Over on the Dry Side (17 page)

And then the swearing began.

“Help!” a voice called. “I got a busted leg!”

Men came out of the creek, stamping the water from their legs, pausing to empty their boots.

“Where's the horses?” Mac Mowatt yelled. There was more cursing.

“Gone, god damnit!” Pierce said.

Their fire was out, buried under a deluge of rocks and gravel. Their coffeepots were spilled, smashed, or buried. Their food was under a heap of rocky debris from off the cliff.

It hadn't been a big slide, but big enough to frighten the horses, wipe out their camp, and ruin their supper.

“Now why in hell,” Pierce muttered, “did that have to happen?”

“Happen, hell!” Ollie Fenelon shouted. “That didn't
happen!
It was done! Somebody had to start that rockslide!”

Mowatt swore, and Freka said again, “I'll kill him, damnit. I'll kill him!”

Jake Strawn gathered up what he could find of the camp gear. When Frank came over to help, Strawn said, “El Paso sounds better 'n better.”

Strawn found one dented but intact pot, and they found most of their gear and bedding, after some digging. One rifle had a broken stock, and the wooden stirrup on a saddle was broken. But that could be repaired, and the gun stock also, with time.

When the coffee was ready they took turns, for they needed more than one pot. It was a slow, tiring supper they ate and finally, on ground a hundred yards from their original campsite, they bedded down.

It was after midnight before the camp was quiet. Within the hour that followed, all were asleep. Even Mac, who'd been doing some serious thinking.

The moon rose later and finally shone into the canyon. Suddenly the perfect stillness of the mountain night was split wide open by the heavy explosion of a rifle shot, unnaturally loud in the quiet.

Tom Freka came to his feet with a scream of pure fury, and as he lunged erect a bullet hit the ground within inches of his toes. He sprang back, tripping over Frank Mowatt to fall in a heap. Another shot followed, and then stillness.

Bleary-eyed from weariness, only half-awake, the men stared around, and then from the cliff above them came a mocking voice, singing, “We're tenting tonight on the old campgrounds, give us a song to cheer—”

Tom Freka emptied his rifle toward the sound high above.

“Goodnight, boys!” It was Owen Chantry's voice. “Sleep late in the morning.”

Wiley swore bitterly, and after a minute or two they rolled in their blankets. But it was a long time before they could sleep. Pierce Mowatt came out of the darkness and walked down by the stream, lighting his pipe, half-expecting a shot. But no more shots were heard.

The trouble was, Mac Mowatt reflected, now they would never know. Nobody would strike a match, try to make coffee, or settle down for a meal without wondering when the shots were going to come.

There were two possible solutions: leave the country or track down Owen Chantry and kill him. He said as much to Freka.

“There's another,” Freka said. “I think he's got a case on Marny. If'n we could get Marny back, he'd come for her.”

“No!” Mowatt's voice was flat and harsh. “Marny's kin. Keep her out of this.”

“It's your funeral,” Freka said, but he was doing his own thinking. If he could get Marny, then he'd have Marny and he could get Chantry at the same time. Bait him right into a trap…a juicy trap.

Jake Strawn—big, tough, and raw-boned, a gunhand in many a cattle war, a man who'd done time in two prisons—looked across at Freka. Tom Freka might be a mystery to some, but he was an open book to Strawn. Jake turned on his side with disgust and closed his eyes. The trouble with being on the wrong side of the law was the kind of company you had to keep.

D
AYLIGHT CAME TO the camp on Lost Canyon with a red glow on the rimrock. Owen Chantry, who had slept two hours, went down to the river and bathed his face in the cold water, cupping it in his hands to dash into his eyes. He stood up, shaking water from his fingers. The trouble with doing what he had done was that the other side could do it too.

It was time to move. Kernohan was better and might be strong enough to sit a horse, if they didn't have to go too far. Chantry watched a squirrel run out on the rocks near the water, then turned back to the camp.

He was tired, dog tired, and it was catching up with him. Yet he knew he could go for days…might have to go for days.

