Spanish Gold (14 page)

“They're turning with us,” said Ramsey.

Now Davis glanced to the north where the second group had appeared. They, too, were headed toward the white men. No one was moving very fast, but it was now obvious that the Apaches were going to keep them in sight.

“I think it's time to make a run for it,” said Ramsey.

“So do I,” said Davis. He stood up in the stirrups and twisted around. He put on hand on his horse's rump and then watched the Apaches. They were following slowly.

“Men,” said Davis raising his voice slightly, “I think it's time for us to scram.” He dropped back into the saddle, touched a hand to the Colt revolver strapped to his waist and then, suddenly, kicked his horse in the flanks.

“Yeah!” he screamed and hunched forward as the horse jumped. It began to gallop across the desert.

The men with him did the same. Bailey and Culhaine hesitated, just for an instant so that they were at the rear of the formation. As they began to gallop, the Apaches to the north let out a whoop. They began to cut toward the white men, hugging the necks of their ponies.

“They're coming,” yelled Bailey.

“Let 'em,” said Davis. He was now watching the ground just in front of his horse, searching for a hole the animal might step in. The last thing he wanted was to be spilled to the desert floor while the Apaches rode down on him.

He lifted his eyes and swept the horizon. There was a single tree in the far distance, but that offered no hope of sanctuary. A single tree would do nothing except provide shade for them during the fight.

“Getting close on the right,” yelled Bradford.

Davis glanced, but the Apaches were still three hundred yards away. They didn't seem to be gaining on them at all. Kicking up clouds of dust and screaming, but not catching them.

There were three shots from the rear. Davis shot a glance over his shoulder. Bailey and Culhaine were sitting there, aiming at the Apaches coming at them from the west. Those Indians slowed, and when they did, both men whirled and kicked their horses, joining the fleeing group.

“Where?” yelled Webster.

Davis knew that he wanted to know where they were going. Davis didn't have an answer. He hoped that reaching the slight rise in front of them would open things up. That over that rise would be a defensible position.

There was a distant shot. One of the Indians shooting at them. No one was hurt. The round disappeared harmlessly. There was a second and third, but Davis knew that a galloping horse made it impossible to aim.

They reached the top of the rise, and Davis reined in his horse. It stopped running, digging in its rear feet, sliding to a halt. The desert stretched in front of him like a lumpy blanket spread for a picnic. Nowhere to hide.

He turned and looked at the Apaches. They were now two hundred yards away and coming fast. The horses were breathing hard from the run. It would be an hour, maybe less, before the horses were run into the ground, unable to move. A horse would run until it collapsed, but once it was down, there was nothing to be done for it and no way to make it get back up. It would die where it fell.

Davis rubbed his lips with the back of his hand. His options were suddenly limited. Twenty, maybe thirty Apaches coming at him. He had ten, eleven, a dozen men, all with rifles and pistols. With nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, there was nothing he could do but stop and fight.

“Dismount,” he ordered like he was still an officer in the Rebel cavalry. He jerked his carbine from the scabbard on the side of his saddle. He held the reins in his left hand as he worked the lever, putting a round under the hammer.

Around him the others did the same. Bradford, Bailey, and Culhaine handed their reins to Webster and then ran forward, kneeling or throwing themselves down on the ground, aiming at the Apaches.

“Take them,” said Davis, snapping out the words like an order on a battlefield.

There was a single shot and then a volley. One Apache tumbled from the back of his horse, but the others came on, screaming and waving their arms.

Davis fired once, worked the lever ejecting the spent round, and pulled the trigger again. There was a rattling of the weapons around him and he thought suddenly of fire discipline. They should space the shots so they all didn't empty their weapons at the same time. Work it so there was a continuous fire pouring out. That would stop the Apaches.

But it was too late for that. He didn't have the time to instruct them in fire discipline. Not with them blazing away as fast as they could. Instead, he aimed at the closest of the Apaches and tried to kill him.

Two more of them toppled from their horses. One pony reared suddenly, unseating the rider. As the animal fell, the Indian was on his feet, but now he was aiming at the white men. Firing his rifle at them.

“Closest first,” yelled Davis. “Kill the closest first. Aim for the horses.”

“I got that one,” yelled Bailey. “I got that one.”

The Apaches suddenly veered to the right and then turned, riding toward the north. Davis followed them with the barrel of his rifle. He aimed, fired, but hit nothing. The Apaches kept riding away.

Now there was only the single Indian, standing on the desert about three hundred yards away. He had slipped to one knee and was using a short cactus for cover. He was firing at them slowly.

“Get that bastard,” yelled Culhaine.

“Let's get out of here,” said Davis. He started to jam his rifle into the scabbard and then stopped. He began pushing shells into it, reloading it just in case the Apaches decided to attack again.

Finished, he climbed into the saddle. Culhaine was standing, aiming at the Apache. He fired and a piece of the cactus exploded. There was no return fire now.

“Let's get out of here now!” shouted Davis. “Come on.” He reined his horse around and started off toward the east again, this time at a trot.

The men mounted up and fell in behind him. As they crossed the rise and started down the gentle slope, Davis said, “We've got to practice fire discipline. If they come back we have to make sure that we don't all run out of ammo at the same time.”

“They'll be back,” said Bailey.

“Yeah,” agreed Davis. “I know, and that's what I'm afraid of now.”

Freeman and Crosby came up to the top of a ridge and looked down into the next shallow valley. At the far end of it was the wagon. Crosby sat there for a moment and then turned to look right at Freeman.

