Spanish Gold (11 page)

“The lady will wait, the gold won't,” said Freeman.

Crosby nodded and then looked at the stairs. “I know,” he said. “I just wish I could do both.”

The two men filling the barrels in the back of the wagon didn't seem to be in a hurry. They were filling buckets at a pump beside the building and then dumping them into the barrel. But they weren't moving very fast.

Travis sat on the wagon for a while, watching, and then decided that three could finish the task faster than two. He looked at Crockett and asked, “You up to pumping some water?”

“Sure,” she said.

Travis jumped down, held up a hand and helped her down. He spotted a bucket sitting on the ground at the side of the building and walked over to pick it up. He turned it over, looked at the bottom, and then moved toward the pump. Emma Crockett was standing there, using the handle. She had gotten into the rhythm of it, and the water was splashing out into one of the buckets held by one of the men.

When he pulled the bucket clear, Travis took his place. He held it under the faucet, let Crockett fill it, and then turned, moving toward the wagon and the barrel. He lifted it up over his head and dumped it into the barrel, and then headed back to the pump.

Crockett was beginning to slow down. Sweat had beaded on her face, and she was breathing hard. She switched arms often, as the resistance to the pump's handle began to wear her out. She grinned weakly at Travis.

He dropped his bucket and said, “Let me do that.”

She nodded gratefully and stepped away. “Feels like I'm pumping it up from China.”

One of the men with the buckets grinned, showing his broken and yellowed teeth. “Had to dig deep to find the water. Had to dig real deep.”

Travis waited until the bucket was set and began pumping away. When that bucket was full, the second man stuck his under and filled it.

After fifteen minutes they had both barrels filled and one of the men had fastened the lids to the tops of them so that evaporation would be slowed and they wouldn't be spilling water. Travis paid them and then climbed up.

“We going to eat here?” asked Crockett.

Travis shook his head. “I think we'll just get on out of town. We've got an hour of light left. Get us a good start on things.”

She nodded.

Davis sat on top of a rock and watched as three of the men dug in the sand creating half a dozen shallow graves. Davis held a canteen in his hand and was drinking from it, surprised at how cool the water from the pool was. Normally the water in watering holes was tepid and sometimes it was warm because of the sun, but this was cool, almost cold.

That had to mean it was bubbling up from deep underground and that there was some kind of current in it that kept the water circulating. Davis found that mildly interesting but didn't see any significance in it. Except that the water was cold.

And then he thought, when he had his share of the gold, he could buy this land. It would be perfect for a little hotel, a stage stop, and a bar. Water to be purchased by the travelers. It would work on the order of the hot springs elsewhere. People traveled for days to get to hot springs. Why not for cold springs? Especially when it was the only water for fifty miles around.

It was an idea that he liked. A hotel, a gambling hall, and a stable. A small town that he would own. Davisville. Or Davisburg. That was it. Davisburg. He would be the mayor and he would own everything in it. Right here. Where the water was so cold.

“That's about got it,” said Bailey. “Got them buried.”

Davis stuck the cork back in his canteen and slid off his rock. He looked at the ground. There were a couple of rises where the Apaches had been buried, but no one would notice them unless he was looking for them.

“Got the ponies rounded up?”

“Four of them. Two ran off. We couldn't get near them.”

“No matter,” said Davis. He glanced at the others standing there. Two men leaning on their shovels and one man standing cradling a rifle. At the entrance to the canyon were two other men. They were there to keep the Apaches from sneaking up on them.

“Time to go?” asked Bailey.

“Yeah,” said Davis. “We'll get out of here, put some distance between us and the dead, and then stop for the night. From now on we're going to have to be careful.”

Bailey took off his hat and wiped the sweatband in it. He was about to say something. He looked at Davis and then decided against it.

Davis ignored him. Instead he walked over to where the horses were being held. He glanced at the men he didn't know. The men who had joined them on the trail as they had ridden from Sweetwater toward El Paso and then turned to the north.

“You have a problem?” he asked one of them. He had forgotten the man's name.

The man spit on the ground and then shot a glance at the unmarked grave of the man killed by the Apaches. “Should say some words.”

“Why?”

“Man dies, someone should say some words. Only fitting for someone to say some words.”

“I don't know any words,” said Davis. “Saw too many men die back east and get left on the field. No one had time for words for them. No one had time to bury them. Kincaid knew the score when he joined.”

“Not right,” said the man.

Davis stared at him. It was the second time in a short period that someone had questioned his authority. It was the second time that someone who had joined them late had decided that Davis should be challenged.

“What's your name?”

“Webster.”

“You can stay and say words or you can ride out with us. Now. But not both.”

Webster spat again and then nodded. “No time for the words now.”

Davis pushed past him, glanced into the faces of the others. Men who had spent the last three years in Texas or the territories, avoiding the war back east. They had dodged the fighting to stay out here where they weren't as likely to catch a bullet. A man could live for months in Texas and never see another human. Not like back east where armies maneuvered, looking for each other. These men had no right to question him.

“We mount up and get the hell out of here,” said Davis. “Before the Apaches return.”

The others followed suit, climbing into their saddles. Davis waited, then tugged on the reins, turning his horse. Without a word, he dug his heels into the horse's flanks and started toward the entrance of the canyon.

