Chapter Thirty-seven
Silas Shaw was out of the rain and out of water.
To the east, the green peaks of the Sierra Alta sky island stood in stark contrast to the surrounding desert brush country, thick with creosote, yucca, and mesquite. A single buzzard glided in lazy circles above his head as Shaw rode steadily south on a tired horse.
Darkness would fall soon and he needed a place to hole up, get water and grub.
He’d not come across the tracks of Condor’s mules, nor could he see any living thing in the shimmering distance ahead of him. It was lost, lonely country, once a refuge for the Apache and Comanche, but they were long gone and had made no mark on the land.
Shaw’s head ached, his eyes burned, and his mouth was dry as mummy dust. His left arm ached—had since he left the Apache Hills. He wondered if he’d injured it.
Only his searing hatred for Nate Condor drove him on. . . .
A hundred and thirty thousand dollars was enough for a two-way split, sixty-five thousand each, plenty to last a man the rest of his life if he was careful. He’d wanted the money for Martha. He’d watched her wither like a rose in the sun, so far from the Eastern cities she loved and the boisterous, artsy theater crowd that sustained her body and soul.
When they’d arrived in Recoil they knew it was the last stage stop on the road to hell. There was no escape, no return to what once had been. Their life had suddenly become one of scraping, scratching, penny-pinching, and making do.
He blamed the world for their misery—the audiences that no longer applauded, the agents who ignored him, and the miserable clerical job he was forced to accept in a bank that later accused him of embezzlement and hounded him all the way to the western frontier and oblivion.
On a business trip to Lordsburg, Shaw’s life took a sudden and dramatic turn. He’d talked with another storekeeper in a saloon who told him they were hanging a man named Dixon Trent in the morning and asked if he planned to stay on and watch the show.
Only mildly interested, Shaw asked why the fellow was being hung.
“Knifed a man. But from what I hear, the killing was over a fortune in gold that the dead man wanted to keep for himself.” The storekeeper shrugged. “That’s the way I heard it, anyway.”
Still not biting on the hook the other man dangled, Shaw brushed it off. “Probably a squabble about a mine that’s never produced an ounce of gold in a twenty year,” Shaw had said. “It happens all the time.”
The storekeeper shook his head. “It’s no mine, friend. Trent says he knows the whereabouts of an army pay wagon that was captured by Apaches about ten years ago. He says it’s in a place where nobody can find it but him.”
At that, Shaw was interested. “How much gold?”
“At least a hundred thousand dollars’ worth. Maybe more. Hey, it’s down in your neck of the woods, in the Hachita Valley someplace.” The man laughed. “Maybe you’ll find it.”
“Maybe I will,” Shaw said, smiling.
Silas Shaw was an uneasy man. As he rode, he constantly checked his back trail. After his third or fourth turn of the head he saw what he feared most . . . a rising plume of dust behind him.
He didn’t hesitate or take time to think anything through. He stepped from the saddle, slid his Winchester from the boot, and lay belly down under the meager shade of a mesquite. With a fortune at stake, anybody riding the desert country was his enemy.
The day was well gone and the Sierra Alta gathered shadow around itself like a great dusky cloak. Heat waves still danced in the distance and the lowering sun was warm on his back. Sweat running from under his hair to his cheeks, he waited, his red-rimmed, burning eyes on the approaching dust.
Five minutes passed . . . then ten....
The dust was much closer. Shaw saw a dark speck that grew in size until it became as large as a fly on a windowpane.
It was a mounted man and he was coming on at a walk.
Shaw grinned. “Come on. Just a little closer.” He racked a .44-40 round into the chamber and waited with a predator’s patience. A man born with a natural skill at arms, he was confident of his shooting ability. This would be real easy.
A minute passed . . . another.... The rider came on as though he was out for a canter in the park.
Shaw settled his sights on the man’s chest where it showed wide above his mount’s lowered head. He took up the slack in the Winchester’s curved trigger. Took a deep breath and let part of it out. . . .
Now!
Shaw fired. But the rider still sat upright in the saddle.
Then, like an axed pine the man swayed slowly to his left side, gathered momentum, and thudded into the sand where he lay still.
Grinning to himself, Shaw got to his feet. He’d always been a dab hand with a long gun and he’d proved it again. He gathered up his horse, swung into the saddle, and headed south again.
He didn’t look back at the man on the ground.
The solo rider was dead. Nobody lived for long after a hit to the center of the chest.
Damn, his arm hurt and so did his jaw. And the gnawing pain was getting worse.
As the day slowly shaded into night, Shaw knew what ailed him. It was thirst. He needed water and soon.
By nightfall, with the Boca Grande Mountains in sight, Silas Shaw had not come across tracks, not even those of an animal. He camped by a dry creek and made his bed in the sand. He was hungry, thirsty, and his throbbing, pulsating headache gave him no peace. He felt sick enough to throw up and everywhere he looked he saw flashes of light.
He needed Martha to comfort him. But Martha was not there. There was only him. Somewhere out in the darkness, a campfire lit the sneering face of Nate Condor as he drank hot coffee, never sparing a thought for the man who’d been his boss.
The anger and envy spiking at him only made Shaw’s headache worse. The ache in his arm was a living thing, giving him no peace. He groaned and buried his face in his trembling hands and wished for morning.