The Fire of Greed (6 page)

Chapter 8

“WE SURE ARE APPRECIATIVE THAT YOU FELLAHS LET US
ride with you,” Jasper Gardner said as the four men rode though the New Mexico mountains.

“Like I told you yesterday,” Ben Muriday repeated. “There's more than enough to make every man of us rich beyond measure, but it ain't worth a damned nickel if you got an Apache bullet in you. Four men are a better match for the Chiricahua than two.”

“Still mighty generous,” Gardner added. “You figure that the Dutchman was right in saying that it's a four-day ride?”

“I reckon. He's been there. From what I know about these mountains, four days is pretty much right. Unless we gets ourself turned around and lost up in there.”

“What are the odds of that happening?” Gardner asked, trying to conceal a tone of alarm. “I thought you
knew
these mountains.”

“Been a lot in these mountains,” Muriday replied with confidence. “As long as we keep a south-by-southeast heading, like the Dutchman said, long as we keep an eye out for the Dutchman's landmarks, we don't have nothing to worry about. Only reason that Dearing's find ain't been found again is that it's so far back that nobody's gonna chance onto it. Like the Dutchman hisself says, it ain't
hidden
, it's just in a place where nobody goes.”

“Unless he's goin'
to
it,” his partner, Simon Lynch, said and nodded, finishing Muriday's thought.

Jasper Gardner fought the premature temptation to visualize the promised mountain ravine filled with nuggets the size of turkey eggs, but it was painful to deny his imagination the opportunity to envision himself presenting a bundle of these at an assay office.

Gardner was one of those men about whom they say that you should count your fingers after shaking his hand. Some people lie to their mothers. Some people steal from their mothers. Then, there is Jasper Gardner. When he was seventeen, he stole the deed to his mother's house and sold it to a carpetbagger. He took the money, headed west, and never looked back.

As time went on, Gardner found a kindred spirit in the equally unscrupulous Gabe Stanton. Recognizing a symbiosis, the two men realized they could accomplish much by joining forces. Over time, they had formed a loose affiliation of men one might describe as a gang. They alternated between petty theft and hiring themselves out as enforcers. They had worked for cattlemen in Kansas and even for a bank down in Oklahoma. They came west during the railroad wars in Colorado and found that there was ready employment for men of their trade.

Gardner and Stanton had eventually decided that there was adventure to be had in Lincoln County. However, as they were heading south into New Mexico with two of their regular followers, an unprecedented opportunity had fallen into their laps.

On the first night after they had exercised this opportunity and had robbed the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe baggage car, they made camp and inventoried their spoils. The net of $9,000 was more than any of the four men had ever seen in one place.

One of the two new men, who had joined the Gardner-Stanton gang up in Colorado, calculated that when split four ways, there would be $2,250 for each of them.

Gardner disagreed. He disagreed more with the man's assumptions than with his arithmetic—and put a bullet into the skull of this man who had ridden with him faithfully for two years.

Looking at the expressions on the faces of Gardner and Stanton, the other man ran, sprinting into the darkness. The man may have thought of his having invested two years of his life as part of the Gardner-Stanton gang. He probably thought of the irony of running through the desert dodging bullets fired by men with whom he felt he'd formed a common bond. He certainly felt the .45-caliber slug tear into his shoulder.

Knocked off balance, he dropped to his knee, writhing with searing pain. Despite this, he staggered to his feet and continued running. He may have felt the second bullet strike him, but he did not feel the third.

The Gardner-Stanton gang, its numbers now trimmed merely to its namesakes, broke camp before the bodies were cold and continued their dash toward the Rio Grande, eyes peeled for the expected posse. The cloud of dust they logically anticipated to see boiling up behind two dozen mounted riders never materialized. Nor were they intercepted as they crossed the Rio Grande and the well-traveled wagon roads that ran along its banks.

As they turned to look back at the Rio Grande Valley one last time, Gardner and Stanton finally dared to congratulate each other on having shaken the posse. All they saw, as they looked down from their perch in the Magdalenas was a single lone rider in the far distance, making his way up the trail from Alamillo.

Had they any doubt that Lady Luck was riding sidesaddle on their spare horse, they had only to wait for their chance encounter with Muriday and Lynch in the cantina in Santa Rita. For the second time in a week, an unprecedented opportunity had fallen into their laps.

What does a man do when he has just escaped into secure anonymity with more money than he has ever seen in his life—and he is suddenly offered
further
riches beyond his wildest imagination?

Greed is the fuel that feeds the fire of greed.