Freeman was afraid that Travis would see him and recognize him. He wanted to stay out of sight, inside a building, but he also wanted to see what Travis was doing. He wanted to be in a position to follow them as they left. It was now important that he stay close to them.

Crosby was standing right beside him. They were both standing in a general store, looking out the window. Crosby said, “They're taking a lot of supplies.”

“All the better for us,” said Freeman. “We'll be able to use those things once they've located the gold for us.”

Crosby nodded but didn't say anything.

Freeman glanced back over his shoulder. There were two women in the store, looking at bolts of cloth imported from the East. A boy was looking at the candy jar sitting on the counter. The clerk stood there, his back to shelves filled with dry goods. Dungarees, shirts, blankets, and the like. Along another wall were canned goods. There were shovels, picks, saws, and axes. Everything that a man could need to start a homestead or to outfit a rig to head into the desert.

Freeman turned back to the window. The sun was slipping toward the horizon. The number of people on the street had diminished. They were heading inside for the evening meal. Chores that needed light had been finished. Now they were getting ready for the night.

“You think they'll leave now? Tonight?”

Freeman shrugged. “I'd wait until first light,” he said. “But then, I'm not in a race.”

“Meaning?”

“Hell, that man was there while the old prospector told us all about the gold. He knows that talk of gold gets people moving like nothing else can. He made his way to the daughter and now wonders who might be following. He'll want to get started as quickly as possible.”

“Tonight?”

“Hell, you don't fill the water barrels and then let them set all night.”

“So they're going tonight.”

“Right,” said Freeman.

Crosby looked at the others in the store, but they were busy buying their goods. No one was watching him or Freeman. Lowering his voice slightly, he said, “How we going to do this?”

“We'll just hang back and see what direction they go. We can catch them outside of town and follow them.”

“Be easier if we knew where they were going to go,” said Crosby.

“Of course,” answered Freeman. “But I was right about this, wasn't I? They did come into El Paso just as we thought they would.”

“So we let them lead us right to the gold and then take it away from them?”

“That about covers it.”

The spot was perfect for a camp. Close to the road, but with enough cover that no one else would be able to see the wagon unless he came looking for it. A rocky shelter for the fire and protection from the wind if it picked up. As Travis climbed from the wagon, he saw the remains of a fire on the ground. Others had used the site in the past.

Travis walked around it slowly, checking it carefully. No rocks for snakes to hide under, no signs of scorpions or tarantulas. The ground was free from debris. The others who had used the spot had cleaned up after themselves, so that there was nothing left to draw insects or scavengers.

“We'll spend the night here,” said Travis. “I'll unhitch the horses and get them fed and watered.”

“I could start a fire,” said Crockett.

“Fine. Just not too big.” He grinned. “Though I doubt you'll find any firewood close by or enough to make a big fire.”

“Why?”

“Somebody else will have already picked it up.”

She shrugged. She moved around the rock and then began walking along, searching for firewood.

Travis unhitched the horses and lead them around behind the wagon. He got them some water and then opened one of the sacks of oats for them. With the horses taken care of, he dropped back to the ground.

Crockett had found a little wood and dropped it at the point where the other fires had been built. “You're right. That's all I could find.”

“Wait here,” said Travis. He climbed up over on outcropping of rock and swept the area there. He picked up a couple of logs and dragged them over. He pushed them to the ground below and scrambled down after them. Using the ax, he cut them in pieces and then stacked them over the wood that Crockett had found.

Travis worked to get a fire started as Crockett crouched close to him. She watched him light the wood, shielding the tiny flame with his hands as it began to spread.

“There.”

“What are we going to eat?” she asked.

“Beans,” he said. He stood and moved to the wagon, found a pot and the beans. He prepared them, dumped them into the pot, and carried it to the fire, setting it in the center of it.

Grinning, he said, “Maybe not the tastiest of meals, but it will be filling.”

She sat down on the sand and stared into the flames. She was quiet for a moment and then looked up at Travis. “What are you going to do with your share of the gold?”

Travis shrugged. “I haven't thought about it.” He glanced at her and said, “When I heard your father talking about it, I didn't believe it. I've heard stories of lost treasures all my life and have never seen anything to prove that there are lost treasures.”

“You've never told me exactly what happened to my father,” she said.

“You never asked.”

She nodded slowly and then said, “I'd like to know. Exactly.”

Travis continued to stare into the fire. He was watching the beans. Finally he said, “I don't know exactly what happened. I found him in an alley.”

“With two other men.”

“With two other men,” repeated Travis. They were trying to get him to give up the map.”

“Which he didn't have,” said Crockett.

“He told them he had it memorized. There was nothing written down.”

“And you chased them away,” she said.

“Well, when I stepped into the alley, they took off. Your father had been stabbed.” He didn't tell her that he watched them stab her father, or that he had been wandering the streets without his pistol. If he'd had a weapon, he might have prevented the stabbing. He didn't want her to know how inept he had been.

He picked up a thin stick and stirred the coals of the fire. If he'd had his pistol, he could have prevented the death of the old man. But he had chosen to leave it because he'd used his pistol too often at Gettysburg. There he had killed men because they were wearing gray uniforms. He'd killed on order and had been sickened by it. He didn't want to have to kill again, and by leaving his pistol behind, he had managed to avoid having to kill, but someone had still died.