Spanish Gold (13 page)

“Damn, I don't like the way you're talking,” said Davis.

“I'm just saying what's true. Apaches are back there, dogging our trail, waiting for a chance to jump us. We need to find a place to defend.”

“Cave's the perfect place,” said Davis. “Gives us cover and limits the direction the Apaches can take to get at us. We'll just have to press on.”

“Maybe if we turned around,” said Bailey, “they'd leave us alone. If they think we're going after the gold, they might just jump us.”

Davis took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his face. He put his hat on carefully. “You want to head back,” he said again, “you go right on.”

“Not alone.”

“Then just shut up. I don't want to hear any more of this talk about them being out there. Keep it to yourself.”

Bailey nodded and said, “Thought you'd want to know.”

“I don't want to know. If you just feel them out there, you keep it to yourself.”

Bailey spurred his horse and galloped off to the front of the short column. He slowed there and fell in behind Webster. Davis watched him go and then turned in his saddle. Again he scanned the ground behind them. Nothing there to suggest that the Apaches were following. Nothing to suggest there was anyone back there.

Settling down, he wondered if Bailey might not be right. The Apaches had to know that their men at the watering hold were dead. And they wouldn't have to be very good to be able to follow the trail. Davis and his men had done nothing to hide it.

Now Davis rode forward quickly. He slowed near Culhaine. “I think we'd better start watching our back trail.”

“There a reason for that?”

“Apaches are going to be looking for the men who killed those bucks. They shouldn't have trouble following us.”

“Thought we buried the bodies to prevent that.”

Davis nodded. He felt light-headed, as if he'd been dipping into the whiskey too often and drinking it too fast. He wished, for that moment, that he was back in Sweetwater where everything was cut and dried.

“I just want to be ready in case.”

Culhaine nodded and reined his horse around. He rode back the way they had come and then halted. He sat there waiting to see if anything moved near the horizon.

Davis watched Culhaine for a moment and then turned. Suddenly he was worried about the Apaches all because Bailey had a feeling.

“Damn,” he said.

Freeman stood at the top of the ridge, his hand out against a rock so that it looked as if he was holding himself up. Far below him on the desert, he could see movement. The wagon was obvious. The horses were a dark brown against the lighter brown, the tan of the desert.

Off to the right, at the very limits of his vision, was another group of riders. He couldn't make out who they were or even exactly how many there were. Maybe a dozen. Maybe a couple more.

Crosby was kneeling next to him, holding the reins of both their horses. He was watching the wagon as it followed the road to the north.

“I told you they'd be easy to find,” said Freeman. “They're heading toward the gold now.”

“Who's that off to the right?” said Crosby.

“Probably some of the others who heard that old man shooting his mouth off.”

“You think they're following the wagon?”

Freeman turned his attention to the horsemen. There was something wrong with them. Something about them that he couldn't quite place. He watched until they disappeared, riding over a ridgeline. He then looked back at the wagon. It didn't seem to be in a hurry.

“Doesn't look like they're following the wagon. Looks like they know where they're going.”

“We going to head out?” said Crosby.

Freeman watched as the wagon climbed a slight hill and then reached the crest. A moment later it vanished. “Now we go,” he said.

Crosby handed Freeman the reins for his horse and then swung up into the saddle. Freeman stood for a moment, searching the desert to the right. The riders who had been there had not returned. Now there was nothing moving anywhere on the desert except for the dust devils being stirred by the hot winds blowing from the south.

“We going?” asked Crosby again.

Freeman nodded but still watched the horizon to the east. He wished that he had gotten a better look at the riders there. He wished that he had been able to identify them.

“Yeah,” he said. “We're going.”

The horses were becoming uneasy. Their nervousness was getting to Travis. They were approaching the box canyon that held a water hole, and there was something about it that bothered the horses. Normally, horses could smell the water and Travis would be hard pressed to hold them back. Now he was having trouble getting them to move forward.

Crockett picked it up, too. “What's the problem here?”

“I don't know,” said Travis. He stopped the wagon and set the brake. The entrance to the canyon was a couple of hundred feet in front of them. There were wagon tracks, footprints, and a well-beaten path that lead into it. The rocky walls rose on either side of it and through the entrance, Travis could see the copse of green trees.

He handed the reins to Crockett and said, “I'm going to check this out. You wait here.”

“And if you don't come back?” she asked.

“Then all the gold is yours, if you can find it.” He jumped from the seat and then pulled his lever-action Winchester out. He walked forward and stopped near the horses. He reached up and patted one of them on the neck and then resumed walking into the canyon.

He kept his eyes moving, searching the rocks around the entrance, fearing an ambush. The Apaches sometimes did that, but so did the white man. Everyone knew that travelers would stop off at the watering hole. It was a good place for robbers, both white and red.

He thumbed back the hammer of the rifle. Behind him he could hear the horses snorting and pawing at the ground. There was a light breeze blowing and as he approached the canyon, he realized that it wasn't a fresh breeze. There was an odor on it. An odor that he recognized from his service in the army. It was an odor that hung over battlefields in the days after the fighting was over. He recognized it from the times that he had dug graves for the dead.

He stopped and turned back, looking at Crockett and the wagon. She was sitting there holding the reins and had one foot up on the brake. The horses were making her nervous.

