Spanish Gold (6 page)

A Joshua tree was growing in front of the house, and an adobe wall surrounded part of the yard. Travis saw smoke coming from the chimney and knew that someone was home. He stopped near the gate and slipped from the saddle. He wrapped the rein around the post but didn't tie it. No reason for that. The lead for the mule was tied to his saddle horn.

He stood in the gate for a moment, looking at the house. During the ride from Sweetwater he had thought about what he was going to say. Nothing seemed to be adequate. If he had known Crockett better, or if he knew the daughter, the words might have been easy to find. But he didn't know if the daughter liked her father, if she believed in him, or if there had been a family rift that meant she didn't care or that she wouldn't care.

As he walked toward the door, it opened and a woman appeared. Ihtvis, for some reason, had thought of the daughter as a little girl. But the person in the door wasn't a little girl. She was a woman who might have been twenty or twenty-five. Her long hair was hanging loose to her waist. She was about five five and had dark brown eyes.

He stopped short and took off his hat. “Miss Crockett?”

She wiped her hands on the apron she wore and nodded. “I'm Emma Crockett.”

“Yes ma'am,” he said. He glanced up at the sky and saw that it was about noon, maybe a little after. The heat of the day was building. There was a bird somewhere calling, but Travis couldn't see it. He knew that he was delaying, as long as possible, telling her the bad news.

“Would you care for something to drink?” she asked, wiping her face with her apron. “Going to be real hot.”

“No ma'am.” He stood looking up at her framed in the doorway. She was a pretty woman with a narrow face and delicate features. As she wiped the back of her hand over her lips he wished that he hadn't brought the news. He didn't want to hurt her and was suddenly afraid that she would blame him for her father's death.

“I've some bad news,” he said finally, quietly.

“I know,” she said, looking past him. “He's not coming home this time.”

“I'm afraid not ma'am. How did you know?”

She didn't answer. She turned and walked back into the house. She left the door open but said nothing to him.

Travis stood out there for a moment wondering what to do, and then moved to the door. He looked in. She was sitting in a rocker that faced the fireplace. There was a table to one side, two chairs near it, and then a huge bed opposite the fireplace. A cedar trunk sat at the foot of it. He wondered if the bed was hers.

“Miss Crockett?” he said.

She didn't look at him. “I knew he wouldn't be coming home this time. I knew. And then I saw you with his mule. He'd never have given it up if he was still alive. That's all I had to see to know.”

“I'm sorry.” He turned and pointed back toward the mule. “I have his things here. I brought them . . . ”

She stood suddenly, blinking rapidly. “Yes,” she said, her voice tight. “I'm being rude. Please come in. Can I get you something? I was just going to make my lunch and you're welcome to join me.”

She was beginning to talk faster and faster. She was keeping her mouth going so that she wouldn't think about what he had just told her. Anything to fill her mind so that she wouldn't have to think. He'd seen the same thing on battlefields when the fighting had ended.

Travis didn't know what to do. He wanted to give her the mule and her father's possessions and leave. And he wanted to stay to comfort her and to help her. He turned away from her and said, “There are some things that I could bring in for you. Your father's things.”

“Please,” she said.

Travis didn't wait for more. He walked out the door and to the mule. He untied the pack and dropped it to the ground. For a moment he sifted through it to make sure there was nothing in it that she shouldn't see. He crouched there, thinking about all the men who had died at Gettysburg and all the other men who had to ride out to inform the families. Thousands had been told that fathers or brothers or husbands would not be coming home. The difference was that Travis hadn't been among those who had to do it until now.

He glanced up at the door of the house. It was still open, waiting for him to return. He stood, brushed the dust from his knees, and picked up the saddlebags.

Inside he found her hunched over the sink, a hand to her face and her shoulders shaking. On the cutting board near her were vegetables and a knife.

“Where should I put these things?” he asked quietly, not sure of what to do.

She pointed at the table. A moment later she sniffed and said, “I'm sorry. This is really no surprise. He was getting old and he was pushing too hard.”

Travis stood quietly for a moment, and when he could think of nothing else, said, “I'll be going now.”

“No,” she said. “You must stay. You'll have lunch before you go.”

“No ma'am, I couldn't impose. Not now.”

“You went out of your way to bring those things to me. The least I can do is feed you.”

Travis was about to refuse again but then realized she wanted the company. If he left, there would be no one around for her to talk to.

“Is there any family around?” he asked.

“No. I'm being terrible.” She gestured toward the table. “Sit down and I'll find something for you to eat.”

“If you're sure that it won't be too much trouble.”

“I'm glad to have something to do.”

Freeman lay on the top of the hill looking down into the valley. He could easily see Travis's horse and the old man's mule outside the cabin. He watched as Travis came out once, got the saddlebags and took them back inside.

“That's it,” said Freeman.

Crosby was sitting with his back to a rock, his hat pulled low. “We take him now?”

“He's doing our work for us,” said Freeman. “Why interrupt him?”

“I don't like this. I want to know where we're heading. We don't know that, and he could give us the slip. We could find ourselves wandering around lost in the desert.”

“I kept us close to him until he got here, didn't I?”

“But that woman. She'll know where the gold is. We could make her tell us,” said Crosby. “Then we wouldn't have to worry about either of them.”

“No reason for that. No reason to make this harder than it has to be. We sit back and watch, and when the time comes, we can move in and take the gold.”

