T
WENTY-EIGHT
Jacob Gamble had found a rocky point overlooking the valley where Anise and her uncle slept. It was cold that morning, and he put on the mackinaw he had bought in Engle. As soon as it was light enough to see, he began leaving easy sign as he rode the dappled gray across a meadow, through every patch of soft ground he could find, and then up a volcanic slope of hard rock where the horse left no prints.
He rode over to a pile of breakdown forty yards away and tied the gray to a dead and twisted juniper tree on the back side. It was a good place for an ambush. The rocks made a natural fortress, and if Jaeger followed the trail to the volcanic shale, he would be close enough to be blown out of the saddle by a load of buckshot from the Model 97.
Gamble placed the shotgun on the top of a flat rock, placed a box of Robin Hood shells beside it, and began to fill the pockets of the Mackinaw with ammunition. Then he settled down with his back against a rock and waited. The air smelled of pine and rain.
About seven o'clock he saw, far across the valley, Anise and her uncle riding away, each leading a pack mule. He watched as they made their way up to high ground in the southwest, and then disappeared behind a stand of cedars.
At eight o'clock he saw a lone rider on a black horse approaching from the east, at an easy but determined pace, following the path the trio had taken to the campground before. The rider disappeared behind the trees, then emerged five minutes later, following the path that Gamble had taken across the meadow and up the volcanic slope to his outcropping. Even from a quarter of a mile away, Gamble recognized the brown bowler hat.
“Good,” Gamble said. “Come on, you ruthless sonuvabitch.”
Then, halfway across the meadow, the rider stopped. He could see the bowler swivel first to the left, and then to the right. “What are you doing?” Gamble asked. “Come on, don't you see the tracks?”
Then it seemed as if the rider stared straight up the slope to the pile of rocks where Gamble was hidden. He slowly turned the horse, riding away to the southwest.
Gamble uttered florid curses.
“Now, what?” he asked. “You're going after
them?”
Gamble took the shotgun and slipped it into the scabbard, untied the gray, and swung up into the saddle. He started down the northeastern side of the slope, out of view of the rider.
Then he stopped.
“But why would he go after them?” he asked, patting the horse's neck. “He can't know about the gold. Whatever the reasons, it can't be good.”
Gamble turned the horse, crossed the slope, and made for the southwest. He caught up with the rider an hour later. The man on the black horse had just entered a slot canyon, too narrow for two horsemen to pass inside and too confined for the man's lever-action rifle to give him much advantage.
Gamble pulled the shotgun from the scabbard and held it at the ready as he used his knees to urge the dappled gray into the canyon. Ahead, he could hear the sound of rushing water. He passed some shoulder-height petroglyphs on the canyon wall, brick red in color, circles and spirals, elk that looked like dogs, and a flute-playing medicine man with an antler headdress and an exaggerated phallus.
“You're right,” he told the glyph.
He urged the gray ahead, the hoofbeats hidden by the sound of the water. He leaned first one way and then the next as he rode through a serpentine section of the canyon, then rounded a turn and found Jaeger standing beside his horse, reaching beneath its belly to tighten the cinch strap. Gamble had the drop on Jaeger, but if he fired, he would gut-shoot the horse as well.
“Hello, Dutch.”
Jaeger reached for the Marlin lever-action rifle in the saddle scabbard, but the commotion had made his horse skittish, and the animal turned away from Jaeger. Seeing a couple of feet open up between Jaeger and the animal, Gamble fired, but his own horse was moving sideways nowâand he missed. The report of the Model 97 rang the slot canyon like a bell and ricocheting buckshot zinged and whirred away.
“Remember this sound?” Gamble asked as he cycled another round into the chamber,
ch-chink!
“Kind of makes you want to wet yourself, doesn't it?”
“Jakob Gamble,” Jaeger said. “Still hanging on to your scarecrow life, I see.”
“Put your hands up.”
“Why?”
“Just put 'em up, Dutch.”
Jaeger raised his hands.
“Where's that nasty little pistol of yours?”
“In the saddle bag.”
Jaeger was stepping backward, toward his horse.
“Stop it right there,” Gamble said.
“To make it easier for you to kill me?”