He started forward again, slipping to the right so that he was in the shadow of the rocks. He reached the entrance, stopped, and crouched. Now the stench coming from the box canyon was almost overpowering. The last thing he wanted to do was move forward into it.

Finally he stood, his back to a boulder. He slipped around it until he was in the canyon. To the right, near the foot of the slope, were two big turkey buzzards. One had its head down and was tugging at something buried in the sand. The other was flapping around, trying to get in closer. He glanced up overhead and saw twenty or thirty vultures circling.

Opposite the one grave, he saw there were a couple more. There were buzzards clustered around another. They had it covered so that he could tell nothing about the body. He walked to the center of the canyon, but none of the vultures or buzzards took off. They sat quietly watching him.

Travis raised the rifle and fired a single shot. The sound echoed around as the birds leaped into the air; calling noisly. They joined the others circling overhead, waiting to see what would happen next.

Travis took in the scene. There were four dead men partially exposed. All seemed to be Apaches killed recently. The desert heat and the scavengers were already working on the bodies, turning them into bloated corpses that stunk.

For a moment Travis stood there, trying to figure out what it meant. He took a step forward and then stopped. He glanced at one body and then the other. Finally he walked to the closest one and then, holding a hand over his nose and mouth, knelt.

The dead man had a bullet hole in the side of his head and another in his chest. There were rusty stains near each hole, which was the dried blood. The skin was ripped in other places. That was where the birds had been picking at it. There were no fingers on the right hand.

There had been a fight in the last day or two. The dead Apaches, partially buried, meant that the winners had been the white men. It meant that other Apaches were going to be on the warpath. They would not allow several of their fellows to be killed without trying to get even.

“What is going on?” said Crockett suddenly.

Travis spun and saw her standing in the entrance to the canyon. Her eyes were on the dead man.

“I heard a shot,” she said. “Did you kill him?”

“No,” said Travis. “I fired to frighten the vultures. He was dead when I got here.”

Now she saw the others. “What happened?”

“Looks like they got into it with some of our people . . . ”

“Our people?”

“White men. Some kind of fight and they lost. Means there's going to be some hostiles out here.”

“How's that going to affect us?” she asked. She was staring down at the dead man as if she had never seen anything so fascinating.

Travis shook his head. “I don't know. These guys were buried for a reason. I think that was to hide the bodies from the Apaches, for the little good it would do. I think the Indians are going to be out looking for who did this.”

“Which couldn't have been us,” said Crockett.

“Which won't mean a thing,” said Travis. “If they decide to hit the war­path, then anyone with a white skin is going to be a target.”

“You saying that we should give it up?”

Travis was silent for a moment. Then he shook his head. “Right now I think we can press on. We've seen no sign of any hostiles and until we do, I'm not going to worry about it. We might have to pack it in later.”

“But the gold,” she said.

“Will still be there next year after the excitement dies down. The gold will do us no good if we're dead.”

“We're not turning back now?” she asked.

Travis looked at the dead men again and knew what the answer should be. Good sense dictated what it should be. But instead he said, “Not yet. I still want to see the gold.”

* * *

“They're out there,” Bailey said again. “I know they're out there.”

“You see them?” asked Davis again.

“This time I've seen them,” said Bailey. “Maybe a dozen of them. Maybe more. But I'll bet you my share of the gold that there are others I haven't seen. Apaches are like that.”

Davis felt his stomach grow cold. It had been one thing to kill the Apaches at the watering hole. That had been an ambush where the Indians had been caught cold. Now it looked like the tables were about to be reversed.

Culhaine had seen a couple of the braves as they topped a ridgeline. He rode closer and said, ‘They're about three, four hundred yards to the west.” He didn't want to point, afraid that would draw attention to himself.

Davis turned and looked in the opposite direction. He now understood why they had been allowed to see the Apaches. There was nothing but flat, open ground as far as they could see. No hills covered with rocks to provide protection. No rivers to cross so that the Apaches would have to attack across the water while they hid, picking them off. Nothing for them to defend except open ground.

Now there was a group of riders paralleling them. Davis watched them for a moment. Then, suddenly, ahead was another group.

“I think this about tears it,” said Davis.

“What are we going to do?” asked Culhaine.

“They're forcing us to the east,” said Davis. “No cover there yet. But if we can get a good run, maybe we can find something.”

“When?” asked Bailey.

“We turn to the east,” said Davis, “and continue to move in that direction. If they make a turn toward us, we get the hell out of here.”

“Okay.”

Davis turned in his saddle slowly and looked at the band of Apaches. They seemed to have something in sight, in front of them. They didn't seem to be interested in the group of white men who happened to be riding in the same direction.

“Slowly,” said Davis. “Slowly, we turn to the east. Ramsey, you slide off to the right as a flanker. George, you and Jason drop back for a rear guard.”

“They'll roll right over us.”

“If they get close to us, stop, fire a few rounds and then turn and run. Buys us a minute of two,” said Davis.

“Okay,” said Bailey.

“Here we go.” said Davis. He pulled on the reins and his horse's head turned to the right. He kept the pace slow, as if it was just a natural turn. Nothing important. He wanted to look back at the Apaches, but didn't want them to know it. He forced himself to keep his eyes to the front.