the Outlaws Of Mesquite (Ss) (1990) (12 page)

Lasker, Calkins, and Hoyt had moved off to one side and were talking. Betty glanced at Johnny.

"I was afraid I wouldn't find you," she said, low-voiced.

Freck could hear them, but there were two meanings here.

"Won't Bart be worried?"

"Yes, he probably will. I"-she looked right at him-"left a note at the cabin." A note at the line cabin! Then there was a chance!

Suddenly, Freck was speaking. "Hoyt," he said, "we better look at our hole card. That gal's got red mud on her boot. Ain't no place got red mud but around the cabin at Eagle's Nest."

Johnny felt his mouth go dry. He saw Betty's face change color, and he said quietly, "You don't know what you're sayin', Freck. There's red mud behind the cabin at Pocketpoint."

Hoyt looked at Calkins. "Is there? You been there?"

"I been there. Dogged if I can recall!"

Hoyt's eyes were suddenly hard. He turned a little so his lank body was toward Lasker. Almost instinctively, Calkins drew back, but Freck's loyalty to Hoyt was obvious.

"Got a present for you, Betty." Johnny spoke into the sudden silence. His voice seemed unusually loud. "Aimed to bring it down first chance I got. One of those agates I was tellin' you about."

He walked to his saddlebag, and behind him he heard Hoyt say, "We can't let that girl leave here, Dan."

"Don't be a fool!" Lasker's anger was plain.

"You can steal cattle and get away with it. Harm a girl like this and the West isn't big enough to hide us!"

"I'll gamble. But if she goes out, we're finished. Our work done for nothin'."

"Keep her," Freck said. "She'd be company."

He winked at Lasker.

All eyes were watching Hoyt. It was there the trouble would start. Johnny ran his hand down into the saddlebag and came up with the .44 Colt. He turned, the gun concealed by his body.

"She goes," Lasker said, "cattle or no cattle."

"Over my dead body!" Hoyt snapped, and his hand dropped for his gun.

Freck grabbed iron, too, and Johnny yelled.

The cook swung his head and Johnny's pistol came up. Johnny shot and swung his gun.

Calkins backed away, hands high and his head shaking.

Guns were barking, and Johnny turned. Lasker was down and Hoyt was weaving on his feet. Hoyt stared at Lasker. "We had him, Freck an' me, just like we figured! Had him boxed, in a cross-fire! Then you-to " His gun came up and Johnny fired, then fired again. Hoyt went down and rolled over.

Johnny wheeled on Calkins. "Drop your belt!" His voice was hard. "Now get in there an' get some hot water!"

He moved swiftly to Betty. "Are you all right?" Her face was pale, her eyes wide and shocked. "All right," she whispered. "I'll be all right."

Johnny ran to Lasker. The cowhand lay sprawled on the ground and he had been shot twice. Once through the chest, once through the side. But he was still alive. ...

Bart Gavin and four hands rode in an hour later.

Gavin stopped abruptly when he saw the bodies, then came on in. Betty ran to him.

Johnny came to the door. "Me an' Dan," he said, "we had us a run-in with some rustlers. In the shootout Dan was wounded. With luck, he'll make it."

Bart Gavin had one arm around his niece. "Betty saw Hoyt take you out, but we thought she was imagining things, so when she couldn't make us believe, she took off on her own. Naturally, we trailed her ... and found her note and your map, traced out."

Gavin saw Calkins. His face grew stern.

"What's he doin' here?"

Johnny said quietly, "He stayed out of it. He was rustlin', but when it came to Betty, he stayed out. I told him we'd let him go."

Inside the cabin they stood over Lasker. He was conscious, and he looked up at them. "That was white, mighty white of you."

"Need you," Johnny said quietly. "Gavin just told me he fired Lamson. He said he'd been watchin" my work, an' I'm the new foreman.

You're workin' for me now."

"For us," Betty said. "As long as he wants."

Lasker grinned faintly. "Remember what I said, kid? That some of the high-toned gals were thoroughbreds?"

*

No Rest for the Wicked
Author's Note:

It takes two kinds of men to develop a mining country: the men who find the mines and the men who develop them, and they are rarely the same person.

The prospector, the discoverer, is not often equipped in money and the business ability to open up and develop a mine. Many of them sold their claim off for what seemed nothing. And yet it was to them a great deal. And if they'd persisted in operating, their mines they might have lost everything.

Some men only wanted what they could take out by themselves. They kept their discoveries a secret, going back again and again to take out what they needed, and when they died-of disease, accident, or gun play-the mine's location was lost.

From the ridge on my Colorado ranch I can look across a bunch of mountains where there are dozens of lost mines. At least two of them are somewhere in the range of my vision. Find them? It isn't easy.

It's a big, big country and prospecting is a slow, painstaking operation. Since prospectors gave up the burro for the Jeep, fewer mines are found. Jeeps can't go into the roughest country, and many of the best mines were found at places where no man in his right mind would want to go.

*

T
he bat-wing doors slammed open as if struck by a charging steer and he stood there, framed for an instant in the doorway, a huge man with a golden beard and magnificent shoulders.

Towering five inches over six feet and weighing no less than two hundred and fifty pounds, he appeared from out of the desert like some suddenly reincarnated primeval giant.

He was dirty, not with the dirt of indigence, but with the dust and grime of travel. He smelled of the trail, and his cheekbones had a desert bronze upon them. As he strode to the bar there was something reckless and arrogant about him that raised the hackles on the back of my neck.

Stopping near me he called for a bottle, and when he had it in his hand he poured three fingers into a water glass and took it neat. He followed with its twin before he paused to look around.

