Champion had been at loose ends when he encountered Wylie. He had worked for a while with the Pah-Utes, stealing horses from the ranches and running them back to Nevada to sell, stealing horses there and selling them in California. The fact that he knew the outlaw hangouts in the Kingstons had led Wylie to him.
Wylie had heard of Horsethief Spring, but he wanted to know more, and Champion, who had just spent the last of his horse-stealing money, knew when he had something somebody wanted. He held out for cash, and then when he got a smell of what it was all about, for a piece of the business.
He did not like Wylie. Spencer, big and dumb, he could ignore; Wylie he must watch as one watches a rattler. But somewhere along the line whatever they had was going to belong to Champion. How, he did not know that remained for the gods of Chance to dictate. Champion had calculated his chances, and several things were in his favor. He was better with a gun than Wylie believed, and he could throw a knife as straight as he could shoot. Moreover, he had a good idea what Wylie was looking for, and possibly more knowledge of it than Wylie had. Wylie had been cagey, and had not told him anything definite, only advancing money to Champion and making large promises. But Allison liked to talk when he had the chance, and Champion proved a good listener.
Champion had heard all the stories everybody had heard them. The story of the River of Gold he had heard as he had heard many others, but this was different, because one night on one of their horse-stealing forays he had listened to the Indians talking among themselves when they believed him asleep.
They had talked of the killing of some strange white men by their forefathers. Gold had been found among their possessions, gold the Indians knew had come from the cave where the river flowed. From what the Indians said the men killed had been not Spanish, but French… and two of them had escaped. The story had been told because one of the Indians had reminded them that they were near the spot.
Dozens of fake maps had been sold to credulous buyers, but one word uttered by Allison had been the tip-off for Champion, a word that would mean nothing to anyone unless he knew something of the location of the cave. From that moment Champion had put aside his doubts. Allison’s map existed, and it was likely that Callaghen had it, or a copy. It was also likely that Wylie had memorized that map.
The basin into which they rode offered no suggestion of man. The mountain walls were stark, there were scattered Joshua trees, and in the east two buttes stood like sentinels by the gap that opened into the larger valley beyond. Champion saw no tracks, but he was wary of this place. Table Mountain seemed to bar the way on one side. To the south was a high plateau of the Providence Mountains, Wild Horse Canyon, and some rugged terrain where there was a gap through which he had never ridden.
Ahead of them there was a spring. He studied the area and looked at the mountains around. He was definitely uneasy. “I don’t like the look of it,” he said to Wylie. “Something ain’t right.”
“You gettin’ the wind up?” Wylie asked. “I never saw an emptier place in my life. But this isn’t gettin’ us any closer to Callaghen and that map!”
“It’s a big cave.” Champion let his comment fall casually. “All the gold may not be in just one part of it.”
Kurt Wylie turned his neck with a certain stiffness, a poised readiness. “What cave are you talkin’ about?”
Champion took his plug of tobacco from his pocket and contemplated it gravely. Then he bit off some, rolled it in his jaws, and chewed silently for a few minutes. He spat, and then said, “The cave of the River of Gold. That’s what you’re huntin’, ain’t it?”
“Who told you that?”
“A man can figure,” Champion said. “That’s the most gold anywhere around, and it’s somewhere in this country. I’ve heard,” he added, “the Injuns say there’s a dozen entrances, and some of them say there’s miles of cave under this part of the Mohave.”
Wylie was not pleased.
CHAPTER 18
There was no sun in the sky when Callaghen and the others started out and pointed across the long slope of the dome toward Marl Springs. Callaghen took the point position, and led off toward Wildcat Butte.
No Indians showed themselves, and they heard no shots. Callaghen walked steadily. Out on the slope there was no place to stop, no place to hide. Sparse scattered growth there was, but nothing like cover, only the open plain under a vast sky.
Callaghen held a modest pace. The men behind him were in no shape to go faster, and at any time they might be attacked.
Ten or eleven miles… between four and five hours if they were lucky. Six would be a faker estimate, considering the shape they were in.
Callaghen was unshaven and dirty. He desperately wanted a bath and a chance to shave. More than that, he wanted water to drink and hours of sleep. When they had walked for an hour he stopped them for ten minutes, and each man took a drink of water.
“I never thought I’d grow to like that place,” Mercer commented, “but right now I’d give five years of my life to see it right there ahead of me.”
Callaghen looked around, studying every aspect of the slope. For them to be attacked here, their enemies must approach and be within sight for at least half a mile in any direction.
He had taken his bearings that morning. The rock that looked like a great rounded dome, or, stupa, stuck in his mind. It was a natural comparison to make for anyone familiar with India, for the shape was identical. The rocks around it were a natural fortress with many good firing positions and a field of fire on all sides.
It was that stupa-like formation that had given him the idea that the map was deliberately wrong, purposely out of kilter. It was there on the map, not really noticeable, because it was small, but when a man had seen the formation he knew what it was, and he would remember it if he had a mind like Callaghen’s.
The real trouble was with the Indians. How could a man go against them? They seemed always to be close by, always to be ready, never wanting a fight they could not win, just coming and going like shadows.
He held no animosity for them. They were fighting men, as he was, and they fought for what they wanted, as he did, and he respected them for it. Being captured by them would be bad, but there were other places he had been where capture would have been no better.
Whoever had drawn that map had done so deliberately, so that if it fell into the wrong hands it would do them no good.
The Indians knew him now. He had killed several of their warriors, and they would want him dead so he could kill no more. At the same time, they were careful not to get too close.
As they approached Marl Springs it looked the same the stockade, the stone houses, the low mountain rising behind, with the hollow where they had grazed the horses. Smoke rose from the stockade, but no one was in sight.
Sprague looked past him. “Do you think it’s safe, Sergeant?”
“I never try to outguess an Indian, sir. They have their own ways of thinking. We’ve come this far, so we’ll go on in.”
The gate opened. It was Ridge at the gate, rifle in hand. He looked drawn and exhausted.
“Becker’s dead,” he said. “They got him last evenin’. He was a damn good man.”
“Put that on his grave,” Callaghen said. “That’s epitaph enough for any man.”
Malinda came to the door, staring wide-eyed at him. He went to her. “I’m back,” he said, finding no quick words to say.
“Come in. There’s coffee.” She faced him. “Mort, you haven’t come back to much. There’s very little left.”
Aunt Madge was lying down inside. It startled him, for he had never seen her lying down before. She sat up when he entered. “I’m sorry, Callaghen,” she said. “I just tired out all of a sudden.”
He went out, and she could hear Ridge talking to him and Sprague. “Becker saw a deer. We needed grub, so he stepped out with his rifle. We hadn’t seen an Injun in a long time. But we should have wondered about that deer. It came down into the hollow where the horses grazed. At first it looked wary, and then it settled down to eating grass. I think the Indians saw that deer and deliberately moved so it would walk away from them, gradually working it within sight, knowing somebody would be damn fool enough to come after it.