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Authors: Ralph Compton

Tags: #West (U.S.) - History, #Western stories, #Westerns, #Fiction, #Superstition Mountains (Ariz.), #Teamsters, #Historical fiction, #General

Skeleton Lode (7 page)

BOOK: Skeleton Lode
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“Well, by God!” exclaimed Arlo. “I can’t believe it.”

 

“You?” Dallas whooped. “What about that bunch of pilgrims behind us?”

 

Their thirsty horses broke into a gallop, hot on the heels of Paiute’s mule. The weary gold seekers—far behind—reined in and stared in disbelief. Gary Davis galloped his horse ahead until he caught up with Yavapai and Sanchez.

 

“Damn it,” Davis shouted, “they’ve put us through hell all day, and we’re back where we started! Between the two of you, didn’t you have brains enough to realize we’ve been traveling in circles?”

 

“You pay us to follow these hombres, Señor,” said Yavapai, shrugging his shoulders, “and we follow them.
Por Dios
, night comes, and there is much water. One should not be ungrateful, Señor.”

 

Before Davis could respond, his horse joined the others in a mad dash toward the distant lake. To the dismay of the pursuers, Arlo and Dallas didn’t unsaddle their mounts or unload their pack mule. Once their horses and mule had watered, and Paiute had watered his mule, the trio rode out, headed for Hoss Logan’s cabin.

 

“Paiute’s got the right idea,” Arlo laughed. “Why
should we sleep on the ground, when we’re this close to the cabin and its bunks?”

 

At the cabin, they unloaded the pack mule and unsaddled their horses.

 

Dallas laughed. “I reckon they all hate our guts. This was one hell of a wild goose chase, but it was worth it.”

 

“Damn right it was,” said Arlo, “and I’m sorry I ever called Paiute useless. He’s worth every bit of the fortune in grub it takes to feed him.”

 

“If I wasn’t so god-awful tired,” Dallas said, “I’d sneak back after dark and listen in on that bunch at the lake. I’d give a lot to know what they’re sayin’ about us.”

 

The hangers-on who had camped at Saguaro Lake, including the Davis outfit, were beyond exhaustion. But there was talk, and it was venomous.

 

“My God,” said Rust bitterly, “that was a brilliant plan, following those damn cowboys all day and ending up where we started.”

 

“Yeah,” Bollinger agreed, “and the best part of it is, the bastards may pull the same stunt again tomorrow, and the day after that.”

 

“Yes, Gary,” said Paulette in a poisonous tone, “tell us what you have planned for tomorrow. When are these damn Mexicans going to start earning their pay?”

 

“We earn our pay,” Sanchez said angrily. “He tell us to follow these hombres, and we follow. If you please, Señor,” he said, turning to Davis, “our earnings for this day.”

 

Davis paid them and then stalked off into the darkness to escape the bitter comments of his companions. But there was some laughter, for Kelly and Kelsey Logan were quite satisfied with the day’s events. Bollinger took note of their pleasure and turned on them.

 

“It’s time your daddy took a strap to you she-cats,” he said angrily. “It’s nigh time the pair of you was tamed and made to be civil.”

 

“Gary Davis is not our daddy,” said Kelsey coldly, “and anytime you’re of a mind to tame me, mister gun-slinger, just come on. I’ll claw your eyes out.”

 

Yavapai and Sanchez ignored all the hard words being flung about and set to work unloading the Davis pack mule. The pair started a fire, cooked their supper, and sat down to eat.

 

“What about the rest of us?” Rust asked indignantly. “Where’s our supper?”

 

“Señor Davis pay us to follow this Wells and Holt,” said Yavapai, “and this we do. We do not hire on as cooks. You are welcome to use our fire if you wish.”

 

Gary Davis had returned to camp in time to hear Yavapai’s response, and he glared at the Mexican guides. They continued eating as though Davis didn’t exist, and he turned to Paulette, who lay unmoving, her head on her saddle.

 

“Why don’t you get supper for the rest of us?” said Davis.

 

“Why don’t you go to hell?” Paulette snarled. “I can scarcely move, and I don’t care if all of you starve.”

 

Kelly and Kelsey Logan exchanged looks. They were hungry, and whatever were their feelings toward their surly companions, they also needed food.

 

“Kelsey and me will do the cooking,” said Kelly, “until somebody complains. If you don’t like our cooking, you can do your own.”