Jaeger's back was now against his horse's shoulder.
“Stay away from that saddle Marlin and keep your hands where I can see them,” Gamble said. He had the shotgun trained on Jaeger, and the reins held in his right hand, beneath the pump, but the dappled gray was getting even more anxious. The horse began to shuffle and throw its head.
“Easy,” Gamble said, trying to calm the animal.
Then the gray rocked and wheeled, turning Gamble the wrong way in the passage. Gamble swung the shotgun around, attempting to keep Jaeger covered, but Jaeger had ducked beneath the belly of his horse, snatched the Marlin from the scabbard on the other side of the saddle, and was now running at top speed down the narrow canyon.
Gamble slipped down from the saddle, but couldn't get a shot because the black horse was in the way. Jaeger half-turned and snapped off a quick shot behind him with the Marlin, missing Gamble but hitting his own horse in the neck.
The horse screamed and bolted into the canyon wall, shaking rocks loose from above, then fell, blood gushing from the wound to stain the canyon wall. The animal fell and drunkenly tried to get up, its hooves flailing, eyes wild.
“Damn it,” Gamble said.
He shouldered the Model 97 and sent a round of buckshot into the horse's skull. He searched Jaeger's saddlebags, but found no revolver.
He led the dappled gray over the carcass of the dead horse and down the slot canyon. High along one wall, he noticed a pair of metal pipes bolted to rock, then crossing over and disappearing out of sight.
“What the devil?”
One pipe was about eighteen inches in diameter, and the other was smaller, the thickness of a tin can. Both were stained with rust, but appeared to be still in service, because the joints were damp and water beaded on the underside of each.
He exited the canyon, past a thirty-foot waterfall that filled a pool at the base of the cliff. Above, he could see the pipes snaking down from the upper pool and heading into the canyon. Gamble guessed the water was for a mining camp far down the slope, or perhaps to run the machinery at one of the old silver mills.
The horse lowered its head and drank. Gamble glanced around, to make sure Jaeger wasn't lying in ambush. Then he knelt by the pool, cupped some water in his left hand, and drank it. The water was snowmelt, cold and flat.
Then he noticed a reflection on the surface of the water, or a vision, he did not know which, of someone standing behind him. It was an Apache warrior of indeterminate age, carrying a Springfield carbine, wearing a faded pink shirt, buckskin leggings, a red paisley headband, and a blue scarf gathered with a silver concho.
“Don't you know?” Gamble asked the reflection. “You've all been pacified.”
The image did not move.
“You ghostly types are not much for conversation, are you?” Gamble asked the reflection. “Well, when you see my father, tell him that I appreciate the favor of his company, but that I wish he could be a little more direct about whatever it is that he wants to get across to me. Unless his goal is just to haunt me, Jacob Marley fashion, and in that case, he has succeeded.”
Then Gamble rose, mounted his horse, and rode off, not bothering to look behind him.
T
WENTY-NINE
“Jacob!” Anise cried as Jacob Gamble walked into the firelight, leading the dappled gray. “You nearly frightened me to death. I heard somebody approaching. Why didn't you call outâand why have you returned?”
“Yes, old manâwhy?” Weathers asked.
Uncle and niece were sitting together on a log, drinking tea from enameled cups.
“I didn't want to announce my presence, just in case you two weren't alone,” Gamble said, lifting a stirrup onto the horn and beginning to unsaddle the horse.
“Why wouldn't we be alone?” Anise asked.
“The maniac was Jaeger, and after we separated this morning, he followed the both of you, not me,” he said. “I met up with him in a little canyon a few miles back, and we traded shots, but he got away. He's on foot, thoughâhis horse was killed in the fight.”
“Are you all right?”
“No holes in me, if that's what you mean,” Gamble said, lifting the saddle from the back of the horse and placing it on the ground.
“We're glad of that,” Anise said. “And glad to see you, of course. But I don't understand. If Dutch Jaeger is after you, why would he follow us instead?”
“That's what I asked myself. I didn't like any of the answers.”
“Here, let me do that,” Weathers said, gently taking hold of the gray's bridle. “I've cared for horses all of my lifeâas every good English gentleman shouldâand at least I can make myself of some use now.”
