Spanish Gold (3 page)

Everyone else was numb. The shock of battle had not worn off. The scene of horror that stretched in front of them had not sunk in. They were men who had survived an hour of total terror and could no longer think.

One man sat on the ground, his head resting against the bottom rail of the fence, his shoulders shaking as he cried. Another stood, his face pale, streaked with dirt and grime, and mumbled a single, unintelligible word over and over again.

Travis slowly came out of his trance. The odors, the sights, the sounds beat against him like the rain of a thunderstorm. He glanced down at his pistol and then at the man who lay dead at his feet.

“I've got to get out,” he said.

“What?”

Travis looked at the man standing beside him and shook his head. He holstered his pistol and moved away from the fence. He turned, looking up toward the crest of Cemetery Ridge where there were thousands of soldiers, tents, cannon, horses, wagons, and rows of wounded.

“I've got to get out,” he mumbled. He began to climb the hill, slowly at first, and then faster and faster until he was running upward.

At the crest, standing among the officers who had watched the attack and with the pale-faced men sickened by the butcher's yard in front of them, Travis turned. Below him was a sight that he knew he'd never forget. Below him was a scene that he hoped he would never see again.

Travis was leaning on the bar made from two thick planks set on top of barrels. In front of him was a bottle of warm whiskey and a thickset man in sweat-stained clothes and slicked-back hair. There was a scar from his right eye down to his chin that looked to be no more than a few months old. Three fingers of his right hand were missing.

“Happened at Manassas,” said the bartender. He held up the hand and then fingered his scar. “Yankee did it. I killed the bastard.”

Travis kept his eyes on the whiskey and didn't respond.

“Haven't seen you around here before,” said the bartender quietly.

“That a problem?”

“Nope. Just wondering why you're not back east in the fighting.”

“Maybe I got tired of it,” said Travis. He cupped the shot glass so that it was difficult to see. He stared down into the liquor.

“So you fought?”

“You ask a lot of questions,” said Travis.

“Just trying to be friendly.”

Travis didn't respond.

Two men pushed through the half-doors. Both were covered with trail dust and sweat. One of them pulled his hat off, wiped his forehead and then shouted, “Whiskey.”

The other stood silhouetted in the door and stared at Travis, looking him up and down like a boxer studying his opponent. Finally he pushed on through and stepped up to the bar, next to his partner.

Travis drained his glass and glanced out the doorway because the windows were opaque, greased paper that only let in the light. Travis thought about leaving now that the other two men had arrived, but decided against it. The fact they wore gray trousers that resembled those of the Rebel army had not been lost on him.

“You boys from?” asked the bartender.

“Kansas. Up there with the raiders but decided to get out for a while. Things to do down here.” One of them glanced over at Travis and then raised his drink.

Travis turned back to the bar and snagged the bottle from it, pouring himself another drink. The bartender moved toward him until Travis dropped a coin on the planks. Smiling, the bartender retreated, standing next to the wooden wall near the two newcomers.

The saloon was shabby. Rough, dirty planks for the floor, two tables against one wall, and a half dozen chairs and two stools. A hot, dry wind blew in the open door and a fly buzzed around a wet spot on the bar.

They all drank in silence with the bartender making sure that no one took a shot without paying for it. One of the Kansans looked toward Travis but said nothing.

A shadow fell across the door and an old man appeared. He stood there, the bright sunlight behind him making it impossible to see him. He pushed in, limped slowly to the bar. “Need a drink.”

“You got money?”

The old man shrugged. “Not with me.”

“Then get out.”

The old man leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I got something better than money. Something that could provide you with all the money you could ever want. More money than you could dream about.”

The man was dressed in worn, frayed jeans, a flannel shirt that was threadbare and filthy. His hair was graying and dirty, and his beard was crusted and brushed his chest. He dropped his hat, a beat-up, shapeless black thing, on the bar.

“I could tell you a story,” he said.

“Beat it old man,” said the bartender.

“No,” said one of the Kansans. He threw a coin on the bar. “Give the man a drink and let him tell us about all the money we could imagine.”

‘Thank you,” he said.

Travis turned away from them, not wanting to listen. He knew from the sound of the voices that the men were baiting the old prospector. They were bored and amusing themselves, and he didn't want to watch.

“You won't be sorry.” He waited for the bartender to give him a drink, lifted it to his lips, and tasted it. “The nectar of the gods,” he said.

“The money old man. The money.”

“Not money. Gold. Bars of it. Hundreds of bars of it. Hidden in a cave.”

“Bull.”

The old prospector finished his drink. “Another?” He glanced at the two Kansans.

“Not for a cock and bull story of gold bars in a cave.”

“I saw them. Got a map.”

“Let's see the map,” said one of them moving closer.

“Nope. It's my secret.”

“You said that you'd tell us where all this gold was.”

“Nope. I said I'd tell you a story about all the gold you could imagine. Bars of it stacked on the floor of a cave. Dust covers gold so it looks gray like lead but it's gold. Hundreds of bars of it.”

“Where'd it come from?”

The prospector pointed at his empty glass.

“Give him another drink.”

Travis picked up his glass and moved back to one of the tables. He sat down and tried not to listen to the story.

“Spanish gold,” said the prospector when the bartender filled his glass. “Mined in New Mexico or Arizona a long time ago. They was transporting it to the coast when the Apaches caught and killed them all. Apaches put the gold in the cave.”

