April, 2010

Issue #7

Apache Gold, Part 3
by Kenneth Newton

"Two sets o' tracks, Cap'n, headin off to the southwest," Sgt. Gage said. "One set deeper'n the other, probl'y a horseman an a pack animal that ain't packin much. Beats me how I never hit him, all the lead I put into that hill."

"Even your Gatling gun won't shoot through solid rock," Drake replied. "I'm going to follow that trail and see who I find, Sergeant. Whether you and the boys come along is up to you. I've got no right to order you anywhere."

"You say it, we do it, same as always. But if'n there ain't no gold, an' no more war, why not just go on home an' be done with it? You don't owe that kid lieutenant no vengeance. Are you fergettin how many o' us them yanks have put under?"

"I'm not forgetting anything. I'm not forgetting that one hundred forty-two men elected me Captain and followed me to Virginia, and there's seventeen left. I'm not likely to ever forget that. But the coward that shot that kid could just as easily have shot me. I'd like to think you'd be after him if he had."

Gage was offended. "Until my horse died under me, an my shoes fell off'n my feet, an then some. But that yank ain't nothin to you like you are to me."

"I'll tell you what he is to me, Sergeant. He's a kid playing soldier, who should have had a chance to grow up. You and me, we'd give our left arms to be able to go back in time and skip this war. But he felt deprived because he missed out on the fight. The man that shot him did it for only one reason; in hopes we'd all kill each other off, or do a good enough job of it to give him time to get the gold and be gone. I want to see the look in his eyes when he finds out there isn't any gold. And then I'll kill him."

Following the ambusher's tracks, they found the mountain silhouetted against a reddish purple sky at sundown, the jagged features along the crest almost exactly as drawn by Sgt. O'Kelly. The mountain rose perhaps a thousand feet above the valley floor, and a clearly defined path snaked its way up the slope. They passed the night without fires, and in the morning Drake made ready to head up the trail alone.

Sgt. Gage protested in vain. "There might be a dozen of em up there."

"You can see the tracks as well as I can," Drake said, "and the map doesn't say anything about another way up. Besides, this is my fight. Just give me until sundown. If I'm not back, then do what you think best."

The pass narrowed quickly, and Drake soon found himself closely walled in by rocks and trees. Halfway up he tied his horse beside the path, and throwing the pommel holsters and heavy revolvers over his shoulder, continued on foot. An hour later he came to a wide spot in the trail where two animals and a human had clearly spent the night. Drake reminded himself the man he sought had only gotten a two or three hour head start, and he drew the Colt from the holster at his left breast. He looked back the way he had come, breathing heavily, and could see nothing but mountainside. The bushwhacker would be cautious, for sure, but there was no way to look back down that winding trail and spot a pursuer who was more than fifty yards distant.

He walked on, comforted by the smooth walnut and steel of the revolver, taking a few steps, then stopping to rest. He didn't know when he might round a turn and find the cave, and he hoped his ragged breathing wasn't as loud to the rest of the world as it sounded to him.

Over the noise of his breathing he heard the nicker of a horse, followed immediately by the click of a cocking hammer somewhere behind and to the right of him. He put his thumb to the Colt's hammer spur.

"I wouldn't, Johnnie Reb. All I've gotta do is touch this trigger. You just holster that horse pistol, drop the lot, and keep on walkin, with your hands on top of your hat. Now!"

Drake did as he was told, feeling stupid and angry. He heard the bushwhacker drop to the ground behind him as he walked, and twenty paces later the path ended in a clearing. The horse and donkey were tied off to the right, and a small opening, roughly four feet square, disappeared darkly into the face of the granite. Twelve shiny golden rectangles, perhaps four by two by eight inches, were stacked on the ground near the entrance to the cave.

"A fine sight, hey, Johnnie? I swear I never thought you lot would actually come after it, though."

Drake looked at the ground. "I kinda thought it would turn out to be you, O'Kelly," he said.

O'Kelly walked by him, tossing the pommel holsters aside, a Spencer carbine trained on the center of Drake's heaving chest. "We had a deal, O'Kelly," Drake said. "That gold belongs to the Confederacy."

Michael O'Kelly was a big Irishman, over six feet tall, perhaps forty, with grizzled whiskers, red-nosed and paunchy. "But darlin," he laughed, "there is no Confederacy."

Drake didn't know what else to do, so he bought time. "If you didn't mean to keep your word, why did you bother drawing accurate maps?"

"Truth is, I drew em for meself, so's I wouldn't forget me way back here one day. The prison camp commander wound up with em, and it was me stay in your fine detention facility that prompted me to go to him, explain what they were, and offer the trade. I'd a give up me dear silver haired mother to get outa that hole."

"I've heard that about you."

O'Kelly frowned. "Now Johnnie, you're in no position to be sassin me. The slightest little annoyance might cause me to flinch and accidently blow a hole right through you. Understand?"

"I do. But I don't understand how you got here. I'd wager it wasn't on a horse."

"You've got that right, Johnnie. Once I made me way to Washington --no small feat, I might add, what with changin uniforms an makin up stories at the drop of a hat--it was easy to disappear in the crowd. I simply rolled drunks and whores until I had a stake, and made me way to Denver by coach and train, layin over when there was no ride to be had. I'd recommend the train, Johnnie, if you're ever travelin up north where they're still runnin." O'Kelly grinned and went on. "Now, you tell me a secret. How many men have you got left?"

"None. The handful still living have headed home to Texas. You started quite a ruckus back there." Drake thought it unlikely that O'Kelly had stuck around to watch the fight, considering the job Gage and the Gatling gun had done on his rifle perch.

