Off the Mangrove Coast (Ss) (2000) (18 page)

Navarro smiled, revealing even white teeth under the black of his mustache. These were men of his own kind. After a moment or two, he took a burlap sack off his saddle and began to cook. Slowly he assembled a meal, such a meal as the two strangers had certainly not seen in many weeks. Tortillas were heated on a flat rock, lean shredded beef was cooked with peppers and onions, frijoles that he had soaked since he had camped the previous night were split into three portions. As Navarro worked his magic he carefully watched his new companions.

"It takes money," he suggested, "to travel far. I know where there is money!"

Dud Shaffer's chill blue eyes lifted in a curious, speculative glance. "It takes money. That's the truth."

"If you're travelin'" the other man wiped off his seamed black hands "and you know where there is money for the takin', you're a lucky man."

"One man cannot get this money," Navarro hinted. "Three men might."

Dud Shafter let the idea soak in, staring into the fire. He picked up a mesquite stick and thrust it into the coals, watching a tongue of flame lick greedily at the dry wood.

He looked around casually. "Would this money be nearby?" he asked.

"Sixty miles by this road, but by a way I and only a few others know, it is but twenty. There is an Apache path through the mountains. We could ride over this trail, make our collection, and return. We could get water and some rest here, then head for the Blues."

"You don't think others know this trail ... others we might have to worry about?" Dud asked.

Navarro shrugged. "Who knows. But we will be careful. At the right moment we will hide our tracks. Also, in going there we will learn the path well. It is a chance that I believe in."

Dud Shafter rolled the idea over in his mind. He was not above driving off a few steers, especially if he didn't know whose they were. But this sounded like crime, straight from the shoulder, out and out theft. Not his style, but he was going to need money. There was trouble down his back trail and a winter with no work in his future.

"There is an express box," Navarro informed him, "on a stage. In that box are two small payrolls ... small for pay rolls, but good money for us. More than seven thousand dollars. Before the stage arrives at Lobo station, it passes through Cienaga Pass. That is the place."

After a moment Shafter nodded and then the Negro did too. He didn't really like the idea but he was willing to go along. What he did like, however, was the Mexican's food.

Navarro led off because he knew the route. Dud Shafter and the Negro, who had said his name was Benzie, followed. Navarro led them into the cedars along the mountainside back of Pistol Rock, then crossed the hill and cut down its side into a sandy wash. Seven miles farther, he led them into a tangle of mesquite, cat-claw, and yeso. Steadily, their trail tended toward the blank face' of the cliff, yet when they reached it, Navarro turned south for two miles, then entered a canyon. The canyon ended in a jumble of rocks, and beyond the tumbled pile of boulders was the cliff.

"Looks like you miscalculated," Dud said. "There ain't no way through there."

"Wait, compadre." Navarro chuckled. "Just wait!"

They rode on into the gathering dark, weaving a way among the boulders toward the face of the cliff.

The walls to right and left closed in, and the darkness shouldered its shadows toward their horses. Then a boulder-strewn, cedar-cloaked hillside lifted toward the sheer wall of rock, and the Mexican started up. Within only a few feet of the cliff, he turned his horse at right angles and started down a steep slope that led right up to the face. Concealed by the boulder-strewn hill was a path that slanted steeply down, then turned to a crevasse between two walls of rock. It was a trail that no man would ever suspect was there.

Between the walls, so close together their stirrups grazed the rock on either side, it was dark and cool. There was dampness in the air.

"It is like this for miles," Navarro said. "No danger of going astray."

They rode on and Dud nodded in the saddle, his horse plodding steadily forward. Finally, after nearly an hour's ride, the crevasse widened into a canyon, and they still rode on. Then the canyon narrowed to a crevasse again, and they passed by a trickle of water. When they had gone only a little way farther, Navarro halted.

Dud Shafter, startled from a half sleep, slid a gun into his hand. He glared around in the darkness.

"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, senor."

"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 b
e
slowed to a walk. It would be the best place.

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

Navai Jhat over stretched at full length on the sparse grass, his 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 hoof-beats. 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 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 hoof-beats. 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. Ben-zie 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.