“If the Apaches killed them all, how do you know about it?” asked one of the Kansans.

“All but one,” the prospector amended. “All but one. He drew a map so he could come back and get the gold, but he never made it. Never came back.”

“Where is the cave?”

The old man gulped down his drink, slammed the glass to the bar and said, “Easy to find once you know where to look. That's the key. Knowing where to lode. There're clues. Burned wagons. Remains of burned wagons still there after all these years, but they're hard to see now. Not much more than charred wood and burned wheels. Bones around them, too. On the bank of a shallow river.”

“Gold there?”

Grinning, the prospector pointed to his glass. When it was filled again, he said, “Nope. That's just a clue. Apaches took it to a cave. Stacked it inside and then left it. A sacred place for them now.”

“Crap,” said one of the Kansans.

“Found it myself,” said the prospector. “Looked for it more'n thirty years. Looked for it since I was a young man. Found it, too.”

“You got a map?” one man asked again.

The old man hesitated and then chuckled. “Got a map right here.” He pointed an index finger at his temple. “Only map I need is right here.”

“Come on, Jake. The guy's crazy.”

The prospector finished his drink and waited, but no one spoke again. The two men from Kansas emptied their glasses and then waved off the bartender. “Wasted too much money,” said Jake. “Too many wild tales.” They walked out together.

“How about you?” said the old man, looking back at Travis. “Buy me a drink?”

Travis shook his head.

The prospector carried his glass over and set it on the table. “Name's Crockett. Caleb Crockett.”

“David Travis.”

“Well, Mister Travis, I noticed that you don't say much.”

“Don't say anything unless I've got something to say.”

Crockett pulled out the chair and dropped into it. “I told the truth.”

“Sure. I've heard those stories since I was a kid. Caves full of Spanish gold. Only a fool'd believe them.”

“I saw it myself. Stood in the cave and looked right at it. Saw the burned wagons and the bones of the dead.”

“Sand'd cover them after all this time.”

“Covered most of it,” said Crockett, nodding. “Covered most of it but didn't cover it all and I saw it.”

“Saw it yourself?”

“I know where it is. Found it and saw it. After more'n thirty years.”

“Then why don't you have any gold?”

“Gold's heavy. Too heavy to carry on the back. Need a wagon and a team of horses. Then I'll have all the money I need.”

Travis finished his drink and glanced up at the bartender who stood leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest. He was no longer listening.

“You want to help me. Buy the horses and we'll share the gold. There's more'n enough for both of us. More'n enough to last us both for the rest of our lives.”

“Buy the horses and the food and everything else we'd need,” said Travis. “And the whiskey, too.”

“Just a bottle,” said Crockett. “Just one bottle.”

Travis pushed back his chair. The legs scraped the wooden floor. He stood. “I'm not interested.”

“Gold,” said Crockett. “We don't even have to dig it up. It's there for the taking. Waiting for us.”

“No thanks,” said Travis. He dropped a dollar on the table, knowing that the old prospector would pick it up. That was why he'd done it. Give the old man money for something to eat without really handing him charity. With that, he headed for the door. As he stepped out into the bright sunlight, he heard Crockett say to the bartender, “Bring me another drink and I'll tell you all about the gold.”

The room hadn't been worth the price. The mattress had been little more than a sack stuffed with straw, the walls had been so thin that every noise from the hallway and every word spoken on the street had drifted up to him. The air inside had been heavy with humidity and had failed to circulate, making it difficult to sleep. Just lying on the bed and staring up at the ceiling had been enough to work up a sweat even after Travis had removed most of his clothes.

The hot desert air blew in the open window. There was a dull, flickering light from outside, and the noise boiling up from the saloon kept him awake. Men were shouting at one another. Arguments about the war in the East, or the desert in the West, or the Indians everywhere. Travis rolled to his side, glanced at the window, and then closed his eyes. He tried to ignore the sounds and the heat.

Later, light pouring through the window woke him. He sat up and looked out. The heat hadn't broken during the night and neither had the humidity. He rubbed a hand over his face and then wiped the sweat on the soaked mattress cover. Standing, he walked to the window and looked out and down.

A single horse was hitched to the rail in front of the saloon. The place was still open, the arguments still going but quieter now, and Travis wondered if the bartender ever slept.

He turned away from the window and walked to the water basin set on the top of a chest. He poured water from a pitcher in it, splashed the tepid liquid on his face, and then dried himself on the small cotton towel.

There was no reason to shave, especially since he didn't have a sharp razor. He'd wait until he could find a barber. He dressed and then looked at the pistol in its black leather holster.

Downstairs he was directed into the restaurant. It looked to be an afterthought. Those who had built the hotel realized that the travelers were going to need food, so they had cobbled the restaurant to the side of the building. The floor was bare wooden planks, the walls had been painted once, but the color had faded. A single door led out into the street, and it stood open. One of the two windows on either side of it was broken and had been repaired with greased paper.

There were three tables, each surrounded by four chairs but no linen. There were lamps on each of the walls with soot marks above them on the ceiling.

Travis entered and took the table closest to the window so that he could watch the street. He wasn't looking for anyone or anything in particular, but then, he never knew what he might see out there. It was a way of avoiding unpleasant surprises.