Spanish Gold (4 page)

A girl, no more than twenty, appeared. Her brown hair was pinned up, although a few strands had escaped. She wore a stained apron and there was a smear of flour along her jaw line. Sweat was beaded on her upper lip. She looked as if she had already put in a full day.

“Breakfast?” she asked.

“With..?”

“You get what we got. A steak, some eggs, and a few potatoes. We got coffee and we got some milk if it ain't spoiled yet.”

“Whatever,” said Travis.

While he waited, he watched the street. A skinny dog walked along it and then darted around a building, disappearing down the alley. One man then staggered out of the saloon, held a hand up to shade his eyes as if surprised by the brightness of the sun, and walked away.

The waitress returned, set a plate in front of him, put a knife and fork down next to the plate, and asked, “You want the coffee?”

“Sure.”

She left and came back with a mug and a huge coffee pot clutched in her hand. The wooden handle looked well used. She filled the cup, glanced at him, and then whirled, heading back to the kitchen.

Travis turned his attention to his breakfast. He salted the steak and then cut into it. He took a bite and then tried the eggs. They were runny and the potatoes were cold. Travis found that he didn't care about that because he knew there were men still at war who were chewing on maggot-infested hardtack and eating biscuits that were as hard as rocks. They were the men who had stayed on the field after Gettysburg, the men who had stayed in the army after the slaughter that battle had been. There was nothing as bad as that here. Nothing for him to complain about here. He put the image out of his mind.

He ate slowly, sipping coffee and keeping an eye on the street. He put down his fork as the old prospector appeared in the doorway of the saloon. He paused long enough to put his hat on his head, tug at the waist of his pants, and then step off, walking along the front of the building.

From the unsteady gait, Travis knew that the prospector had spent the night spinning stories about the Spanish gold. It looked as if more than one man had volunteered drinks to keep the old prospector talking.

Travis finished the last of his coffee as the prospector disappeared into the early morning shadows. Travis stood and dug in his pocket for a dollar. He dropped it on the table but before he could turn, he saw the two Kansans move from the shadows in the alley near the saloon.

“Now what the hell?” he said.

The men stopped at the door of the saloon, peered in and then began walking again, looking as if they were following the old man.

“You want anything else?”

Travis turned, surprised by the woman. He hadn't heard her approach. He looked at her. “No. Thank you.”

She picked up the empty plate, dropped the fork onto the center of it, put the mug there, and left. She didn't say another word to him.

Now Travis looked back to the street, but it was vacant again. The men from Kansas were nowhere to be seen. He leaned forward and saw only a man on horseback.

Travis walked into the lobby and started for the stairs, but then stopped. Instead he turned and walked out the open front door. He stood for a moment in the early morning light and was aware that the stable was close. He stepped down into the street.

To his right was a wagon parked near the front of the feed store. A woman sat on the bench loosely holding the reins. Two men stood in the doorway talking.

To the left was the edge of the town. A small house surrounded by a short adobe fence. And opposite him was a series of buildings including the office of the territory newspaper. There was an alley, and along the side wall a set of steps led up into a second floor room.

There was something in the air. Travis was sure. The appearance of those two Kansans right after the old prospector meant something. They were following him. Waiting for him. Travis couldn't convince himself that anyone would be dumb enough to believe an old story of gold hidden by the Spanish told by a man hustling drinks.

Just as Travis had decided that nothing was wrong, there was a single scream cut off suddenly. That had to come from the alley on the other side of the saloon. Travis stepped down into the street and started across.

There was a second shout, “NO!” and then silence. Travis broke into a run. He leaped up on the walk and slipped closer to the side of the building. He moved along it and then peeked around into the alley.

The old prospector lay on the ground, his hands up to protect his face. One of the Kansans bent over him, his fist raised as if he was about to strike. The other stood watching. Both of them wore guns though neither had drawn a weapon.

“The map, old man,” said the one with his fist raised. “Where's the map?”

“No map,” said the prospector. “No map. I memorized it. No map. I told you. No map.”

“Leave him,” said the other man, “He's full of it. Just trying to scam drinks.”

“No,” said the prospector suddenly. “The gold is real.”

“Well, hell, old man,” said the Kansan. “I was just trying to help you.”

The first man knelt, his right knee on the soft, wet ground. He struck the prospector and the old man moaned.

Without thinking, Travis stepped around the corner of the building. “Leave him be.”

The standing man turned, reaching for the pistol on his hip. He grinned when he saw that Travis was unarmed.

“Shouldn't give orders if you can't back them up.”

Travis didn't move. He watched both the Kansans. “The old man is crazy. Let him go.”

The man who had been holding the prospector up, dropped him and then whipped out his knife. He put it to the prospector's throat. “Go or I kill him.”

Travis took a step forward and then froze as both men moved to face him. “There's no gold,” said Travis.

There was a moment's hesitation and then the man with the knife struck. He plunged the blade into the prospector's chest. He straightened, the blade of the knife dripping blood. The Kansan grinned. “Now he lies to no one else.”

With that, both men turned and ran down the alley. They stopped at the far corner of the building. One of them turned, looked at Travis, and then both of them were gone.

Travis ran to the old prospector, trying to remember his name. He'd mentioned it the day before, but Travis was terrible with names.