“Obliged,” Gamble said. “Although you shouldn't be tending after me so kindly, considering I have brought so much trouble to the both of you.”
“It's not your fault,” Weathers said.
“I'm afraid it is,” Gamble said. “All of it.”
“What do you mean?”
“We will discuss it later, Uncle,” Anise said. “Jacob is tired and undoubtedly hungry and we should feed him first.”
“Quite so,” Weathers said.
“Come sit,” Anise said.
Gamble eased himself down to the ground with his back against the log and the shotgun beside him. He was glad for the mackinaw, because it was getting colder the higher they went. Anise dipped him a plate of beans from the pot, then apologized for not having coffee.
“I'll drink anything, as long as it's hot.”
“Tea, then,” she said. “How do you like it?”
“I don't know. The last time I can remember having tea was back in Missouri, with my mother. We would drink sassafras tea as a remedy.”
“Did you like the taste?”
“Yes,” he said. “It was like root beer. Of course, I put a lot of sugar in it when I was a boy.”
“Sugar, then,” Anise said.
He ate the beans and then cupped the tea in his hands and stared at the dying fire.
“So Dutch Jaeger escaped your terrible gift,” Anise said.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Because I should have killed him and his horse in the same shot when I had the chance, but I hesitated because of the horse,” Gamble said. “I ended up having to shoot the horse anyway, after Jaeger hit it with a stray shot.”
“The bastard,” Anise said.
“The first time I met him, he told me he had the necessary quality to become a Pinkerton operative, that he was a ruthless sonuvabitch. And he has proved it at every opportunity since.”
“Now what?”
“I take you back,” Gamble said. “See you safely on the train at Engle, then I fend for myself, like I always have.”
“But what about the fortune?” she asked.
“No amount of gold is worth dying for,” Gamble said.
“I won't hear of it.”
“Jaeger has a Marlin and probably a revolver and we are three people and have only a shotgun,” Gamble said. “He's got the firepower and he has the range. All he has to do is find the campfire, lurk in the dark for the right moment, and kill us off one by one.”
“We're only one day away.”
“Yeah, but dead is a long time.”
“I'm not going back,” Anise said. “I've waited thirteen years for this and I will not be denied. Don't gulp the tea, sip it. It's not coffee.”
“Right,” Gamble said.
Weathers came and sat down near them.
“What's the fuss about?”
“Your lieutenant wants us to turn back,” Anise said.
“Because of the maniac, yes,” Weathers said. “And you, of course, want to press on. I understand both of your points of view completely. But in this case, as the ranking member of the family and as the lieutenant's employer, I rather think it is I who should make the decision.”
“Of course,” Anise said.
“We are continuing,” Weathers said. “We are nearing the last chapter of the book. How cruel it would be to terminate the story now! We would be pleased if you would accompany us, Lieutenant, but you are under no obligation. Consider yourself a free agent.”
“Thank you,” Gamble said.
“Also, you have earned the five hundred dollar bonus that was promised should you get us safely to our destination by the twentieth of June. We are two days ahead of that schedule, so you have earned that bonus.”
“As a free agent,” Gamble said. “I respectfully decline.”
“You are certain?”
“I am,” Gamble said. “Also, you should know that my name is not Dunbarâit is Gamble, Jacob Gamble. While I did serve with the Rough Riders, I am also an outlaw with a very long career. When we met on the train, I was there to help rob it.”
“Of course you're an outlaw,” Weathers said. “Do you think I'm really such an old fool to believe that you weren't? When you're in the market for a gunslinger, you don't hire the aspirant with the spotless record. You hire the one that has had some experience in that line of work.”
“Oh, my,” Anise said.
“All of the great English heroes have been outlaws, from Robin Hood to Henry Morgan,” Weathers said. “Even our late Victorian hero, the explorer Captain Sir Richard Burton, was a scoundrel.”
“Now, Uncle.”
“Oh, your father would have told you the same, because he knew Burtonâand undoubtedly picked up some of his worst habits from the man. I can only thank God that Udall never fathered a child during his many forays into native culturesâmiscegenation is the most heinous of sins.”
“Uncle!”
“All right,” Gamble said. “But I insist we dose the fire now and sleep in shifts.”