“Ten,” he said aloud. “Ten, eleven, twelve—” What had Clive been trying to say? The other day he'd again had a fleeting idea that had disappeared as quickly as it came…some haunting thought that had come to him.

He walked back to the camp and sat down. Marny was up and combing her hair. The filtered sunlight caught the light in it, and Chantry watched. She was uncommonly graceful, her every move.

“Nice morning,” he said quietly.

“Where were you last night? I was worried.”

He chuckled softly, amused. “I went serenading. I wanted to sing those boys to sleep.”

She stared at him, not knowing what he meant. He picked up the book of poetry and turned the pages under his thumb. Clive had read it a lot. “Locksley Hall” had been a favorite of his and Clive's too. There was a copy of “Marmion” by Sir Walter Scott, tucked in the pages, written in Clive's own hand. It gave him a sudden pang of loneliness. He would never see Clive again.

Suddenly, he knew. Suddenly Owen believed he knew where Clive Chantry's treasure was hidden.

Chapter 17

A
T LEAST HE had a clue. Even with the clue, it would take some searching to find. But at least he now knew how Clive was thinking.

Clive Chantry had been a considerable scholar, yet he had taken his linguistic skills casually, learning several languages before he was fifteen, and acquiring others as the need developed or as his interests demanded. In several years of wandering, much of it in South and Central America as well as Mexico, he had mastered several Indian tongues.

Although not pretending to be a scholar, he was keenly aware of the demands of scholarship, and his wanderings had taken him into places and brought him into contact with people who were relatively unknown.

There might actually be a treasure.

Owen Chantry watched Marny brush her hair but, attractive as she was, his thoughts were far away.

Mac Mowatt would not take the midnight attack on his camp lying down. He dare not, if he expected to lead his outfit. They would be angry, eager to retaliate. And this time they would come in for the kill with no nonsense about it.

“We've got to move,” Chantry said, suddenly.

“Move to where?” Doby said. He was sitting quiet with his thoughts. “All we're gonna do is get out in the open where they can wipe us out.”

Chantry glanced at the old man, who was leaning on his rifle, watching them with his bright gray eyes. “You know this country best. Is there a good hideout nearby?”

“A couple. Figgered you'd be wantin' to go back to the cabin on the rampart. There's places up there—”

“How about water?” Doby protested. “I seen no water.” At least if he had, he didn't remember it.

The old man chuckled. “You youngsters, you never look. Got no
eyes!
Why, there's a passel o' water right near to the door! Off there to the right, hid behind the brush. Ol' Clive, he was no fool! A man needs water, an' he built hisself a dam. Across the gully to catch the runoff. Got a drain for her, too, an' a rock to stop off the drain when need be, so's the water keeps fresh.

“Rained there t'other night, so there'll be water…maybe five hundred gallons.…maybe twice that much.”

“I don't want to get Pa stuck in no cabin. You can't get out up there, an' you're caught in a trap.”

“No need, son. Chantry, you're an army man. Move out from the cabin, set up a perimeter defense. Give y'rself room to move in. Why, there's a places up there a good man with a rifle could stand off an army! I can show y' where. Now, if y' really—”

“I do,” Chantry said bluntly. “Let's go!”

Within a matter of minutes they were moving, with the old man to ride point, followed by Marny and Kernohan, then Doby, with Owen Chantry riding well back to cover their flight, if need should be.

“Wrong time o' day,” the old man grumbled. “Of a nighttime I could take y' there easy as pie. This here way we got t' keep under cover, got t' ride careful, like.”

“We can hole up somewhere on the way,” Chantry said. “Just get us away from here!”

The old man spat, shifted his rifle in his hands, and then said, “Got just the place! Take 'em a while t' find us there!”

“How far?”

“Four, five mile. 'Bout that.” He pointed with a long bony finger. “South.”

He led off down canyon. Curiously, the canyon's walls grew less steep, and the canyon itself flattened out into a series of meadows. The old man skirted a low hill, then led them up the slight bank and into the trees.

Chantry rode behind, rifle in hand. He was worried. They had left the canyon almost too easily, and his every sense told him trouble was near, though the old man was wily. The way he had taken them was hidden from view, and there was a chance they'd escaped observation.

