He tamped his pipe. “Tell you something. You fight shy of them Hayfields. Seen a couple of gents settin’ on that water with rifles. A body could figger they was waitin’ for somebody.”
The old man helped Cavagan to more stew. He rarely looked directly at Cavagan.
“Are they on the Hayfields or back up the draw?”
Pearson chuckled. “You do know this country. They’re on the Hayfields, an’ could be they don’t know the source of that water. Could be you’re figurin’ a man might slip around them, get water, and nobody the wiser.”
“If a man had a water sack he might get as far as Hidden Spring.”
The old man looked up sharply. “Hidden Spring? Never heard of it.”
“Southwest of Shaver’s … maybe three miles. Better water than Shaver’s.”
“You must be Cavagan.”
Cavagan did not reply. He finished the stew, rinsed the bowl, then filled his coffee cup.
“Nobody knows this country like Cavagan. That’s what they say. Nobody can ride as far or shoot as straight as Cavagan. They say that, too. They also say Cavagan is dead, left in the algodones with his hands tied. Lots of folks set store by Cavagan. Them Californios, they like him.”
Cavagan slept the day away, and the night following. Pearson made no move to leave, but loafed about. Several times he cooked, and he watched Cavagan eat.
Cavagan found him studying some Indian writing. “Can’t make head nor tail of it,” Pearson complained. “If them Cahuillas can, they won’t say.”
“This was done by the Old Ones,” Cavagan said, “the People Who Went Before. I’ve followed their trails in the mountains and across the desert.”
“They left trails?”
“A man can go from here to the Cahuilla village at Martinez. The trail follows the canyon back of the village and goes back of Sheep Mountain. There’s a branch comes down back of Indian Wells and another goes to the Indian village at the hot spring at the entrance to San Gorgonio Pass. There’s a way over the mountains to the coast, too.”
Back beside the fire Cavagan added coffee to what was in the pot, then more water before putting it on the fire. Pearson watched him. “Met a damn fool once who throwed out the grounds … throwed away the mother. Never seen the like. Can’t make proper coffee until she’s two, three days old.”
He lit his pipe. “A man like you, he might know a lot about water holes. Worth a lot to a man, knowin’ things like that.”
“The rock tanks in the Chocolates are dry this year,” Cavagan said, “but there’s a seep in Salvation Pass.” He poked twigs under the coffeepot. “Twenty, twenty-two miles east of Chuckawalla there’s a red finger of butte. Maybe a quarter of a mile east of that butte there’s a little canyon with a seep of water comin’ out of the rock. Good water.”
“Place like that could save a man’s life,” Pearson commented. “Good to know things like that.”
“The Cahuillas used the old trails. They know the springs.”
Wind was rustling the dry palm leaves when Cavagan crawled out in the early dawn and stirred the coals to life to make coffee.
Pearson shook out his boots, then put on his hat. When he had his boots on he went to the limb where his pants were hung and shook them out. A scorpion about four inches long dropped from a trouser leg and scampered away.
“Last time it was a sidewinder in my boot. A body better shake out his clothes before he puts ’em on.”
Pearson slipped suspenders over his shoulders. “Figger you’ll hit the trail today. If you rustle through that stuff of mine you’ll find you a water sack. Crossin’ that ol’ sea bottom out there, you’ll need it.” He hitched his shoulders to settle his suspenders. “Still find shells along that ol’ beach.”
“Cahuillas say a ship came in here once, a long time ago.”
“If they say it,” Pearson said, “it did.”
Cavagan filled the bag after rinsing it, then dipped it in water from the spring. Evaporation would keep it cool.
Pearson took a long knife from his gear. “Never catered to that one m’self, but a body never knows when he’ll need an extry.”
Cavagan shouldered the sack and thrust the knife into his belt. “Look me up some time,” he said. “Just ask for Cavagan.”
Pearson’s back was turned, packing gear, when Cavagan spoke. He let him take a dozen steps, and then said, “You get to Los Angeles, you go to the Calle de los Negros. Ask for Jake. He owes me money an’ I expect he might have a pistol. Get whatever you need.”
