Spanish Gold (9 page)

“The ones who killed my father?”

Travis studied her for a moment. He knew what she was thinking. She'd want to turn them into the marshal, and then they'd be stuck in El Paso for weeks as they waited to testify against them. There was a chance that they'd be acquitted if their friends lived in El Paso. Back in Sweetwater, they might hang. In El Paso, they might be freed to walk the street looking for revenge. There was no percentage to accusing them in El Paso. Not since he was alone against two.

“No,” he lied, feeling as if he were betraying a friend. A real friend. “They're not the ones, but they were around to hear the story of Spanish gold.”

“You don't think it's a coincidence that they're here?”

Travis shook his head. “No. Your father spent an afternoon and evening spinning his stories of Spanish gold. A lot of men heard the stories.”

“You think they followed us?”

“I don't know.” Travis sat down next to her. He kept his eyes on the floor. “The marshal in Sweetwater told me where to find you but only because I said I'd take you father's possessions to you. No one else knew that. They'd have had to be on the trail to follow me and I didn't see anyone back there.” His mind was racing as he tried to figure it all out.

But as he thought about it, he knew that it wasn't quite true. Someone had taken a shot at him almost in sight of Sweetwater. As he'd ridden toward Hammetsville, and then on to El Paso, he hadn't been looking for anyone following him. He'd done nothing to disguise the trail. Someone could have been following him and he might not have seen them, especially if they were trying to keep out of sight.

“Maybe it's a coincidence that they're here in El Paso,” said Crockett.

“I'm not sure I believe in coincidence,” said Travis. “At least not ones like this.”

“There's not many places to go from Sweetwater.”

“Northeast to Dallas or southeast to New Orleans,” said Travis. “Lots more of interest in those two towns.”

“Unless you've heard a story of Spanish gold,” said Crockett.

“That's what I was thinking,” said Travis. “El Paso is the perfect place to begin the search.”

She looked at him, still fanning herself. “My father, if he could get someone to buy the whiskey, would keep talking. Hesitate with the money and he'd tell a little more so that the whiskey would continue to flow. He'd tell everything he knew in an evening if someone kept buying.”

“So those men could easily know the general location and they'd know that El Paso was the starting point.”

“I think so.”

Travis rubbed a hand over his face. “Then what we need to do is get out of here now. Before they learn that you're here, too.”

“No,” said Travis, “but they might recognize me, and they know that I heard the story of the gold. We've got to lay low and get out tonight.”

“There are things we need to buy.”

Travis nodded. They'd planned on re-supplying in El Paso. But he hadn't counted on seeing others from Sweetwater. He knew that those two men were in the saloon drinking. If they hurried, they could get the supplies bought, have dinner in the hotel, and then ride out under the cover of darkness.

“No more than an hour,” said Travis. “We get everything arranged in an hour and then meet back here.”

She looked at him carefully and asked, “Are you sure those aren't the men who killed my father?”

Feeling like a jerk, he looked her right in the eye and lied to her. “They're not the same ones.”

“One hour then,” she said, standing.

Davis had crawled forward to the edge of the bluff, and hid in the shadow of a huge boulder. Below him, in a box canyon, was a copse of cottonwood trees guarding a small pool of clear water. Around it were half a dozen Indians and their ponies. They seemed to be unconcerned that white men might be close. They seemed to care about nothing, other than drinking the water and letting their horses drink their fill.

Davis shoved himself back away from the edge and slipped to the rear where the others waited. He leaned close to Culhaine who stood holding a Winchester lever-action carbine.

“Apaches down there. Not doing much of anything.”

“Except keeping us away from the water,” whispered Culhaine. “That's all they've got to do.”

“We could take them,” said Davis. He waved a hand indicating the others with him. “Each man pick a target and we let fly. They'd be down before they knew what hit them.”

“But the others would know,” said Culhaine.

Davis was about to ask what others, but he knew. This small group had been detached to guard the watering hole. It was the only place in fifty miles that water could be found. Any white men in the region would have to swing by it for water and that would alert the Apaches about them.

“We need the water,” said Davis. His mouth was filled with cotton and he was sweating heavily. There was water in his canteen. A little water. Just enough to get him through the night, but the next day would be hell without water, and he had none for his horse. Without his horse, he'd be on foot and the little water left would not be enough.

Kincaid slipped away from the main group and asked, “What's happening?”

“Keep your voice down,” snapped Davis.

“There a problem at the water hole?”

“Hell yes,” said Davis. “Six or seven Apaches are down there.”

“We can take them,” said Kincaid.

“That's not the trouble,” said Culhaine. “We kill them and every Apache in the territory is going to know about it in a day, day and a half.”

“We can't turn back now,” said Kincaid. He pointed at the rest of the party, now grown to fifteen men. All were armed with repeating rifles, there were a couple of shotguns, and each man had one pistol and a couple of them had two.

“We can defend ourselves from any war party the Apaches can mount,” said Kincaid. “We've got them out-gunned.”

Davis wiped a hand over his face and rubbed the sweat on his faded flannel shirt. “I don't like this.”

“Hell man,” said Kincaid. “There's enough gold around for all of us for the rest of our lives. You said so yourself. Now you want to stop because there are some Apaches around the water hole.”

Culhaine spoke up. ‘There's no reason to assume they're hostile. A couple of us could ride in and see what happens. The rest filter in among the rocks to protect us in case things go wrong.”

