Off the Mangrove Coast (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 14

  “There is no trouble,” Navarro said. “The trail is there.” He pointed toward the black mouth of a cave. “We will enter the cave and each of you will go exactly seventy-seven steps from the time your horse starts onto the rock floor, it will be very dark. Then you must turn left. You will see an opening covered with vines, push them aside and ride through.”

  Navarro led the way and they rode into darkness. The echoes from the other horses’ hooves made it hard for Dud to count and he discovered it was better to plug his ears with his fingertips and feel the footsteps of his horse than to try to follow the confusing sounds in the cave. At seventy-seven he reined over and momentarily dragged his left knee against the rock.

  “Guess that Mex has got a bigger horse than mine,” he grumbled.

  Now the footfalls of their horses splashed in shallow water, then there was a dim light ahead and they pushed the vines aside and emerged into the evening air. A small trickle of water ran out from under the cover of vines and soaked the ground around their horses’ hooves.

  Navarro turned to face them. “We will stop here,” Navarro said. “And I will tell you the way back in case I should be killed. You must follow the streambed in the cave and let your horse take thirty steps—no more.

  “Turn your horse sharply right and ride straight ahead, and after you have been riding into darkness for a few minutes, you will see the trail down which we have come.”

  “Suppose I take more than thirty steps?” Shafter asked.

  Navarro shrugged. “You will find yourself in a great cavern, the floor is crumbling and filled with many holes. One man I knew made that mistake, and his horse and he went through the floor. We heard him scream as he fell. He fell a long way, señor.”

  “I’ll count the thirty steps,” Shafter said dryly.

  They bedded down and slept until dawn, then rolled out. Dud was the first one up, collecting greasewood and a few pieces of dead cedar for a fire. When he had the fire going he looked around and took stock of their position.

  They had camped in what appeared to be a box canyon, and they were in the upper end of the canyon with a lovely green meadow of some thirty acres spread out before them. Not far away was a ruined adobe house and a pole corral.

  When they had rested and eaten another of Navarro’s meals, they mounted and the Mexican rode into the meadow. The ruined adobe stood among ancient trees and beside a pool, crystal clear. Dud glanced around with appreciation.

  “It’s a nice place,” he said thoughtfully. “A right nice place!”

  In a wooden beam over the adobe’s door was carved a brand. “PV9” it read.

  Benzie nodded, and shifted his shotgun. He carried it like part of himself, like an extension of his arm. He spoke little but never seemed to miss a trick.

  *

  —

  LATER, THEY SWUNG down behind a clump of juniper on the crest of a low hill just off the stage road. Here the team would be slowed to a walk. It would be the best place.

  They rode back into the juniper and dismounted. There was plenty of time. Benzie sat on the dead trunk of a tree and lit a smoke, staring bleakly off across the blue-misted bottomland of desert that stretched away toward purple hills. He had never stolen anything before.

  Navarro stretched at full length on the sparse grass, his hat over his face. Dud Shafter idly flipped his knife into the end of the log. Shafter wondered about his Mexican and Negro companions, but asked no questions—and they volunteered no information.

  Shafter swore softly and stared down the road. There was a warrant out for his arrest back along the trail. He hadn’t stolen that bunch of cattle but he’d been with the men who did. He might as well stick up the stage; might as well have the pay as well as the blame. Still, this was a point, a branching road where a man turned toward the owl hoot or along a trail with honest men. Warrant or not, he was sitting in a fork of that road right now.

  Keen as Dud’s ears were, Benzie heard them first. He started up. “Some men are comin’,” he said.

  Navarro was off the ground like a cat. Dud ground his cigarette into the sand and moved to his horse’s head, a hand over the nostrils. The three stood there like statues, waiting, listening.

  At least four horses, Dud thought, listening to the hoofbeats. There was no noise of rigging or rattle of wheels…it was not the stage. The horses slowed and stopped.

  “This is the best place,” a voice said. “We’ll draw back into the trees.” Over some brush Dud glimpsed a flash of white as one of them moved; the man who had spoken was wearing a light-colored hat.