"Well, now, we'll have to wait'n see if you're tellin the truth about your boys, but the ruckus was for a good cause. I was aimin at that miserable son-of-a-bitch of an Apache, the one the pepper-bellies think can't be killed, that they call el Milagro. He was fond of puttin me on a leash, an lettin the young savages play with me like some dog. Would you be so kind as to tell me if I got the bastard?"

Drake nodded toward the Spencer. "When a man opens up with a carbine from that range, he's not particular what he hits. I take that personally, O'Kelly."

O'Kelly wagged the carbine at Drake. "I've spoken to you about your disrespectful tone, laddybuck. If I were you, I'd be careful."

"And if I were you," Drake replied, "I wouldn't bother packing that stuff down the mountain."

"Oh, I believe I'll go to the trouble, Johnnie. You see, I done twenty years in this man's army, an' for what? I got no qualms about takin it. I was all for takin it on the way to Ft. Craig, but some of the boys were fearful the rumors weren't true, an if we broke the seal to find out, there'd be hell to pay. In fact, we were havin one helluva row about it when the greasers jumped us. But they didn't kill me, nor the injuns, nor you lot. I figger if there's anybody charmed it's me, an not that smelly savage. Nobody's gonna stop me." He leveled the carbine. "And I'm afraid, Johnnie, that includes you."

Drake knew there was no more time to buy. "Do you have a knife?"

O'Kelly tilted his head and grinned. "Why, you know, I was plannin to shoot you, Johnnie, but a knife ain't a bad idea, on account of you might have some friends back down the trail. But only if that's what you'd prefer."

"Cut into one of those bars, and you'll see why it's not worth hauling."

O'Kelly scowled. "What're you sayin?"

"I'm saying they sent you out to get killed guarding a shipment of lead. Look at the corner of that bar on top."

O'Kelly looked, and saw the gray dent. He unsheathed a skinning knife as he knelt beside the pile, his breath quickening. Pointing the Spencer at Drake with an unsteady left hand, he cut a 1/8-inch gouge into the edge of the ingot, clearly revealing the lead beneath the thin layer of gold.

"No," he said, unable to accept the truth. "Mother of Christ! No!"

Milagro's leap started fifteen feet away, in the boulders to O'Kelly's right. His foot landed on O'Kelly's forearm, jarring the Spencer loose as he grabbed O'Kelly by the shirt and threw him into the rock wall near the cave. Drake dove for his revolvers, shucking one free of its holster as the Apache shoved O'Kelly against the granite, a knife at his throat.

Drake thumbed back the hammer on the Colt as he rose to one knee. "No," he said. "Alto!"

Milagro remained motionless, his hot eyes fixed on O'Kelly's. "I will kill him, unless you kill me," he said, in Spanish.

O'Kelly's breath came in rapid bursts. "Christ, Johnnie, I wasn't goin to harm you! I was only havin some fun." He spoke in a raspy whisper, as if to keep the Apache from overhearing. "But this heathen won't rest 'til every white man in the territory's dead. For the love of God, shoot the son-of-a-bitch!"

"Good idea," Drake said, and pulled the trigger. Milagro released O'Kelly and let him slide down the wall to a sitting position, eyes wide and mouth agape. His lips moved, but no sound emerged as he slumped over and died.

Drake stood up, then lowered the Colt as he walked through the smoke toward the Apache. "He was the one shooting from the rocks," he said, in Spanish.

"I heard," Milagro replied, in English. "I know the words. It is better if the bluecoats don't know I understand them when they speak."

Drake nodded. "I could kill you right now. Why did you risk your life for me?"

Milagro spread his arms. "Maybe there are twenty warriors with rifles aimed at you. What do I risk?"

Drake knew there weren't any warriors around. He felt he understood the Apache, and the Apache understood him.

"I have no gold to trade," Milagro said. "I give you your life for the gun that keeps shooting."

Drake shook his head. "I can't do that."

"I will kill many bluecoats. It will be good for the graycoats."

"The bluecoats have defeated us, and they will defeat you. They have many men and guns, and real gold to buy whatever they need. The young bluecoat officer was going to ask you to surrender, and save your people's lives."

Milagro scoffed at the notion. "My people will not live at Bosque Redondo, begging for scraps and stealing blankets from the Navaho to keep from freezing. If the bluecoats want peace with me, why will they not leave Apache land to the Apache?"

"They don't want peace, they want this land. And they will take it for the same reason the Apache take blankets from the Navahos, and horses and cattle from the white settlers. They want it, and they're strong enough to take it. You can't imagine how many men and guns they can send against you. You won't stop them with a hundred of those guns that keep shooting. They'll kill every one of you if you keep fighting."

Sgt. Gage could hear the voices, but the old man couldn't quite make out the conversation. Stepping into the clearing, he glimpsed the menacing visage of an angry Apache warrior with a knife in his hand, glaring at his captain. He dropped to one knee and brought up his Enfield.

Drake shouted, "No!" but the word was lost in the roar of the gunshot.

They found Milagro's horse hidden and tied not far from Drake's. Sgt. Cage couldn't understand why a healthy horse had to be killed, or why a perfectly good Henry rifle needed to be entombed with its owner in the cave, but the captain insisted, so that was what they did. At the base of the mountain they felled enough pinion pines to make a good sized fire under and around the Gatling gun and the remaining ammunition. When the gun was fully engulfed and the cartridges were beginning to explode, Drake turned away and walked to his waiting troopers, where a downcast Sgt. Gage stood holding both their horses.

Taking the reins of Lt. Tyler's horse, Drake wearily hoisted himself into the saddle. "Sam," he said, "let's go home."

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