“You want to do that?” asked Davis.

“Nope, but I don't see any way around it, except to just open fire from the rocks.”

Davis stood there for a moment, thinking rapidly. The last thing he had wanted was to end up leading the party, but it was he who had heard the old prospector tell the story of the gold, and he was the one who knew the last piece of information for finding it. The others had naturally looked to him for the decisions as they had ridden across the desert.

“Culhaine, you and one volunteer will ride up to the water to see what the Apaches do. They let you water your horses and fill your canteens and ride out unharmed, then we'll send in another party.”

“And if they don't?” asked Kincaid.

“We cut them down.”

Culhaine nodded slowly and then said, “But don't let them have the first shot. They even look mean, you shoot them.”

Davis wiped his face again. “Give us some time to get into position before you ride in. Who you going to take?”

Culhaine grinned and said, “Kincaid here. He's got a good reason to hate the Apaches.”

“Now w ait. . .” He realized there would be no way for him to talk his way out of it. He drew his revolver and checked it carefully. When he came to the empty chamber, the one normally under the hammer, he fed a fresh cartridge into it so that he would have all six shots before he had to reload.

“Jason?” said Davis.

“Damn, Will,” he said.

“It was your idea.”

“I know. I just don't trust those Apaches.”

“They're supposed to be friendly now. Jeff Davis and his government has promised all the Indians their own homeland when the war is over.”

Culhaine smiled weakly. “You think these Apaches know that? You think they care?”

“We'll be watching from the rocks. It looks like they're going to get trigger happy, we'll cut them down.”

“Why do I keep wanting to say, ‘Yes, sir,' to you?”

Davis clapped a hand on Culhaine's shoulder. “Because I was a lieutenant in the army for a while there. I inspire the men around me.”

“Sure.”

“Give us an hour,” said Davis. “Then you ride in.”

Culhaine gave in to the temptation. “Yes, sir.”

As Culhaine walked back to where his horse was, Davis moved up the slope again. He paused next to a sun-hot boulder. Two of the others were breaking away from the main group, coming toward him. Both had their rifles.

“Wait here,” he said.

Culhaine and Kincaid had separated their animals from the others and had climbed up into the saddles. They sat there for a moment and then wheeled around, riding back the way they had come.

The rest of the group began to filter up the slope. Davis shook his head and pointed at two of the men. “You stay back here with the animals,” he said.

“Why?” asked one of them.

“Just in case. Suppose the Apaches have a couple of men running around out here. They could make off with the horses while we're occupied elsewhere. I want someone watching the horses.”

“Why me?”

Davis stared at the man. He was one of the new men picked up on the trail. “What's your name?”

“Bradford. Sam Bradford.”

“Well, Bradford, you stay down with the horses because I told you to.”

“Who made you the boss?”

Bailey spoke up. “We did before you joined. You don't like it, ride out now.”

Bradford faced Bailey, staring at him, his hand hovering near his gun. Then he smiled and said, “I guess that makes sense.”

“There is more gold hidden out there than we can carry away in a year,” said Bailey. “There is no reason to fight amongst ourselves.”

Bradford and the other man retreated to where the horses were grazing. He sat down with his back to the rock where he could watch the ground all around him.

Davis turned and began the climb to the top of the ridgeline. As he approached it, he got down and crawled forward. When he could see down into the canyon, he stopped. The Apaches were two hundred, maybe three hundred yards away. Long shots but ones that could be made. No reason to risk exposing themselves to the Indians.

The men spread out along a line, using the cover that was available to them. Bailey crossed the ridge and slid down to an outcropping of the rock. He set his rifle down on the stone and pulled his pistol, checking it carefully. He set that next to the rifle, also on the stone to keep it out of the dirt, and then pulled back into the shadow to wait.

Davis kept his eyes on the Apaches. They sat around, talking quietly, and watching the trail that led up to the water hole. They didn't seem to have a care, and they didn't seem too worried about anyone arriving unannounced. It smacked of ambush, though he could not see the ambushers anywhere.

It was less than an hour later that Culhaine and Kincaid rode up. As they appeared at the far end of the canyon, the Apaches came to life. Two of them slipped up into the rocks directly below Davis and his men. They tried to hide, but Davis could see both of them easily.

Two others headed to the rocks on the other side of the canyon. Again, they hid but Davis could still see them. That left the two who remained by the water hole. They stood facing the approaching white men.

One of the Apaches held up his hand and stepped forward in a friendly fashion. Culhaine halted and sat there, looking down at the Indian. Neither man said a word for a moment. Kincaid reached back slowly, fingered his pistol and then let his hand fall away from it.

They began to speak, but the distance was too great, and Davis couldn't hear the words. It all seemed friendly enough with the second Apache, the one closest to the water, waving at them, gesturing them forward.

Culhaine slipped off his horse. He held the reins in one hand and began to walk forward. He kept his attention focused on the two Apaches that he could see.

Directly below, Davis watched as one of the Indians stood up, aiming his rifle. It was pointed right at Culhaine and Davis knew that the trap was about to spring. He raised his own rifle, aimed at the bronzed back of the Apache and began to squeeze the trigger.

Someone else fired first. The round struck the Apache in the shoulder, shoving him forward and down. He lost the grip on his rifle and it fell to the ground.