  Holding his breath, every sense alert, Dud Shafter waited. Navarro looked at him, a droll, humorous glint in his eyes. The new men took the brush on the opposite side of some rocks. The air was clear, and a man’s words could have been distinguished at a much greater distance but the voice echoed slightly.

  “They’ll be slowin’ up right here.” The same voice was speaking. “We make it a clean sweep. Joe, you take the driver. Pete, the messenger. Nobody must be left alive to tell who did it. Above all, get that old man. We’ll make him talk!”

  There was silence, and the three men on the other side of the trail stared at each other. Here was a complication. To speak aloud would be to give themselves away. Even the movement of their horses might have that result, for if a hoof struck stone, that would mean discovery, and each of them knew from what had been said that the men across the way were utterly ruthless.

  Taking careful steps, Dud moved over to Navarro. Benzie leaned his head near.

  “We don’t want no killing on our hands,” Dud whispered. “Stealing is one thing, killing another…especially if we ain’t gonna get the money.”

  Navarro and Benzie both nodded.

  “Looks like they be wantin’ an old man for some reason.”

  Dud Shafter stared unhappily at his boots. The struggle within him was short and one-sided.

  “You fellers can do as you’re a-might to,” he said at last. “I’m a going to butt in.”

  “We are partners, no?” Navarro shrugged. “We are with you!” Benzie nodded. It had an odd kind of logic and none of them was about to let someone else get away with a robbery they had planned, even if it meant losing the prize themselves.

  At that moment, they heard the rattle of wheels and a shout from the stage driver. The three leaped for their saddles even as the first shot sounded. Racing their horses through the brush, they heard a burst of firing. Then their own guns opened up.

  Dud Shafter came out of the scrub with both guns ready. A big, bearded man loomed before him and turned sharply in his saddle to stare with rolling eyes; Shafter fired twice. The big man went out of the saddle and his horse leaped away.

  Behind Dud, Benzie’s shotgun coughed hoarsely, and he could hear the sharp reports from Navarro’s smoothly handled pistol. There was a flash of light from the trees and a crashing of brush. In a matter of seconds, it was all over, and four men lay on the ground. Dud stared at the brush, for there had been a fifth. The man with the white hat was gone!

  He swung down, and the passengers poured from the coach. The shotgun messenger walked up and thrust out his hand.

  “Thanks, partners! You-all saved our bacon! That outfit came in shootin’!”

  “You hurt?” Dud asked, staring at the man’s pale face.

  “Winged me,” the messenger said.

  Shafter turned, feeding shells into his guns, and saw the passengers gathering around. A tall man in a beaver hat, a flamboyantly dressed woman, a solid-looking man with a heavy gold chain, a hard hat, and muttonchop whiskers. Then an old man with a beard, and a young girl evidently his daughter.

  This must be the man the robbers had mentioned. He was short with pleasant blue eyes and a glint of humor in his face.

  “Some shootin’, boys! Thank you.”

  Dud walked slowly from one dead man to the other. None of them was familiar to Dud.

  The man with the muttonchop whiskers thrus
t out his hand.

  “My name is Wendover,” he said. “James T. Wendover of Wells Fargo. You men saved our shipment and I can assure you you’ll be rewarded. Can you tell us where you live?”

  Shafter hesitated, then with a jerk of his thumb, he indicated the box canyon where they had camped beside the ruined adobe.

  “We got us a sort of a ranch back up in there,” he said. “The three of us.”

  “Good! Now what do you call it, and what is your name?”

  “My name’s Shafter,” Dud replied. “The ranch is the—”

  “The Silver Springs Ranch,” Navarro added smoothly.

  At the name, the old man started and his eyes hardened as he stared from one to the other. Puzzled, Shafter noticed the girl had put her hand on her father’s arm, and the grateful light was gone from her eyes.

  Wendover turned away to where the other woman passenger was dressing the messenger’s wound. That left Shafter and his companions standing with the old man and the girl.

  She stared at him with accusing eyes. “So you’re the ones!”

  Shafter shook his head. “I don’t know what you mean, ma’am,” he said simply, “but we probably ain’t. Actually, we’re just sort of riding through, like.”