 

“Well, it’s about time the two of you contributed
something,”
Davis said ungraciously.

 

“We don’t expect any thanks from you,” said Kelly defiantly, “but we won’t take any abuse either. Remember that.”

 

Supper was a silent meal—nobody was speaking to anybody else. Yavapai and Sanchez got well away from the hostile camp before rolling up in their blankets. Davis sat looking into the fire, conscious that Bollinger and Rust were covertly watching him. If so much as a hint of gold were found, Davis thought, Bollinger would double-cross him. He found himself harboring the same doubts about Rust. While the two of them had been through many shady deals together, he couldn’t be sure Rust wouldn’t turn on him if there was enough gold and
the opportunity presented itself. Reflecting on his circumstances, Davis decided he couldn’t return to Missouri. True, he had taken over Jed Logan’s freighting business, but he had bankrupted it along with his own, robbing his wagons and collecting the insurance. Not only had he lost all his clients, but the insurance people were investigating him with an eye toward prosecution. Hoss Logan’s mine had gotten him out of Missouri just one jump ahead of the law. He had brought Rust and Bollinger with him not so much because he needed them but because they knew too much. He dared not leave them behind. Sooner or later he would have to dispose of the pair, along with Paulette and those troublesome daughters. Finally, he turned his thoughts to Yavapai and Sanchez. Were they what they seemed—a pair of simple Mexicans who would be satisfied with the few dollars they earned as guides—or were they after the gold as well? A thief himself, Gary Davis trusted nobody.

 

“Tomorrow ought to be interesting,” Dallas said, “if Paiute takes us on another dry run through the Superstitions with that bunch of gold hunters following.”

“They have no choice,” said Arlo. “Once they back off from what looks like another hopeless chase, they don’t know that we won’t drift up a canyon and lose them.”

 

“We can’t go on forever, trying to discourage them,” Dallas said. “Sooner or later we’re goin’ to have to begin our search for the gold, and when we find it, we’ll have to settle with whoever’s still on our trail.”

 

“We’ll give Paiute a couple more days,” said Arlo. “I doubt he’ll lead us to the mine, but he might get us to some point where the map begins to make sense.”

 
Chapter 3
 

Arlo and Dallas arose at first light. Paiute was already up and had a fire going—the coffee was ready. Arlo opened the door and looked out toward Saguaro Lake.

“They’re waitin’ for us, I reckon,” said Dallas.

 

“They sure are,” Arlo replied.

 

When they were ready to move out, they loaded the pack mule, saddled their horses, and pointed to Paiute. Mounting his mule, the Indian led out in the same direction he’d taken the day before.

 

“Here we go again,” said Dallas.

 

But it soon became apparent that Paiute didn’t plan a repeal of the day before. While they took the same torturous trail along the eastern flank of the Superstitions, their pace was almost leisurely. Those who pursued them were more mystified than ever. Again they turned west along the Salt River, reaching a point a little southwest of the Superstitions a good two hours before sundown. Paiute removed the blanket from his mule, turned the animal loose to graze, and stretched out beneath the willows that lined the river.

 

“Might as well unsaddle the horses and unload the pack mule,” Arlo said. “This is where we’ll spend the night, I reckon. It ought to further confuse our followers.”

 

“They’re not alone,” said Dallas. “It’s doin’ a fair job of confusing me. There’s still two hours of daylight.”

 

“Let’s get our supper fire going,” Arlo said. “It’s too early to eat, but I could use some coffee. Something about that map’s been bothering me. Come sundown, I aim to check it out.”

 

Paiute filled his tin cup with coffee, cut a slender willow pole, and headed downriver. There would be fish for supper. Arlo and Dallas settled down with their coffee and the map Hoss Logan had sent them.

 

“Read this map to me,” said Arlo. “Tell me what you think it means.”

 

“The jagged line is the horizon,” Dallas said. “The half circle is the sun, and the arrow points east or west, depending on whether the sun is rising or setting. The upside-down V is a mountain peak, and I reckon the death’s head means the mine with Spanish bones is somewhere in that mountain.”

 

“Pretty good interpretation,” said Arlo. “First thing we need to know is whether Hoss is referring to the rising sun or the setting sun. Let’s saddle up and ride down the river toward Phoenix far enough that we can see the western rim of the Superstitions.”

 

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.”

BOOK: Skeleton Lode
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