The day was hot and still. And it was quiet, altogether too quiet. He trotted his horse to catch up. Doby was leading the packhorses, including his own buckskin.

How many were left in Mowatt's crowd? Several had been killed, although he could be certain of only a few…three, perhaps. And several injured.

Chantry ducked his head under a low branch, glimpsed Doby ahead with the packhorses, and at a bend in the trail he watched Marny's red hair catch the sun. Not really red, but when the sun caught it—

He heard the faintest of sounds and turned sharply in the saddle.

Nothing.…

Had it been some animal or bird? Or a branch stirred by the wind? Entering a thick grove, he drew up to look back again.…There was nothing.

He cantered his black across a small meadow and glanced around again.

Where was the old man taking them? They had been traveling slowly to take advantage of every bit of cover, and they must have covered three or four miles. Now they were leaving the cover behind, the best of it, at least. The trees were mostly cedars now, some piñon pines. This country was broken and rocky. It was very dry. Chantry saw no tracks but their own.

He looked around again.…Still nothing.

Owen Chantry mopped the sweat from his face. He wished again that he owned a hat. He had borrowed an old one from Kernohan for a few days, but it had been left in the house. His own hat had been lost when he was riding north.

It was growing hotter. A grasshopper flew up and winged away in the distance. Overhead, a vulture circled. Chantry took off his coat and put it over the saddle before him.

Finally they reached a cave, which was perfectly screened by trees. The old man chuckled, pleased with himself. “Cain't see this here place from hardly nowheres. You got to know it's here, or come right down the canyon to it. Indians used to stop here. We'll just set tight an' leave 'em hunt for us, an' come tomorry we'll get goin' afore light comes.”

There was no talking. They ate, slept, rested, waited. From time to time Chantry or the old man slipped out from behind the screen of trees and went up the canyon or down, scouting, listening.

Late in the day, they were all lying quiet when they heard the drum of hoofs on the rocks above, then silence.

“Hell,” they heard somebody say. “They'd never go down there! It's a trap!”

“Damnit,” said somebody else, “they can't just disappear! They got to be around here somewhere.”

“Did you see any tracks? I found some back yonder in the dust but they faded out. Anyway, they wouldn't come this way! Why, this here heads right out into open country, an' there'd be no place to hide! I figure they went to the high country up yonder, where they can see round the country.”

Then the riders went away, and Chantry grounded his rifle. The sun slowly sank, tinting the peaks of the mountains with gold and crimson.

The old man went up the rocks. When he returned he shook his head. “No sign of 'em. Might's well have some coffee. Eat up, 'cause we got a roundabout ride to the rampart.”

The stars came out. The tiny glow of the fire was lost in the vast darkness. The air around the cave was damp from the waters of a spring and the grass around it. The horses were picketed near the spring where they could browse or drink as they chose.

Chantry went to where Kernohan lay. The flickering firelight shone on his gaunt cheeks and sunken eyes. “How are you?” he asked.

“All right. Feel mighty tired, but I don't hurt much.”

“We've a long ride ahead.”

“So I heard. Le's go on an' ride, Mr. Chantry. I'll not hold you back.” He was silent for a few minutes, and Chantry sat on a slab fallen from the overhang and sipped his coffee. “That boy's doin' all right, ain't he?” asked Kernohan.

“He sure is. He's carrying his weight and more. You've no need to worry about him.”

“I reckon. Though a body does worry. Times are hard for a boy his age. No young folks, no dances, socials or such. Why, he ain't seen a box supper since he was eight!”

“This is a beautiful country,” said Chantry. “There will be people along soon, lots of them. There're a good many in the San Luis valley already, and just a few years ago a man named Baker led a party into the San Juans. We're just the first. Doby will have plenty of company soon.”

At moonrise, they moved off with Chantry leading. He started at a rapid trot and held it. The trails were narrow, but they were plain to see in the moonlight.

The old man moved up beside Chantry. “You ride keerful, young feller. Them boys might be most anywheres about.”