  “You told that man you owned Silver Springs!” she protested indignantly.

  “No, señorita,” Navarro protested. “We have to tell him something. We could very much use the reward. It is a good place to wait.”

  “We’d been warned to expect trouble,” the old man said. “My name is Fanning, and this is my granddaughter, Beth. Silver Springs belonged to my brother, a long time ago. We were goin’ to get off when we got there, but the driver wasn’t exactly sure where it was. Are we there now?”

  “Yeah,” Dud agreed, “this is it. But you folks better know this. Them fellers we shot it out with, they were aiming to kill everybody on that stage, when we overheard ’em. What they was after was you, Mr. Fanning. They said they were going to make you talk.”

  “So that was it?” Fanning’s jaw hardened. “Well, I’d like to find who was behind this! He’s the man I want!”

  “One of ’em got away,” Benzie suggested. “Could be ’twas him.”

  Navarro and Benzie appointed themselves a burial committee for the dead men, and Dud walked back to the stage to unload the baggage belonging to Fanning and Beth. Wendover was obviously nervous, wanting to get on to the stage station at Lobo Wells.

  Leading the Fannings’ horses that had been tied to the back of the stage, and with the girl’s bag in his hand and a couple more hung to the saddle horn, Shafter led the way back toward the ruined adobe. As he walked, he explained about the little valley, and the condition of things, but Beth was not disturbed. She walked into the ruined building, took a quick look around, and then came out.

  “We can fix it up!” she said. “You’ll help, won’t you?”

  Dud, caught flat-footed, assured her that he would.

  “Good!” Beth said. “Now if you’ll get on your horse and ride down to that stage station and just get us some supplies—” She opened her purse, searching for money.

  He turned and started for the Wells. Yet as he rode his thoughts were only occasionally with the girl. He was thinking more of the man in the white hat, and the fact that Fanning knew something, something that would cause men to contemplate murder.

  The stage station was one of four buildings at Lobo Wells. There was a rest house and eating place in the station, and the station’s office and a storeroom. The other buildings were the Lobo Saloon, the freight office of Bert Callan, and the Mickley General Store. Dud swung down at the hitching rail in front of Mickley’s and walked in.

  Ben Mickley was in low conversation with a tall man in a fringed buckskin coat. Both men turned to look him over, seeing his big-boned freckled face and the shock of rustred hair under his battered sombrero. As he collected his order, he was conscious of their scrutiny.

  “New around here, ain’t you?” Mickley suggested conversationally.

  Dud grinned at the proprietor. “Not that new. I spent a moment or two out there tying my horse up,” he said, and added tentatively, “going to start ranching on the Silver Springs place.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Shafter’s eyes shifted to the man in the buckskin jacket. He was smooth-featured with a drooping mustache and dark eyes. His jaw was hard, and there was a tightness in his expression that Shafter read as well as he read the low-hung, tied-down guns. The man was bareheaded.

  “I reckon yes.” Shafter’s voice was calm. “We moved in there, my pards and me, and we figure to stay. We’re riding for Jim Fanning, who owns the place.”

  “Corb Fanning filed on that place, a long time ago,” said the hard-jawed man. “He was killed, and it lapsed. That spring now belongs to me.”

  “Lapsed?”

  “I filed on it, mister. It’s private property now…my property.”

  Dud did not smile. He did not even feel like smiling. He turned around to face the other man, and in his dusty, trail-worn clothes, with his uncut red hair and big freckled hands, he looked like what he was—a hard-bitten man who had cut his eye teeth on a gun butt.

  “Where’s your hat, stranger?” he asked quietly.

  “Don’t you go to proddin’ him! That’s Bert Callan and he’s no stranger to me. He runs the freight company hereabouts.” Mickley warned Dud, “And I don’t want any shooting in my store. You understand?”

  The icy blue eyes held Callan’s eyes and Shafter spoke slowly. His hand rested lightly on his gun butt.

  “All right, Mickley, throw that sack of stuff over your back, and walk out the door ahead of me—alongside of this hombre. Unless this hombre wants to try some six-foot distance shootin’!”