Crosby pushed his hat back and said, “I've been thinking about that. Why do we want it all? We could just sit back, as you say, let them take what they can and then get the rest. The old man said there was more than enough for that.”

“Because there is no reason to share it,” said Freeman. “They find it for us and then we take it. All of it. If you don't like that, then head on out. I won't need any help.”

“What's going on down there now?” asked Crosby to change the subject.

Freeman turned his attention back to the cabin. “He's inside again.”

Crosby crawled forward and stretched out next to Freeman. “Think he's going to stay?”

“Hell, he's just after the gold like the rest of us. That old man must have said something to him before he died. Now he's pumping the woman to see what she knows. We stick close to him and we're going to get to the gold. That's all we've got to do.

The Sweetwater bartender had closed his saloon shortly after the old prospector had been killed. William Davis had decided that there was enough to the story that he was going in search of the gold. Now he, along with twelve others, were heading toward El Paso. That was the one thing the prospector had said while he had been in the saloon when there was no one else present. To find the gold, you had to ride north from El Paso.

They had collected prospectors slowly. A half-dozen men in Sweetwater who had nothing better to do, including Jason Culhaine, George Bailey, Virgil Webster, Peter Ramsey, Paul Haught and Stephen Vogol. Another man, Jonathan Whitney, who worked on a ranch where the cattle had died because there had been no rain and there was no reason to stay, had joined them along the trail. Two men, Daniel Bourne and Albert Martin, who had been working a mine that had produced huge piles of clay and sand but no gold, had also joined. Davis thought they had just decided to start digging with no clue about what they were doing. They had believed the gold was in the ground, and all you had to do was dig for it.

They had come across a man, Thomas Kincaid, sitting on the side of the road, looking at his sweat-covered horse. He had been chased by Indians, he claimed. He and his partner had been attacked for no reason. He'd gotten away but the Indians had caught his friend, dragging him screaming from his horse.

“Indians aren't real hostile anymore,” said Davis. “No reason for them to attack you unless you started it.”

Kincaid had looked at Davis but had not replied. He joined them, not because they were going for the gold, but because there were so many of them riding toward El Paso. The gold was secondary.

Now they were sitting around a campfire while two men worked at cooking something to eat. A jackrabbit that Whitney had shot, some beans they had bought in the store in Sweetwater, and coffee boiled in a blackened pot.

“How long ago you run into those Indians?” asked Jason Culhaine. He had been working in the general store for free food, a place to sleep, and a buck a week spending money.

“Watched them for a couple of days,” said Thomas Kincaid. “Saw them in the distance, saw their fire at night, but didn't think much of it.”

“Yeah,” said Davis. “If they let you see them, then they weren't worried about you. You see the army?

“Which one?”

“Hell, either one. Rebels been working with some of the tribes, and the Federals have been trying to protect the settlers in the territories. Some militia around charged with that job.”

“Didn't see any soldiers,” said Kincaid. “Didn't see anybody but the Indians.”

George Bailey was crouched near the fire holding onto the wooden handle of a huge pot. He was stirring the beans in it, letting them heat slowly. Bailey had done odd jobs for whoever needed things done. He had been only too happy to get out of Sweetwater.

“Food's about done,” he said.

Davis got up and walked over to where the horses were tethered. He reached into his saddlebag and brought out a bottle. One of the few that he had taken from the saloon before he closed the doors, locking them.

He returned to the fire and sat down again. ‘Tomorrow we should reach El Paso. In celebration, I brought this.”

Kincaid held out his cup. “I could use that.”

Bailey glanced over his shoulder. “You never told us why the Indians attacked you.”

“I don't know. We were breaking camp when they appeared on the ridge looking down on us. Maybe then, twelve of them, sitting there, just watching us. I didn't like it. Neither did Isaac. We decided it was time to get out. We mounted and began to ride off. Slowly. They started down after us and a moment later the chase was on.”

“So you left him,” said Bailey.

“His horse went down. I stopped and turned, but they were on him. Nothing I could do for him except get killed myself. I got out.”

“Noble,” said Davis.

“What the hell would you have done?” asked Kincaid, his voice rising in anger.

“Shot him,” said Davis quietly, staring into Kincaid's dark eyes. “Shot him myself so them savages wouldn't have him to torture.”

“Sure,” said Kincaid. “Sure.”

Bailey lifted the pot out of the fire and set it on the ground to his left. Steam rolled off the top of it as the beans bubbled. He looked at Davis. “What do we do once we get to El Paso?”

“We lay in the supplies we need, plus the pack animals for a couple of weeks in the desert. Once we find the gold, we dump the excess food, load the animals and make our way to the nearest town.”

“You know where the gold is?” asked Kincaid.

Davis turned to face the other man. “I have a good idea about that. It's one that I don't care to share with anyone right now.”

“Hell,” said Bailey, “that old coot said there was more than enough for all of us. Too much for us to carry away. Enough to make us all rich.”

“Right,” said Davis. “I just want to make sure I have my chance to carry some of it away. Once we find it, it's every man for himself.”

“What about the Apaches?” asked Bailey. He nodded toward Kincaid. “Sounds like they're around and sounds like they're hostile.”

“We'll avoid them,” said Davis. He looked into the faces of the men sitting around the fire and then picked up a tin plate, scooped beans out of a pot, and asked, “When's the rabbit going to be ready?”

“Couple of minutes.”

“Good,” said Davis. “I'm real hungry.”