He glanced at the tables where men played cards, and then at the roulette wheel. His eyes rested on the faces of the gamblers, and then at last, they swung around to me. Oh, I knew he was coming to me! He had seen me when he came in, but he saved me for last.

His look measured me and assayed me with a long, deliberately contemptuous glance. For I am a big man, too, and the difference between us was slight.

Yet where he was golden, I was black, and where the heat had reddened his cheekbones, I was deep-browned by sun and wind. We measured each other like two stranger mastiffs, and neither of us liked the other.

He looked from my eyes to the star on my chest, and to the gun low-slung on my leg. He grinned then, a slow, insulting grin. "The town clown," he said.

"Exactly," I replied, and smiled at him. For I could see it then, knew it was coming, and I could afford to wait. He measured me again when he saw that I did not anger.

He changed suddenly, shrugging, and smiled. "No offense," he said, and his smile seemed genuine.

"I've got a loose tongue." He reached in his pocket and drew out three pieces of ore and rolled them on the bar. "Besides, I feel too good to make trouble for anybody today. I've found the Lost Village Diggings."

His voice had not lifted a note, and yet had he shouted the words he could have received no more attention. Every head turned; men came to their feet; all eyes were on him, all ears listening.

"The Lost Village Diggings!" Old Tom Curtis grabbed the stranger by the arm. "You've found "em? You actually have? Where?"

The big man chuckled. "Didn't aim to get you folks upset," he said. "Look for yourself." He nudged the ore with his fist. "How's that look?"

Curtis grabbed up the ore. His eyes were hot with excitement. He was almost moaning in his reverence.

"Why! Why, it must run three or four thousand dollars to the ton! Look at it!"

The chunks of ore were ribbed with gold, bright and lovely to see, but I spared the gold only a glance. My eyes were on the stranger, and I was waiting.

They crowded around him, shouting their questions, eager to see and to handle the ore. He poured another drink, looked at me, then grinned. He lifted the glass in a silent toast.

Yet I think it bothered him. The rest of them were crazy with gold fever, but I was not. And he didn't understand it.

The Lost Village Diggings! Stories of lost mines crop up wherever one goes in the Southwest, but this one was even more fantastic than most. In 1609 three Franciscan friars, accompanied by an officer and sixteen soldiers, started north out of Mexico.

Attacked by Apaches, they turned back, and finally were surrounded among rough mountains by the Indians.

During the night they attempted to escape and became lost. By daylight they found themselves moving through utterly strange country, and their directions seemed all wrong. All of them felt curiously confused.

Yet they had escaped the Indians. Thankfully, they kept on, getting deeper and deeper into unfamiliar country. On the third day they found themselves in a long canyon through which wound a stream of fresh, clear water. There were wide green meadows, rich soil, and a scattering of trees. Weary of their flight, they gratefully settled down for a rest.

And then they found gold.

The result was, instead of going on, they built houses and a church, and remained to mine the rich ore and reduce it to raw gold. Accompanied by one of the Indians who had come with them, for there had been a dozen of these, four soldiers attempted to find a way out to Mexico. All were killed but one, who returned. Attracted by the healing of one of the Franciscans, several Tarahumares came to live among them, and then more. Several of the soldiers took wives from the Indian girls and settled down. Lost to the outside world, the village grew, cultivated fields, and was fairly prosperous.

And they continued to mine gold.

Yet a second attempt to get out of the valley also failed, with three men killed. It was only after thirty years had passed that an Indian succeeded.

He got through to Mexico and reported the village.

Guiding the party on the return trip, he was bitten by a snake and died.

In 1750 two wandering Spanish travelers stumbled upon a faint trail and followed it to the village.

It had grown to a tight, neatly arranged settlement of more than one hundred inhabitants.

The travelers left, taking several villagers with them, but they likewise were killed by Apaches.

Only one man got through, adding his story to the legend of the Lost Village. From that day on it was never heard of again.

"All my life," Old Tom Curtis said, "I've hoped I'd find that 101

Village! Millions! Millions in gold there, all stored and waiting to be took! A rich mine! Maybe several of "em!"

The big man with the golden beard straightened up.

"My name's Larik Feist," he said. "I found the Lost Village by accident. I was back in the Sierra Madres, and I wounded a boar. I chased after him, got lost, and just stumbled on her."

"Folks still there?" Curtis asked eagerly.

"Nobody," Feist said. "Not a soul. Dead for years, looks like." He leaned against the bar and added three fingers to his glass. "But I found the mine-two of em! I found their arrastra, too!"

"But the gold?" That was Bob Wright, owner of the livery stable. "Did you find the gold?"

"Not yet," Feist admitted, "but she's got to be there."

There was an excited buzz of talk, but I turned away and leaned against the bar. There was nothing I could say, and nobody who would believe me. I knew men with the gold fever; I'd seen others have it. So I waited, knowing what was coming, and thinking about Larik Feist.

"Sure," Feist said, "I'm goin" back. Think I'm crazy? Apaches? Never seen a one, but what if I did? No Apache will keep me away from there. But I got to get an outfit."

"I'll stake you," Wright said quickly. "I'll furnish the horses and mules."

Men crowded around, tendering supplies, equipment, guns, experience. Feist didn't accept; he just shook his head. "First thing I need," he said, "is some rest. I won't even think about it until morning."

He straightened up and gathered his samples.

Reluctantly, the others drew back. Feist looked over at me. "What's the matter, Marshal?" he taunted. "No gold fever?"

"Once," I said, "I had it."

"He sure did!" Old Tom Curtis chuckled. "Why, he was only a boy, but he sure spent some time down there. Say! He'd be a good man to take along! The marshal sure knows the Sierra Madres!"

Feist had started to move away. Now he stopped.

His face had a queer look. "You've been there?" he demanded.