Or had the change not begun before that, when my wife died, and my son?
There were fires enough. Each year families died, homes were destroyed. Sparks from a fireplace, overturned candlesticks… there were many such accidents, and mine had been but one of these.
My tragedy was but one among many, but to me it was the only one. To me my wife and son were not statistics, but the heartbeat of my life.
Had the change begun then? Or was there, actually, any change at all? Had not these feelings, these instincts, been lying deep within me?
Holding myself still here beside a yawning black hole into wh soon I must go, I found myself ready to enter, ready and even anxious for what awaited within.
There had never been any of the cowardice in me that makes men move in gangs to hunt other men.
What fighting I had to do I wanted to do with equal weapons, with even terms. Yet the new wisdom I had acquired told me the enemy had no such scruples.
Suddenly, ducking my head, I went through the entrance into the dark coolness of the cavern.
Flattened against the wall, my back protected, I listened.
A moment I waited, holding my breath. The cave was cool, still. I heard no sound, no breathing, no chafe of clothing against a cave wall. I edged along, took a step, then another. No light now… I must work in darkness. I had counted the steps from the Maltese Cross to the cave mouth. Now I counted them back… found the branch cave I sought. A few steps too far now and I would plunge into t abyss… perhaps hundreds of feet deep.
There had been a round rock on the floor within inches of the cross. My toe touched it. Kneeling I felt of it, then felt along the wall for the cross.
The long arm of the cross pointed toward the abyss, but I was sure that was a trap or perhaps pure accident. I believed the treasure was buried beneath the cross. With my fingers, I probed the dust at the base of the cross.
Solid! My fingers felt for edges, and there were none, felt for softness, and all was hard. The cave floor had been undisturbed for years.
So there it was then. I had failed. It only remained for me to return, to go back the way I had come, get Lucinda and ride, trusting to my good companions to come when they could. Heath and Ebitt agreed it was the thing to do.
But empty-handed?
My hands felt the wall, searching for cracks my touch might find that sight had failed to perceive.
There was nothing.
A Maltese Cross has two arms, either of which could point at something, a bottom that could also be a pointer. But the top? Suddenly I felt upward, reaching as high as I could… nothing.
And I was a tall man, taller than most.
Yet my fingers did not reach the cave ceiling.
Somehow I had believed it was low, just above my head. Now I knew that was an illusion of the darkness, as the cave went higher still. Crouching by the wall, I considered that.
I was well back into the cave, yet to see what lay above I must have a torch. They were close at hand, some pine knots that would burn well and throw a good light. It was unlikely that such a light could be seen outside the cave, yet from the mountain opposite, it was possible.
Minutes were passing. How long had I been gone?
Feeling for the pine chunks, I found them, also a section of log from which pine slivers had been broken. Suddenly I realized it would make a good footstool. I could stand upon it and reach higher.
Edging it into position, I stood on it, balancing with my hands against the wall, then reached up.
My fingers encountered some sticky strings. A shiver went through me. I touched my fingers, which I had hastily jerked back. Not pitch, something slippery, wet. Moisture from a stalactite? No… there were no grains, no powdery-wet feeling.
What then?
Blood?… Blood!… But whose blood?
My hand went up again, again the wet finger, then buckskin… an arm, a fringed sleeve.
I must have a light. Feeling for flint and steel, I was stopped by a low moan.
Lighting a small sliver of the pitch pine, I stepped back on the log and held it up.
As my small light flared, the injured man’s head turned.
“Davy! Davy Shanagan! How in God’s world did you–his” “Had to… hide. They were comin’. I crawled, found a hole up above. I crawled, and fell… maybe six, seven feet. Started bleedin’ again. I tucked your moss in, finally got her stopped.” Holding up my hands, I got him under the armpits while he held the pine sliver. Then I eased him down to the floor of the cave.
“I’m better. Slept some.” “I was hunting the treasure, Davy. Had no idea you were up there.” “Figured as much. Well, you needn’t hunt no longer. It’s there.” I stood up. “Davy… you mean it?” “Sure. When I crawled in the crack up there, I fell right atop of it. She’s there, all right. At least there’s four hide cases up there … rotted some. One of them busted when I fell.” “Davy, the treasure will have to wait. I’ve got to get you to Ebitt and Heath. They’re just–was “You don’t need to do that, Chantry. A bullet will take care of him, and another for you!” It was Rafen Falvey.
I left the cave floor in a plunging dive with all the thrust of my legs behind it, and I hit him just below the knees.
CHAPTER 21
He fell back, out of the cave, and we came up together. His men were waiting outside and I prayed they had heard nothing. They started to close in, but the click of a rifle hammer stopped them.
“We got some rifles out here”–it was Solomon Talley speaking–“and we don’t much mind who we shoot. You men just step back and let them be. If they’ve something to settle, let them have at it.” Falvey laughed. “You’d fight me?” His amusement was obvious. “Schoolteacher, you’re more of a fool than I suspected.” “Possibly. But that’s something we’ll have to discover, isn’t it?” “What weapons then, schoolmaster, do you choose?” “Whatever you like. I’d prefer to whip you with a weapon you’ve chosen. Shall it be hand-to-hand?” He laughed again. “Scholar, in my pirate days I was considered the greatest hand-to-hand fighter among all who flew the black flag. Why not choose again?” “Afraid?” His laughter wiped out on the instant.
“Afraid? Of you? Why, you contemptible–to ” “What is it then? Are you choosing name-calling, Falvey? Is that your weapon? Only a loud mouth?” “Hand-to-hand, then. Fists and as you will. Take to the knife when it pleases us.” “And no interruptions, gentlemen!” That was Heath speaking, so they were here, too. All of us, I hoped.
He struck, suddenly, savagely. An inch or two lower and he might have knocked me out, but there was a quick, partial move to evade on my part and the fist took me on the cheekbone, a wicked blow that staggered me, shook me to my heels, and all I could do was duck my head and close with him.
He threw me promptly, over his hip and into the dust, and then he dropped, a knee ready for my belly, but I rolled over swiftly, unexpectedly for him, and we both came up fast. But that time I was first to land. A stiff, straight punch to the teeth, that shook him to his heels and then we were fairly at it.
He was the taller man, with the longer arms, and he was heavier, but since a boy I had hiked and rambled in the woods, had swung an axe, and growing older had tumbled and wrestled with other lads. In Europe I had fenced and boxed.
Often I had sparred with Daniel Mendoza, one of the greatest pugilists of the time, hence I was not quite the innocent they believed me to be.
He smashed me in the face with both fists, and I put a solid one to his ribs. He struck me again, on the ear, then on the chest, but I put another one under his heart. We sparred briefly, and then were at it, hammer and tongs, both fists flying. He landed more punches, andfora time the harder ones, but I put three more stiff ones into his midsection, and one to the face.
He backheeled me and we both fell. Again he tried for my groin with the knee, but I smashed up with both feet as he came down and kicked him off. He hit the ground on his backside, but we both came to our feet together.