“I know where they're going.”

“What?” said Freeman.

“Now that I see where we are, and the direction they're taking, I think I know where that old man was talking about. There's a shallow river about ten miles from here. North of the river is a cluster of mountains. That's got to be where they're headed.”

“You sure?” asked Freeman.

Crosby closed his eyes and was quiet for a moment. He then opened them and nodded. “I know exactly where he was talking about. We don't have to follow them.”

“Then let's go,” said Freeman.

Crosby held up his hand. “They're bearing to the east here, but we can cut across the desert and cut four or five miles off the trip.”

“I'll follow you,” said Freeman.

Crosby pulled his horse around and then started down the slope. The horse picked its way around the clumps of prickly pear and the peyote and the wiry prairie grass. Some of the ground was soft sand, and other areas were as hard as rock. Once they reached the valley floor and could no longer see the wagon, they began to move faster. They rode around a copse of trees that seemed to mark a water hole, but when they got near they found nothing other than the cracked earth of a hole gone dry. There was the body of a horse near it.

“Now we turn to the northeast. We'll have to cross that ridge there, but then everything opens up until you get to the mountains.”

Freeman didn't say a word. He turned his horse and began the long, gentle climb to the top of the ridge. An hour later they had reached it. The land fell away from them and was washed out in the bright sunlight. Far away, barely visible, was the dark shape of the mountains. It looked as if the mountains were across a shallow lake. The heat was shimmering on the sand, giving it the look of water.

“There,” said Crosby, his voice higher. “That cave has it be over there. In those mountains.” He grinned at Freeman. “It has to be.”

Freeman sat there, studying the scene. “It does look like what the old man was describing.”

“Not like it,” said Crosby. “Is. Has to be.” He stopped talking for a moment. “When I was a kid, I heard stories about this. Jim Bowie and a group of his friends found a cave and defended it from the Indians. They talked about a fabulous gold mine hidden in the desert.”

“Bowie never got this far west,” said Freeman.

“How do you know?” asked Crosby. “He got all over Tfexas and Mexico. You don't know where he might have ridden during those times.”

“Doesn't matter,” said Freeman, “if you're sure this is the place.”

“We're close,” said Crosby.

“Then let's get it over. Freeman was about to head down when movement to the west caught his eye. He turned toward it and saw a dozen riders come over the ridge.

“Looks like we've got company,” said Crosby.

Freeman didn't move. He studied them and then said, “I don't like this. Not at all.”

Then, to the south of the first group, a second appeared, and as Freeman turned he saw a third. All of them seemed to have a single destination in mind. All were angling, more or less toward the mountains directly in front of Freeman and Crosby.

“What do you think?” he asked.

Freeman shrugged. “I think we'd better head on down there as fast as we can. I don't want to get left out of this. Could be someone else who figured out the old man's clues.”

Crosby kicked his horse and it started to move. He slapped the flanks with the ends of the reins and it began to gallop. Freeman followed him. Both men were riding fast now. Down the gentle slope to the valley floor and then north to the mountains.

Freeman was aware of the other riders angling north. Everyone seemed to be headed toward the same place. The only thing he wanted to do was reach the river, cross it, and get into the mountains before the other men could catch up or beat them there.

“Go!” he yelled at Crosby as he rode by him. “Let's go.”

Crosby tried to get his horse to run faster. He was falling behind slightly. He risked a glance at the closest group of men and was shocked to see that they were not white.

“Apaches!” he yelled.

At first Freeman seemed not to hear. Then slowly, he turned to look. The wind caught his hat, blowing it from his head. He didn't stop to retrieve it.

“We make the river, we'll be okay,” he called.

Turning to look back over his shoulder, he saw the second group closing on them. They were Indians, too. Maybe a dozen of them. Maybe more.

“Damn,” he yelled. “They're catching us.”

Freeman lowered his head so that it was near the neck of his racing horse. He stood slightly in the stirrups so that the constant pumping rhythm of the running animal wouldn't keep jarring his spine. Now the only thing he could think of was the shallow river. If they could reach that, they would be safe. Somehow he equated the river with safety. Nothing else mattered to him.

The desert opened up in front of him. Nothing to hide them. Nowhere to go. Just the wide open space until they reached the mountains. If the Indians caught them before they reached the mountains, they were as good as dead.

There was a shot behind him and Freeman risked a glance. Crosby had his revolver out. He'd fired it, pointing it to the rear but hadn't tried to aim it. Maybe he thought the sound would frighten the Apaches.

“Save your ammo,” yelled Freeman. “You won't hit anything anyway.”

Crosby squeezed off two more shots. The Apaches fired back. Three rounds and then a war whoop. They were screaming as they began to close on Freeman and Crosby.

Freeman was about to give it up. They wouldn't be able to outrun the Apaches. The only thing he could hope for was fighting it out and getting killed before the Indians captured him. Let them mutilate his dead body. He wouldn't care then. But he didn't want them to start the mutilations while he was still alive. They could make it last for hours, and that thought frightened him to the core of his soul.

“There!” screamed Crosby. “Over there.”

Freeman shot a glance to the north where before, they had only been able to see the mountains. He saw horsemen there, too, but they didn't look like Indians. They looked like white men.

Freeman turned toward them immediately. Suddenly the gold wasn't all that important. All the gold in the world would do him no good if the Apaches caught him. With enough men with rifles, they could fight off the Indians. They would have a chance to survive.