In Spanish Ignacio said: “Kill him quickly and let’s go.”
“No.” Charlie replied in the same language. “We’ll have to give something to the sheriff. If he has McAllister, that’ll maybe satisfy him. We’ll leave McAllister and some of the gold. He has no idea how much there is. He’ll maybe think he has it all.”
The Mexican nodded. “Simple, but effective, I think.”
They were in the big chamber where Charlie had shown McAllister the gold. In the corner lay McAllister, bound hand and foot, with a blanket tied over his head like a hood so that he could hear and see little.
The two men each picked up a container of treasure. The contents of the parfleche which Charlie had emptied earlier they left lying on the ground. When the old man tried to walk, carrying his gold, he staggered. He knew that he was not going far or fast with such a burden. He could carry it no further than the exit. He would dump it there and bring a burro or two to it. He did not think beyond that because he dared not. His plan was in fragments. He and Ignacio were back where they started, toting the gold out of the hills on their own. What had seemed so simple was now so complicated that he could not see his way through it. His old brain was tired.
He started for the entrance and saw Ignacio stooped under his burden. Ignacio was his next problem. He had never trusted his partner and he trusted him less now.
He stopped when he found his way barred by the tall figure which cast monstrous shadows. For a moment, old Charlie gawped, thrown off balance.
“What in hell’re you doin’ here?” he said.
The man was dressed in rough range clothes. In his hands he carried a Spencer carbine. He looked like he did not carry it from habit, but with purpose.
“I’m here for the same reason you are, Charlie. And the Mex there. I’m here for the gold.”
Ignacio could see death in the man’s eyes. He had been in the revolutionary army below the border when he and his comrades had been rounded up by the lancers. The lancer captain, son of a Mexico City rico, had that look in his eyes when he condemned every fifth man to death—just for starters.
The Mexican said: “Let us be practical, Clegg. There is enough here for us all.”
Clegg laughed.
“You’ll have to do better than that,” he said. His right hand worked the lever of the carbine. Ignacio watched the muzzle. His death was contained there.
Even old Charlie was shocked— “Christ, Clegg, you ain’t goin’ to—”
Clegg smiled when he said: “Aw, yes, Charlie, but I am.” And he fired. The noise of the two explosions, one after the other, was deafening in the confined space. The little Mexican was flung across the chamber, he staggered back against the wall and then fell forward on to his face.
Another figure burst from the shadows, thrust its way past Clegg and stared down at the prostrate figure of the Mexican with horror.
“My God,” Manuel cried, “why did you do this?” He seemed to have difficulty in taking his gaze from his dead kinsman to stare at Clegg. Then he shifted his attention to old Charlie who stood limp and thunderstruck. It had all happened so quickly. As he watched Charlie’s face, he saw the realization come. The old man knew he was going to die.
Clegg was watching him too, as if the sight of an old man about to die was of some clinical interest to him.
“So there was gold after all, old man,” Clegg said. “I never thought you was lyin’. A lot of fellers owe me drinks now.” Charlie said falteringly: “You mean this was all planned?”
“The whole kit and caboodle. You been suckered, Charlie, but good.”
Manuel was shaking his head slowly from side to side in a kind of crazy, heartbroken way. The killing of Ignacio was too much for him to take in. When this had started, he saw himself with money and power, but he did not see himself with a dead kinsman lying bloody in front of him.
“So think about it, Clegg,” Charlie was saying. “It ain’t no-never-mind cuttin’ down a Mex, but, hell, you kill a whiteman … you’ll hang, Clegg. The sheriff’s headed this way right this minute.”
“We fixed it,” said Clegg, “so Southern will find this place without no trouble.”
“You mean you’re in with Southern?”
Manuel said: “You shut your mouth, Charlie. Remember? I’m one of those Mexes who is no-never-mind. Knock the old fool off, Jack. Nobody don’t need him.”
“I was your family’s friend,” Charlie said. His voice was pleading now. “You ain’t a bad boy, Manuel. You’re just in bad company. You save me, Manuel. Do somethin’, for God’s sake.”