* * *

BLADEN COLE BEGAN THE FOURTH FULL DAY OF HIS PURSUIT WITH
a much later start than he would have liked. The Dutchman had arrived at their rendezvous precisely on time, but the shopkeeper from whom the necessary supplies would be purchased was late to arrive at his shop. After all those days, it bothered Cole immensely that the thieves still managed to maintain a half-day lead, and this bother was not relieved by what he considered to be a mid-morning start.

The Dutchman was an ideal traveling companion. He was efficient, knowledgeable, and, like Cole, he was used to riding alone. It was afternoon before any meaningful conversation passed between the two men.

“Few white men make it a habit to travel in these mountains,” the Dutchman replied when Cole made a comment about the absence of well-used trails. “If you think like an animal, the trails are easy to see.”

“Now and then, I can see evidence of our friends having passed this way,” Cole said. “But they are harder to track here than they were in the desert.”

“See that mountain?” Geier asked, pointing to a prominent snowcapped mountain in the distance. “I told your friends to follow the ridgeline and keep this mountain dead ahead for three days. They will then come to red sandstone cliffs that mark a canyon. They will follow the water in this red rock canyon upstream.”

“I reckon you know a lot about where to find the gold in these parts,” Cole observed. “But I'm not going to ask, because I know you'll have nothing to say on that topic.”

“
Das ist gut
,” the Dutchman replied. “You are a good judge of men.”

“I guess the Spaniards back all those years ago found some, but sure wasted a lot of time looking.”

“It was not a waste,” the Dutchman observed. “Much was found . . . Mexico . . . Peru . . . even
here
.”

“The Spaniards spent a lot of effort and never found El Dorado, though,” Cole observed.

“That's because it was found by a
German
,” the Dutchman said, grinning at his companion. “Have you heard of Philipp von Hutten? He ist the ‘Dutchman' who
found
El Dorado.”

“What happened to him?”

“Imprisonment by the Spanish. He died before he could be freed and return to El Dorado. Many stories of treasure end that way.
Nein
, I should say that
most
stories about hunters of treasure end this way, or end with the avaricious who go back for more and never return to civilization.”

“That's what happened to Dearing,” Cole recalled.

“That ist what continues to happen with his discovery. Many men come to me to help them find the way to the Dearing treasure. I tell them honestly, and bid them farewell. If I ever see them again, they have terror in their eyes, not the glow of satisfied lust.”

“How do you know that nobody has found it?”

“Word of
that much
gold going to market would spread far and wide.”

“When you gave those men directions to this gold, did you believe that you were sending them to their deaths?” Cole asked.

“It is their choice,” the Dutchman said. “They have been told of the risks and the chances of success. There is no difference between you and I. We both possess the power of life and death over men, and the power to offer men the choice of living or dying. You have in your pocket death warrants for two men. They read ‘Dead or Alive,' meaning that their lives will be spared if they make the correct choice.”

“That's right,” Cole agreed. “Most men who operate on the wrong side of the law know they're living a gamble.”

“Life ist a matter of choices,” Geier said. “A man must never stop weighing the choices that he makes. Some treasure ist not worth having, but it ist up to the man to decide where to stop. I cannot make that choice for them.”

“I understand.” Cole nodded.

“If all treasure was easy to find and to hold, all men would be rich,” the Dutchman said. “Not all men are meant to be wealthy. Fools least of all.”

“You strike me as a man who has little use for fools.”

“As I said, Herr Cole, you are a good judge of character.”

Chapter 9

“
BONSOIR, MONSIEUR,” NICOLETTE DE LA GRAVIÈRE SAID
with smile. She spoke in Spanish to those who she thought spoke it, and English to probable English speakers. She saved her French for her friends.

“Good evening, mademoiselle,” Amos Richardson said, returning the smile. “It will be the usual.”

“
Très bien
,” Nicolette said as she swirled away toward the kitchen to put in his order.

It was Richardson's custom to dine twice a week at the Refugio del Viajero. There was some variation in the days, but he never varied from a twice-weekly routine.

Therese de la Gravière, the owner of the Refugio, caught his eye from across the room and approached his table with a large bottle.

“New from France, Doctor,” she said with a smile. Her smile always reminded Richardson of her daughter's smile, and vice versa. “Would you care for a glass with my compliments?”

“Absolutely, ma'am.”

“The coming of the railroad has changed many things,” she said as she uncorked the bottle and poured him a generous portion. “Wine from France was never before possible in Santa Fe . . . at least not at a reasonable price.”

In the dim light of Madame de la Gravière's small restaurant, the wine seemed black as night, but where the light of the flickering candles caught it, the hue was that of rubies. She watched his face carefully as he took his first sip.

“Very nice,” he pronounced happily.

A broad smile creased the face of Therese de la Gravière.