Kneeling next to the old man, he said, “Take it easy old-timer. Take it easy.” He pulled at the blood-soaked cloth so that he could examine the wound. It didn't look bad. There was a lot of blood, staining the faded flannel shirt and dripping to the ground, but Travis had seen men hurt worse than that survive. Hell, he'd seen men hurt worse than that stay in the fight until the battle was over.

The old man reached up and grasped Travis's arm. “Thanks,” he gasped. “Thanks.”

“Got to get you to the doc,” said Travis. He started to lift, to help the man to his feet but the prospector groaned.

“No. Too late. Too late.”

“Don't be foolish.”

The man moaned quietly and closed his eyes. His breathing became ragged. He clutched at the dirt, his knuckles turning white. He opened his eyes and looked up into the bright blue of the morning sky.

“You've got to tell her,” he said.

“Tell who?” asked Travis.

He grinned. His teeth were blood-smeared. Travis had seen that a few times in the war. It was always a bad sign. It meant bleeding in the lungs or the stomach and that the wounded man would live only a short time more. Maybe a couple of minutes or maybe a couple of hours.

“They didn't get it,” he said. “I hid it. I know people. They think they can steal it and they will, so I always hide it. But now you got to take it to her.”

“Who?” asked Travis.

“My daughter. It belongs to her now.” He turned and stared up at Travis, but the eyes were blank, like those of a stuffed animal in a museum. No life in them.

“The doctor,” said Travis.

“No time. Too late for me. You take it to my daughter and tell her to give you half. Reward.”

“Let's get you to the doctor and then we'll talk about rewards.”

The prospector coughed, spraying blood. His skin was waxy, looking unnatural, unreal.

“My daughter,” he said. “Stable.” And then his eyes glazed over.

Travis stared down at him and knew that he was dead. He'd seen enough men die to know when it happened.

He laid the man's head back into the dirt and then tried to close the eyes. He stood up and turned. There were two men and a woman standing at the end of the alley looking at him.

“What happened?” asked one of the men.

“Get the marshal,” said Travis. “This man has been murdered.”

Travis stood looking out the marshal's window, watching as the streets filled with people. There were those standing outside the saloon, waiting to enter, and those who were at the feed store and those at the general store. There was a kid chasing a dog and a man with a rake trying to clean the street, sweeping the manure up under the boardwalks and out of the way.

“You don't know who the men were?” asked the marshal.

Travis turned. ‘They were in the saloon yesterday. First time I ever saw them.”

“I doubt they'll be back,” he said.

Travis nodded. He moved toward the desk. A small desk pushed back against the wall. There was a cabinet over it holding a rack of rifles, a chain through their triggerguards. A pot bellied stove stood in the corner with a coffee pot on it, but it didn't look as if either had been used in a long time.

“Man said that he had a daughter, but I don't know her name or where to find her. He asked me to take his belongings to her.”

“You inclined to do it?”

Travis shrugged. “I've nothing better to do except that I don't know who she is.”

“Man's name,” said the marshal, “was Crockett. . . ”

“That's right,” said Travis, remembering. “Caleb Crockett.”

The marshal bent and lifted a well-worn saddlebag to the top of his desk. “This is all the old man had except for his mule over in the stable. I guess it all belongs to the daughter now.”

Travis nodded at it. “Any clue about where she might be?”

“Hammetsville. A little town about fifty miles from here. Not much more than a stage stop.” The marshal pushed a leatherbound book from the saddlebag. “Name's in here.”

Travis rubbed a hand over his face. He glanced at the saddlebags and then thought of the old man in the street, dying because he had told a story of Spanish gold. He touched the soft leather. “I'll take it to her.”

“Not much here. An old shirt, a knife, and some papers. And the book.” The marshal looked up at Travis. “A lifetime of work and it can be stuffed into one small bag.”

“There is the daughter,” said Travis.

“There is that,” replied the marshal. He pushed the saddlebag across the desk. “When do you think you'll be leaving? Today?”

“There some hurry?”

The marshal narrowed his eyes. “We haven't had much trouble around here lately.”

Travis understood, though he didn't like it. He'd only found the results. He hadn't starting anything, but then the marshal was just protecting his job. Get everyone out of town except those who belong and things would continue to run smoothly.

“As soon as I get my gear at the hotel, I'll be gone.”

The marshal grinned, nodded, and stood. He held out a hand. “We're delighted that you visited our town. Please come back soon.” He did not sound sincere.

Jake Freeman stood on a ridge just outside of town. The sun was hot on his back and he held one hand up to shade his eyes from the brightness of the desert around him. Behind him Matthew Crosby sat on one horse and held the reins of the second. He had pulled his hat down low and had closed his eyes against the brightness.

“Can't see the son of a bitch,” said Freeman. “Went into the marshal's office and hasn't come out.”

“The old man has a daughter,” said Crosby.

Freeman dropped his hand and turned so that he was looking up at Crosby. “That piece of information does us no good because we don't know where she is.”

“If you hadn't been quite so fast with the knife, we might have found that out.”

“That old man wasn't going to talk to us, and I didn't want him talking to anyone else.”

“Well he did.”

Freeman nodded and said, “But he won't talk anymore. Now we'll just wait here and see what we can see.”

He turned back to watch the main street. He saw someone exit the marshal's office carrying a bag. The man walked to the hotel and disappeared inside.