Manuel said: “Do it, Clegg, and let’s get this gold out of here.”
“No,” Charlie said.
Clegg’s gaze fell on McAllister’s still form.
“Who’s that yonder?” he asked.
“McAllister,” Charlie said.
That amused Clegg. He laughed again. He was getting a lot of laughs today. He walked over to McAllister, fumbled one-handed with the knots that tied the rope holding the blanket around the prisoner’s head and pulled it off. He stared into McAllister’s dark, still eyes. They were so deadly that for a brief moment Clegg was unaccountably abashed. But he regained his composure. This was his day. He said: “If it ain’t old Rem. Hell, old Rem, it sure do look like somebody settled your hash good. Ain’t life a real son-of-a-bitch? Here’re you hog-tied by the feller that hired you, double-dealed by the feller that you busted out of jail. There just ain’t nothin’ in all this for you, friend. Less than nothin’. You’re as dead as last week’s mutton. Old Southern is sure goin’ to stretch that neck of yourn into the great hereafter.”
“Clegg.”
Manuel screamed his name.
Clegg whirled to see the Mexican sprawled on the ground and Charlie’s heels disappearing into the tunnel. Clegg crossed the chamber with long strides. Into the tunnel, he yelled: “Come back, you old fool, you ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
Manuel hauled himself to his feet. “Kill the old bastard,” he said.
“You bet your sweet life,” said Clegg and thrust the barrel of the Spencer into the dark hole. He fired three shots, taking his time. There was a faint, fading scream from within the narrow tunnel. The air inside the chamber was foul with burned black powder fumes. Clegg said: “Manuel, you get in there and drag him out.”
“Me?” said Manuel. “I don’t haul carrion.”
Clegg said: “Get haulin’ or I kick your ass from here to El Paso.”
Manuel looked as if he might make a fight of it, but he changed his mind and crawled out of sight. Clegg hitched his pants and walked over to the treasure on the floor. He dropped to one knee and picked up a necklace that had been made by a master craftsman some thousand years before. He thought it a mighty pretty thing and said so, conversing one-sidedly with McAllister as if the circumstances were normal.
McAllister said: “Jack, is there some kind of a deal we can do so you untie me?”
Clegg gave him a careless glance. “Nope,” he said. “There ain’t.”
“We was partners for a while.”
“You’re appealin’ to feelin’s I don’t have, Rem. All I have feelin’s for is this here gold. We wasn’t partners. You was a sucker, is all.”
McAllister shut his mouth and kept it shut. He thought with his usual and quite misplaced confidence: I’m going to kill this bastard. He hated to be suckered more than anything in the world. He couldn’t remember when anybody had suckered him and gotten away with it. Of course, there always had to be a first time and maybe this was it.
After a few minutes, Manuel came into view, crawling backwards and sweating a lot. A moment later, old Charlie was revealed, face downwards. He had been hit three times from behind—once in the buttocks, once under the left shoulder-blade and once through the back of the head. Clegg viewed him and nodded, pleased with himself. “Not so bad at that, considerin’ I couldn’t see him.” He gestured to the parfleches and sacks Charlie and Ignacio had left on the ground. “Let’s get haulin’. I’m stupid. I should of left these two alive till they’d hauled for us.”
“What about me, Jack?” McAllister asked.
“You?” said Clegg. “I ain’t forgot you, Rem. I’m savin’ you for old Southern. He’ll be as pleased as a dog with two peckers gettin’ you as a present. He wants to hang you, boy. I swear.”
Manuel took hold of his burdens and staggered with them to the exit. He disappeared from view, dragging them with him. Clegg gave McAllister a grin and a mocking wave, and followed suit.
They had left a candle burning.
McAllister leaned forward and took a closer look at Ignacio. The man’s eyes were open. He was miraculously alive. Not very much alive, but alive just the same. And that little bit of life was what counted at this stage in the game.
“If you’re strong enough,” McAllister said, “to untie my hands, Ignacio, I could stop you bleeding and that could save your life. How about it?”
“Sta bueno,” Ignacio said, and gave a small weak grin.