“A man should not drink a nectar so fine alone,” Richardson observed, gesturing to the chair opposite his. “May I buy
you
a glass of this fine produce of your homeland?”

“
Merci
,” she said with a slight bow. “
Pourquoi pas?
It is a slow night . . . not many customers with the legislature out of session.”

“To the railroad and the changes for the better,” he said, touching her glass.

“To the railroad.” She smiled. “There have been so many things that will now be available to us from the outside world. It is almost as though the world has suddenly grown smaller.”

“Do you plan to travel, perhaps to the East, or back to France?”

“Oh no,” she said, shaking her head. “My place is here. Nicolette and I have made our lives here. But there I am, speaking for my daughter. She may feel differently. She has never seen the East, and has few memories of France.”

“She is certainly an asset to you here.”

“The Refugio would not have been possible without her,” Therese explained. “She is a wonderful child who works hard and is good with customers.”

“Quite true,” Richardson agreed.

“But she is of that age,” Therese continued. “She is of an age when she should be entertaining suitors.”

“That should not be a problem. I see the way the eyes of young men follow her about the room.”

“Her attitude is one of diffidence. She makes it a practice not to flirt with them,” Therese said. “I agree to an extent. I would not want her flirting with every man who came through the door. She is an affable girl, but at the same time she is quite bashful. Sometimes she sees a young man who she likes, but when he is a customer, she feels she cannot . . .”

“I understand,” Richardson said in commiseration.

“She was serious about a young man about two years ago, but he left town. There was another woman involved. It hurt her deeply, as such things do for a young girl. There have been others, but nothing serious. Sometimes she sees one she likes, but her shyness gets in the way. There was that cowboy you recommended to us a week or so ago.”

“Mr. Cole?”

“Perhaps. Handsome man . . . rough around the edges but very polite?”

“Virginia accent?”

“Yes . . . like yours.”

“That would have been Mr. Cole.”

“Oh, how Nicolette pined that night,” Therese said with the smile of an older person's amused disparagement of youthful passion, but with the sadness in her eyes of a mother who wanted her daughter in a relationship. “For several days, she kept asking ‘Mama, will he be coming back tonight? Mama, will he be coming back tonight?' But if he had, she would have merely smiled and kept her conversation to a minimum. He never would have gotten the idea.”

“He left town on business,” Richardson said. “I don't think he had intended to stay long in Santa Fe.”

“
C'est la vie
,” Therese said. “He was not exactly my idea of the ideal man for Nicolette. His kind, with their guns, and their shiftless ways, and their eyes always trained on what lies beyond distant horizons.”

“You may not have choice in the matter of who catches Nicolette's eye,” Richardson observed.

“She has a mind of her own, that one,” Therese said with a wistful sigh. “It will cost her a good husband, paid for with a broken heart. Is my daughter doomed to be an old maid like her mother?”

Looking into her eyes and seeing both sadness and beauty, Richardson was about to say something about how Therese need not feel doomed to perpetual old maidhood, when Nicolette arrived at the table with his
carne asada
and her usual warm smile, and Therese stood to greet some arriving guests.

Amos Richardson was about halfway through his meal when Ezra Waldron entered the room. They made eye contact, and the railroad man approached Richardson's table.

“Good evening, Doctor,” he said, extending his hand.

“Pleasure to see you, sir,” Richardson replied. “Would you care to join me?”

“Thank you, that's kind of you.”

When Nicolette visited the table, Richardson recommended that Waldron try his favorite, and he also ordered a bottle of the wine Therese had offered previously.

“Beautiful girl,” Waldron remarked.

“Daughter of the owner,” Richardson clarified possessively.

“I see.” The railroad man nodded.

“How are things in the railroad business?” Richardson asked, changing the subject.

“Excellent. Freight revenues are up on this division, and eastbound passenger bookings are starting to materialize.”

“The war with the Denver & Rio Grande?”

“Behind us, I hope.”

“How are things going with that matter for which you employed Mr. Cole?” Richardson asked.

“There has been no word from Mr. Cole. I had hoped that he would have sent some manner of a progress report by now.”

“There are no telegraph offices in the wilderness,” the coroner reminded him.

“Certainly there are post offices in Lincoln County,” Waldron insisted.

“The mail takes a long time. Patience is required.”

“I realize that, but the lack of news does not lessen my concern. It is as though all these men have dropped from the face of the earth.”

“As I recall, one of your expressed concerns was that no news of this incident be allowed to circulate. In that sense, you may regard the absence of news as a success.”

“For the moment, I am pleased by the absence of news, but I fear a surprise that could come at any moment. I'll breathe much easier when Mr. Cole has delivered and I can consider the matter resolved with finality.”