavapai and Sanchez had chosen a course that took them between the Gila County seat and Tortilla Flat, then to the west of Saguaro Lake. There they would rest and
water the horses before traveling north, perhaps to Flagstaff or Prescott. They dared not ride south, where one
gringo
sheriff after another stood ready to accuse them of any crime that had taken place while they were within a hundred miles of the area. Yavapai reined in, sniffing the air.

“Smoke,” said Yavapai.

“Per’ap you ride ahead,” Sanchez said.

He gathered their small herd, holding them while Yavapai investigated the smoke.

“Smoke be from Señor Logan’s cabin,” said Yavapai when he returned. “There be two horses and two mules. Horses look ver’ much like those w’ich the Señors Wells and Holt be riding.”

“Ah,” Sanchez laughed. “
Comico, comico.
Señor Bowdre seeks gold w’ich these Wells and Holt hombres already find. Why else would they have go from the mountains?”

“Si,”
agreed Yavapai. “Per’ap we sell these horses, buy ourselfs the food, and return. Once we have follow them to the gold, how could they refuse to share it with us?”

“I think they do not object if we take it all for ourselfs,” Sanchez grinned, “since they all be dead.”

The pair rode on. They were unknown in northern Arizona Territory, but so was the territory unknown to them. It was a wild land where Apaches reigned supreme, from the Mazatzal Mountains north to Tonto Basin.

The day following the arrival of the four young folks at Hoss Logan’s cabin was a day of rest for Arlo and Kelsey. Since they were less than a mile from Saguaro Lake, that’s where Dallas and Kelly headed when boredom got the best of them. They had gone to the western edge of the lake and were resting beneath some willows when they first saw the driven horses and the two riders. The pair had circled the lake from the south and would pass well to the west of it without coming within sight of the cabin.