“I will take the first watch,” Weathers said.
“Then you have custody of the shotgun,” Gamble said, handing over the Model 97.
“It is heavy,” Weathers said. “And quite unlike the doubles I am used to.”
“It works a little differently,” Gamble said. “There's already a round in the chamber. You have to pull the hammer all the way back to full cock before it will fire. It's on half cock now, which is safestâthat way it doesn't discharge if the gun is dropped or the hammer gets bumped. Once fired, to chamber a new round, you pull the pump back like this and throw it forward again. The magazine holds five rounds.”
Weathers nodded.
“Wake me when you judge it to be midnight,” Gamble said.
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That night, he dreamed again of Missouri. Again, he was a boy. But this dream was not something woven of fear and regret, but instead was a memory made real.
It was an evening in the early springâlate March, perhaps, but not yet April. The war was still years off. His father had come in from the fields. They had eaten together as a family at the small table in a corner of the cabin, and even his mother seemed content.
His father scooted his chair back from the table, packed his cob pipe with tobacco, and held a match to the bowl. He blew out the match and smiled through the smoke.
“What did you learn today, Jacob?”
“We drilled on Reverse Oval Capitals,” Jacob said. “Forever.”
“It is difficult to write properly without the Reverse Oval Capitals,” his father said. “I am quite mad about them myself, and endeavor to use them frequently.”
“John, don't tease the boy,” his mother called.
“I'm not teasing,” his father said. “There is nothing so beautiful as good penmanship. What else did you study today? History? Math?”
“We discussed the traitor, Senator Benton.”
“Traitor?” his father cried. “Why, Old Bullion was no traitor. He called for a return to hard money and to hell with the banks and paper money printed by the bushel basket. There is no substitute for gold. You remember that.”
“Mister Everett said Benton had betrayed Missouri by declaring against slavery and that he was glad the old man was dead and could do no more harm.”
“Old Bullion was a Democrat, first and last,” his father said. “He was right to oppose the peculiar institutionâas I do. Just don't tell the preacher Larkin Skaggs those sentiments, or we'll be run out of the Baptist Church.”
“No more politics,” Eliza Gamble called. “The boy already gets in enough fights.”
“All right,” his father said, reaching for the old fiddle that was hanging from a peg driven into the rough-hewn wall. “A music lesson, then. Son, there are some that say this is the devil's boxâan instrument for damnationâbut I say otherwise. It can praise God as well as any human voice, perhaps better. Here, son. Take it. Tell me what you feel.”
Jacob took the fiddle. It was light, much lighter than he expected, considering the amount of sound his father could coax from it. He ran his thumb over the strings and the body of the fiddle thrummed with life.
“Try the bow,” his father said.
Jacob took the bow in his left hand.
“No, use your right,” his father said.
Jacob switched hands, put the fiddle in the crook of his arm as he had seen his father do, and awkwardly drew the horsehair over the strings near the bridge. A most terrible cry emanated from the fiddle, as if it were being tortured.
His father laughed.
“It gets easier,” his father said. “Hold the bow loosely in your hand, as if it were a feather. Yes, that's it. Now, draw it lightly over the strings, keeping the speed steady.”
Jacob tried again, but the result was hardly better than the first time.
“I can't do it,” he said.
“You will, in time,” his father said. “Just as you now effortlessly make those Reverse Oval Capitals, you will be able to do this.”
His father took the fiddle and the bow, put it in the crook of his right arm, held the bow poised for a moment over the instrument, and then began an old Irish ballad. The music was at once beautiful and sad and when his father had played the last note, the mood lingered.
“It has a voice,” Jacob said.
“Yes, it does,” his father replied. “It is my voice, the things that I feel, and the fiddle can say things for which there are no words. Without it, I am less than myself. With itâand you, and your motherâ I am whole. We speak the language of men. This, the language of angels.”
Jacob nodded.
“When I am goneâand we all go away some day, every one of usâthen this fiddle will be yours, and so, too, will be the language of both men and angels.”
“Yes.”
“Where is the fiddle, Jacob?”
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Gamble woke. He sat up. The fiddleâof course, it was the fiddle, left behind in Kansas.