Read Online The Cowpuncher by Bradford Scott - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Bradford Scott
Tags: Fiction
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of what you did won’t change it. What I got to say is I’m plumb grateful for what you did, and I aim to try and even it up by lettin’ you in on somethin’ big. Either of you ever hear tell of La Mina del Padre? ”
Huck looked blank, but Lank Mason’s eyes brightened with interest.
“The Padre Mine,” he translated, “the lost Padre Mine? What minin’ feller in the west ain’t heerd tell of it?” He turned to Huck. “The story goes that there’s five thousand bars of silver, mebbe more, hid in that mine—silver that Don Fernando de Castro, the Spaniard, and old Padre Diego Escalante made the Injuns mine for them. Story says Don Fernando was so ‘fernal mean to the Injuns that the tribes got t’gether and wiped him and his men out, includin’ the padre, who’d allus tried to be their friend. But ‘fore they was attacked they managed to hide the silver in the mine and hide the mine, too. That’s the yarn you hear down in the Southwest, but I figger it’s jest a yarn, like lots of others.”
Old Tom slowly shook his head.
“It ain’t a yarn,” he said, “it’s the God’s truth.”
“What makes you think so, oldtimer?”
“‘Cause I got the map old Padre Diego drew ‘fore he died—the map what shows where the lost mine’s at.”
Lank Mason guffawed, his belly bobbing up and down like a seal beside an iceberg. “Yeah, ev’body’s got a map,” he said. “Lots of ‘em for sale down in the Southwest. I knowed a feller whatraised a family of kids and sent ‘em through school sellin’ maps of lost mines and hid gold and such.”
Tom Gaylord said nothing. But he drew from his pocket a huge cowhide wallet, opened it, and took out a package wrapped in oiled silk. He unwrapped the silk and spread out on his knee an irregular fragment of linen, yellowed and old. Upon it, faded rusty words were dimly visible.
“Ever see a map like this one?” he asked quietly.
Lank picked up the fragment of linen, a wondering expression on his face. He examined the irregular tracing, translated the Spanish words with muttering lips. Huck Brannon, also eyeing the peculiar document, saw Lank’s begin to blaze with excitement.
Lank stabbed at the tracing with a great hairy sausage of a finger, scratched a line lightly with a blunt nail.
“Blood!” he muttered. “Writ in blood, shore as hell! Why this damn thing must be nigh onto a hundred years old!”
He wet his lips, staring harder at the lines and markings. “Hell, I know this country!” he exclaimed. “See—there’s the twin Spanish Peaks marked plain, and the Apishapa River, and Carson’s Peak, and Dominguez Crik in its narrer canyon! Gaylord, where did you get this thing?”
Old Tom chuckled, glancing shrewdly at the miner’s flushed face.
“Get’s you, eh? It got me, too, and I don’t know the section like you do—jest the gen’ral lay of the land. I got that map from an old Mexican down ElPaso way. It was handed down to him by his grandpappy who claimed it was give to him by the old padre who drew it on the tail of his shirt with his blood after the Injuns had ambushed Don Fernando and his men while they was tryin’ to make it back to Mexico.
“The padre told the greaser, who was jest a boy then, to take the map and the wordin’ on it to Mexico and turn it over to the Officers of the King of Spain. But ‘fore the boy got there, the rev’lution had took place and there weren’t no king’s officers in Mexico any more. His mother told him the rag was sacred ‘cause it had the padre’s blood on it and the family should keep it so it’d bring ‘em good luck.
“The old feller I got it from said it hadn’t never brought ‘em anythin’ but bad luck, so far as he could make out—I’d jest saved him from starvin’ with a broken leg in the Cuevas salt desert and he was sorta grateful to me. ‘Sides, he’d got the notion inter his haid that the rag with the blood on it might be to blame for his trouble. I’d run onter
Huck looked blank, but Lank Mason’s eyes brightened with interest.
“The Padre Mine,” he translated, “the lost Padre Mine? What minin’ feller in the west ain’t heerd tell of it?” He turned to Huck. “The story goes that there’s five thousand bars of silver, mebbe more, hid in that mine—silver that Don Fernando de Castro, the Spaniard, and old Padre Diego Escalante made the Injuns mine for them. Story says Don Fernando was so ‘fernal mean to the Injuns that the tribes got t’gether and wiped him and his men out, includin’ the padre, who’d allus tried to be their friend. But ‘fore they was attacked they managed to hide the silver in the mine and hide the mine, too. That’s the yarn you hear down in the Southwest, but I figger it’s jest a yarn, like lots of others.”
Old Tom slowly shook his head.
“It ain’t a yarn,” he said, “it’s the God’s truth.”
“What makes you think so, oldtimer?”
“‘Cause I got the map old Padre Diego drew ‘fore he died—the map what shows where the lost mine’s at.”
Lank Mason guffawed, his belly bobbing up and down like a seal beside an iceberg. “Yeah, ev’body’s got a map,” he said. “Lots of ‘em for sale down in the Southwest. I knowed a feller whatraised a family of kids and sent ‘em through school sellin’ maps of lost mines and hid gold and such.”
Tom Gaylord said nothing. But he drew from his pocket a huge cowhide wallet, opened it, and took out a package wrapped in oiled silk. He unwrapped the silk and spread out on his knee an irregular fragment of linen, yellowed and old. Upon it, faded rusty words were dimly visible.
“Ever see a map like this one?” he asked quietly.
Lank picked up the fragment of linen, a wondering expression on his face. He examined the irregular tracing, translated the Spanish words with muttering lips. Huck Brannon, also eyeing the peculiar document, saw Lank’s begin to blaze with excitement.
Lank stabbed at the tracing with a great hairy sausage of a finger, scratched a line lightly with a blunt nail.
“Blood!” he muttered. “Writ in blood, shore as hell! Why this damn thing must be nigh onto a hundred years old!”
He wet his lips, staring harder at the lines and markings. “Hell, I know this country!” he exclaimed. “See—there’s the twin Spanish Peaks marked plain, and the Apishapa River, and Carson’s Peak, and Dominguez Crik in its narrer canyon! Gaylord, where did you get this thing?”
Old Tom chuckled, glancing shrewdly at the miner’s flushed face.
“Get’s you, eh? It got me, too, and I don’t know the section like you do—jest the gen’ral lay of the land. I got that map from an old Mexican down ElPaso way. It was handed down to him by his grandpappy who claimed it was give to him by the old padre who drew it on the tail of his shirt with his blood after the Injuns had ambushed Don Fernando and his men while they was tryin’ to make it back to Mexico.
“The padre told the greaser, who was jest a boy then, to take the map and the wordin’ on it to Mexico and turn it over to the Officers of the King of Spain. But ‘fore the boy got there, the rev’lution had took place and there weren’t no king’s officers in Mexico any more. His mother told him the rag was sacred ‘cause it had the padre’s blood on it and the family should keep it so it’d bring ‘em good luck.
“The old feller I got it from said it hadn’t never brought ‘em anythin’ but bad luck, so far as he could make out—I’d jest saved him from starvin’ with a broken leg in the Cuevas salt desert and he was sorta grateful to me. ‘Sides, he’d got the notion inter his haid that the rag with the blood on it might be to blame for his trouble. I’d run onter
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