John Sutton sat at dinner at one end of a long table in his ranch house at Calabasas. The dinner had been enhanced by a turkey killed the day before at a cienaga a few miles away. He was restless, but there was no reason for it. Almost a month had gone by. His men had returned to the algodones but found no trace of Cavagan. Nor had they expected to. He would have died out on the desert somewhere.
Juan Velasquez saw the rider come up the canyon as he loafed near the gate, standing guard. At the gate the rider dismounted and their eyes met in the gathering dusk. “Buenos noches, Senor,” Juan said. “I had expected you.”
“So?”
“I have an uncle in Sonora, Senor. He grows old, and he asks for me.”
“Adios, Juan.”
“Adios, Senor.”
Cavagan walked up the steps and into the house where John Sutton sat at dinner.
ONE NIGHT STAND
Stephen Malone was tall, handsome, immaculate, and broke. He lay on his back, hands clasped behind his head, trying not to think about breakfast. Three weeks ago he had been playing lead roles in Hearts Of Oak, Hamlet, and Davy Crockett on successive nights. Then the bookings ran out, the play closed, and the manager skipped town with the company funds, leaving them stranded.
For some time he had been aware of voices in the next room. A girl was speaking. “He can’t! He wouldn’t dare!”
The man’s tone was touched with despair. “They say he’s killed fourteen men. For the kind of money Mason would pay, the Kid wouldn’t hesitate to make it fifteen.”
There was a pause. “Even before my hand was crippled I couldn’t match him. Now I wouldn’t stand a chance.”
“But Pa, if Hickok comes — ?”
“If he can get here in time! He’s not the kind to forget what I did for him, but unless he shows up I’m finished. Else, I’d give a thousand dollars to see Bill Hickok walk through that door right now!”
Stephen Malone knew a cue when he heard one. He stepped into the hall and rapped on the door of their room.
“Who’s there?” It was the man’s voice.
“Bill Hickok.”
The door opened and he was facing a thin old man with gray hair, and a pretty, dark-haired girl. “You aren’t Bill Hickok!” The man was disgusted.
“No,” Malone said, “but for a thousand dollars I will be.”
“You’re a gunfighter?” Else demanded.
“I’m an actor. It is my business to make people believe I am somebody else.”
“This is different. This isn’t playacting.”
“He could kill you,” Else said. “You wouldn’t have a chance.”
“Not if I’m a good enough actor. Not many men would try to draw a gun on Wild Bill Hickok.”
“It’s a fool idea,” the man said.
“So there’s an element of risk. I’ve played Hamlet, Macbeth, and Shylock. Why not Wild Bill?”
“Look, son, you’ve undoubtedly got nerve, and probably you’re a fine actor, but this man is a killer. Oh, I know he’s a tinhorn, but you wouldn’t have a chance!”
“Not if I’m a good enough actor.”
“He’s talking nonsense, and you both know it!” Else protested.
“To play Hickok, son, you’ve got to be able to shoot like Hickok.”
“Only if I play it badly. You say the Kid is a tinhorn, I’ll trust to your judgment and my skill.”
Brady walked to the window. “It might work, you know. It just might.”
“It would be suicide!” Else objected.
Brady turned from the window. “I am Emmett Brady. This is my daughter, Else. Frank Mason wants my range, and the Pioche Kid is a friend of his. He was brought here to kill me.”
“The pleasure will be mine, sir,” Malone bowed.
“Did anyone see you come into the hotel?” Brady asked.
“Only the man at the desk. It was two o’clock in the morning.”
“Then it’s all right. Jim Cooley is a friend of mine.”
“Get him to spread the story that Hickok is in town, and once the story is around, I’ll make my play.”
“It’s ridiculous!” Else declared. “Why should you risk your life for us?”
“Miss Brady, as much as I’d enjoy posing as Sir Galahad, I cannot. I’m no knight in armor, just a stranded actor. But for a thousand dollars? I haven’t made that much in a whole season!”