Read Online Skeleton Lode by Ralph Compton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ralph Compton
Tags: Fiction, Historical fiction, General, Western Stories, Westerns, Teamsters, West (U.S.) - History, Superstition Mountains (Ariz.)
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Lake.”
There was no denying the truth of it. They werefollowing yesterday’s trail. Davis turned angrily to his Mexican guides. They sat lazily in their saddles, Sanchez with a leg crooked around the horn, rolling a quirly. At their seeming indifference, Davis backhanded the Mexican, slapping the unlighted cigarette out of his lips. Sanchez moved as fast as a striking rattler and smashed his fist full in Davis’s face. His nose spurting blood, Davis was swept out of his saddle onto his back. He went for his gun, only to find himself looking into the ugly muzzle of the Colt that Sanchez held cocked and rock-steady.
“Lift the
pistola
with the thumb and finger and leave it on the ground,” commanded Sanchez.
Without a word Davis lifted the Colt free of his holster and dropped it.
“Now, Señor
Gringo
, get to your feet.”
Shakily, Davis stood up, his nose dripping crimson, his eyes killing mean.
“You pay Sanchez and Yavapai,” Sanchez said coldly. “Two days each, you pay. Then we leave you to ride any trail you wish.”
R. J. Bollinger had been in a bad position, at the rear. All his companions had been between him and the two Mexicans. He gradually sidestepped his horse, hoping for a shot at one or both of them. By the time he had a clear view of Yavapai, he found the Mexican watching him, expecting just such a move. Bollinger relaxed. It wasn’t his kind of odds. All eyes were on Gary Davis as he took a pair of gold eagles from his pocket. One he gave to Sanchez, the other he gave to Yavapai. The pair backstepped their horses into the brush, keeping their eyes locked on Davis and his companions, as well as the bunch of gold seekers from town. Finally hidden from view, they turned their horses, hit the back trail, and headed for the Salt River.
It was still dark when Dallas, Arlo, and Paiute finished breakfast. Paiute lit one of the pine pitch torches from the fire, walked toward the wall to the left of the cascadingwater, and just disappeared. Shocked, Dallas and Arlo were on their feet in an instant. The passage veered away at an angle and couldn’t be seen when looking straight at the stone wall. Paiute was waiting for them to follow him. The torch almost went out as cool air sucked at the flame, telling them that somewhere ahead, this tunnel opened to the outside. There were other passages, their dark maws appearing, then vanishing instantly as the flickering light moved beyond them. Finally they reached a ledge that, except for the tunnel they had just exited, was inaccessible. To the west, winking like distant fireflies in the predawn darkness, were the lights of Phoenix. Having no idea why the Indian had brought them here, Dallas and Arlo followed Paiute back to the cavern in which they had made their camp.
“That makes me feel better,” Dallas said. “Secure as this seems, I’d hate to be trapped in here, with no means of escape. I wonder if some of those tunnels are somehow connected to the mine?”
“I don’t think so,” replied Arlo. “Hoss wouldn’t risk that, and if Paiute could lead us to the mine, we wouldn’t need a map. If anybody even suspected that Paiute knew where the mine is, his life wouldn’t be worth a plugged
peso.
From what I’ve heard, the Spanish used to torture the Apaches, trying to force them to reveal the whereabouts of gold and silver mines. That’s why the Apaches, even after two hundred years, don’t trust white men who come looking for gold.”
“Now that you mention it,” Dallas said, “I remember some of the tales Hoss told us. He said the Apaches claim they don’t kill the white men who come to the Superstitions. They say that they’re killed by the Apache Thunder God and the spirits that live in the mountains. Remember Hoss telling us about the dead men who were found without a mark on them?”
“I remember,” said Arlo, “and I think Hoss believed it, but I find it hard to swallow, myself. He
There was no denying the truth of it. They werefollowing yesterday’s trail. Davis turned angrily to his Mexican guides. They sat lazily in their saddles, Sanchez with a leg crooked around the horn, rolling a quirly. At their seeming indifference, Davis backhanded the Mexican, slapping the unlighted cigarette out of his lips. Sanchez moved as fast as a striking rattler and smashed his fist full in Davis’s face. His nose spurting blood, Davis was swept out of his saddle onto his back. He went for his gun, only to find himself looking into the ugly muzzle of the Colt that Sanchez held cocked and rock-steady.
“Lift the
pistola
with the thumb and finger and leave it on the ground,” commanded Sanchez.
Without a word Davis lifted the Colt free of his holster and dropped it.
“Now, Señor
Gringo
, get to your feet.”
Shakily, Davis stood up, his nose dripping crimson, his eyes killing mean.
“You pay Sanchez and Yavapai,” Sanchez said coldly. “Two days each, you pay. Then we leave you to ride any trail you wish.”
R. J. Bollinger had been in a bad position, at the rear. All his companions had been between him and the two Mexicans. He gradually sidestepped his horse, hoping for a shot at one or both of them. By the time he had a clear view of Yavapai, he found the Mexican watching him, expecting just such a move. Bollinger relaxed. It wasn’t his kind of odds. All eyes were on Gary Davis as he took a pair of gold eagles from his pocket. One he gave to Sanchez, the other he gave to Yavapai. The pair backstepped their horses into the brush, keeping their eyes locked on Davis and his companions, as well as the bunch of gold seekers from town. Finally hidden from view, they turned their horses, hit the back trail, and headed for the Salt River.
It was still dark when Dallas, Arlo, and Paiute finished breakfast. Paiute lit one of the pine pitch torches from the fire, walked toward the wall to the left of the cascadingwater, and just disappeared. Shocked, Dallas and Arlo were on their feet in an instant. The passage veered away at an angle and couldn’t be seen when looking straight at the stone wall. Paiute was waiting for them to follow him. The torch almost went out as cool air sucked at the flame, telling them that somewhere ahead, this tunnel opened to the outside. There were other passages, their dark maws appearing, then vanishing instantly as the flickering light moved beyond them. Finally they reached a ledge that, except for the tunnel they had just exited, was inaccessible. To the west, winking like distant fireflies in the predawn darkness, were the lights of Phoenix. Having no idea why the Indian had brought them here, Dallas and Arlo followed Paiute back to the cavern in which they had made their camp.
“That makes me feel better,” Dallas said. “Secure as this seems, I’d hate to be trapped in here, with no means of escape. I wonder if some of those tunnels are somehow connected to the mine?”
“I don’t think so,” replied Arlo. “Hoss wouldn’t risk that, and if Paiute could lead us to the mine, we wouldn’t need a map. If anybody even suspected that Paiute knew where the mine is, his life wouldn’t be worth a plugged
peso.
From what I’ve heard, the Spanish used to torture the Apaches, trying to force them to reveal the whereabouts of gold and silver mines. That’s why the Apaches, even after two hundred years, don’t trust white men who come looking for gold.”
“Now that you mention it,” Dallas said, “I remember some of the tales Hoss told us. He said the Apaches claim they don’t kill the white men who come to the Superstitions. They say that they’re killed by the Apache Thunder God and the spirits that live in the mountains. Remember Hoss telling us about the dead men who were found without a mark on them?”
“I remember,” said Arlo, “and I think Hoss believed it, but I find it hard to swallow, myself. He
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