  Bert Callan stared into the cold blue eyes and decided uncomfortably that he didn’t want to try it. At a distance, yes, but six feet? Neither of them would live. It was out of the question. He shrugged and followed Ben Mickley to the door.

  Dud Shafter threw the sack of groceries over his saddle bows.

  “Now you two can go back inside,” he said coolly.

  “You-all better move off that spring and fast!” Callan’s face flushed dark with anger and his hand moved toward his gun.

  “You just put on that white hat, if it’s yours, and come on up. You come up and tell us to move!”

  He swung a leg over his horse and turned the horse into the trail. Then, at a canter, he moved out of town.

  Ben Mickley stared after him, hard-eyed. “That’s a mean one, Bert. You better soft-pedal it with him!”

  “Mean, huh!” Callan flared. “The man’s a fool! Go to shootin’ in there, we’d both die!”

  “That’s right,” Mickley said thoughtfully, “you would.”

  *

  —

  SHAFTER RODE UP to Silver Springs shortly after sundown; as he drew up to the adobe, he saw a man move in the shadows. It was Benzie, with his shotgun.

  “All right?” Benzie asked. “No trouble?”

  Navarro walked up as Dud explained briefly.

  “There will be trouble,” he ended. “They want this place. In fact they may own it.”

  Beth Fanning called to them.

  “Come and get it before I throw it away!”

  When they were eating, she looked over at Dud.

  “What did you three plan on doing? Riding on when you get your money?”

  He detected the worry in her voice and leaned back on his elbow, placing his plate and coffee cup on the ground.

  “Maybe we’d better stick around,” he said. He looked over at Jim Fanning. “You want to tell us what this is all about?”

  Fanning hesitated, chewing slowly. “Reckon you fellers have helped us a mite,” he finally said. “What do you think, Beth? This is your say-so as much as mine.”

  The girl lifted her eyes and looked at Dud for a long moment, then at Navarro and Benzie.

  “Why, tell the
m,” she said, “I like them all, and we have to trust our friends.”

  Dud swallowed and looked away, and he saw Benzie’s face lighten a little. The Negro looked up, waiting. It was something, Shafter thought, being trusted that way. Especially when you didn’t deserve it. A little one way or the other, and they might have robbed that stage themselves.

  “We’ve got a map,” Fanning said. “My brother, Corbin, he filed on this place. He come west with six wagons, and he aimed to stay right here. He brought a sight of money along, gold coin it was. Had it hid in his own wagon, nigh to forty thousand dollars of it. It was cached here on the place, and he sent me the location in a letter.”

  “What happened to him?” Navarro asked softly.

  “Injuns. At least they say it was Injuns. Now that these fellers are lookin’ for me, I don’t know. Beth and I came here to restart the place and that money was goin’ to help us do it.”

  “Can you find it?” Dud asked. He was thinking of forty thousand dollars, and that all three of them were broke. It was a lot of money. How far could Navarro be trusted? Or Benzie? Or himself?

  “Maybe. Now that I’m settin’ here the directions aren’t as clear as I’d like.”

  “You could let us help you,” he said. “But maybe it would be a good idea to have us ride out of here an’ you find it on your own…you shouldn’t trust anyone you don’t know.”

  “No,” Beth interrupted. “You saved our lives. I say we should get it now and deposit it with the Wells Fargo. Then it’s their worry.”

  Shafter nodded. “Well, that’s best, I’m sure.”

  He scowled, remembering the man in the white hat and the man at the stage station. Too bad their glimpse of the rider who escaped had been so fleeting. He had taken no part in the fighting, and when Shafter and the others broke from the brush, he had fled at once, as if fearing to be seen.

  When morning had come, Jim Fanning left the breakfast table and returned with a fold of papers. They all walked outside. Carefully he laid out the letter in a patch of sunlight.

  “This here drawing,” he said slowly, “don’t nowhere make sense as I’d like. There’s the ’dobe all right. Over yonder is the flat-faced cliff, an’ here’s the stream from Silver Springs. But lookee here, this says, ‘gold buried under the…ne.’ The ink is smudged, it don’t make sense.”