Chapter Forty-three
A man can take a lot of punishment, a fact he learned real fast when he was driving mules.
Nate Condor figured enough was enough. He had the sailor’s inborn dislike of riding and the gunfighter’s disdain for any task that even hinted at manual labor. On top of that, he’d been eating dust for miles and he was hot, sweaty, and itched all over.
Mules were a chore. They were sorry, spiteful creatures born with a streak of meanness and murder. Unloading them every night and burdening them all over again in the morning tried a man’s soul.
Condor and Merden rode past three peaks to their west—Bessie Rhoads Mountain, the Soldier’s Farewell Hill, and finally JPB Mountain—one following close after the other. Finally, they were among the foothills of the high Big Burro peaks.
“Barney, look for a place out of sight where we can corral the mules for a day or two,” Condor said.
“How come, Cap’n?” Merden’s face was covered in a layer of gray dust, just like Condor’s.
“I’m going on ahead to Silver City. I need to talk to the Gimp before we bring in the gold.”
Merden didn’t look any too happy. “Hell, Nate, we can stash the mules in a canyon and both go.”
“And leave a hundred and thirty thousand dollars unattended?” Condor said. “Are you out of your damned mind? I’m sure that gun-fighting Pinkerton is somewhere behind us.”
“We can handle Dallas Steele.”
“Maybe so, but I’d rather not put it to the test. And neither would you if you had any sense.”
After a mile, Condor noticed a slab of bedrock that slanted upward and lost itself in a mixed stand of pine and aspen. He’d no way of telling if the rock ended at the towering cliff face behind it or if there was a space between wide enough to hold the mules.
He left Merden and rode around the bedrock, a distance of about fifty yards, then looped back, keeping to the bottom of the cliff. To his joy, Condor saw that the rock shelf did indeed stop short of the cliff to form a fairly large arroyo. The rock was at least twenty feet high and the canyon was invisible from the trail.
He explored farther and saw grass and water. Not a great deal, only a steady drip that fell from a break in the cliff and splashed into a stone tank, but it was enough. Black circles of old fires scarred the grass and Condor reckoned the Comanche had once used this place.
He rode onto the flat again and rejoined Merden. “I found a spot where you can hole up, Barney. It’s behind the shelf of rock.”
“What kind of spot?” Merden was suspicious, not liking this one bit.
“There’s enough grass for two, three days . . . and water. You’ll have tortillas and whiskey and be cozy enough.” Condor slapped his forehead. “What the hell am I thinking? Before I leave we’ll unload the gold and stash it at the back of the arroyo. When I come back I’ll bring a wagon. We can turn the damned mules loose and you won’t have to deal with them.”
Merden smiled. “Now you’re thinking real good, Cap’n. The mules will scatter to hell and gone and leave false trails all over the place.”
“But no fire, Barney. Make a cold camp.”
“Hell, I know that, Nate.”
“Right, then let’s get it done.”
As Nate Condor rode north he smiled to himself. Turning the mules loose was a stroke of genius. The gold in the sacks was enough to tempt any man and by times, Barney was easily tempted. With the mules loose, there was no way he could load up the gold and strike out for himself, heading back south into Old Mexico.
There was always the possibility that he would tie a couple of sacks to his saddle and light a shuck, but Condor dismissed that possibility. He decided Barney was just stupid enough to take his chances, but the man must know Chihuahua was infested with bandits who would pretty soon strip him of his gold and his life.
The Gimp may be a damned cheating crook, but trading with him was a sight safer than heading into Mexico.
Besides, Barney Merden was loyal to a fault and when the time came, as it was coming soon, he’d be easy to kill.
Condor ignored the thronged streets of Silver City with their colorful, noisy mix of miners, cowboys, soldiers, whores, Mexican peons, stately dark-eyed señoritas, and shifty young men on the make. He rode into the city’s business district and drew rein outside a gloomy building in a gloomy street in what was the gloomiest part of town.
The place of business of Silas Strangewayes, nicknamed the Gimp, but never said to his face, was a dingy, narrow storefront on the ground floor of a rickety timber building. Three stories of offices and storerooms towered threateningly above.
The large window was painted black. Faded gold lettering announced
SILAS STRANGEWAYES
Egg and Cheese Importer
Condor had done business with Strangewayes before, and to his certain knowledge, the man had never imported a single egg nor a morsel of cheese in his life.
He dismounted and looped the reins around the iron ring on a post that stood at the edge of the sidewalk. Strangewayes’ door was never locked and Condor opened it to the sound of a clanging bell and stepped inside.
He walked into a single room of moderate size that contained only a desk, two chairs, and a grandfather clock that ticked with a solemn resonance.
Silas Strangewayes sat at his desk, scratching a steel pen across a ledger that was at least four inches thick. He didn’t look up, his eyes puddles of darkness under a black visor. He was a bent, scrawny, scarecrow of a man, dressed in frayed broadcloth, his linen yellowed with age. Strands of thin, white hair fell over his rounded shoulders and tufts of darker hair sprouted from his nose and ears. He was said to be worth a million dollars, but nobody really knew.
“What can I do for you?” Strangewayes’ voice sounded like the creak of a rusty gate.
“It’s me, Silas. Captain Nate Condor as ever was.”
“Bah! The Arab slave trade is gone, destroyed by the damned, infernal British navy and the meddling Dutch.”
“I’m not here to talk about the slaves,” Condor said. “I’ve got something much more important in mind.”
“Then what do you want to talk about? Damn your eyes, speak up, man. Time is money.”
“I want to talk about one hundred and thirty thousand dollars, mostly in gold coin.”
Strangewayes laid down his pen and looked up. His face was long, narrow, bony, and gray. “What is all this to me?”
“Silas, I can’t walk into a bank and deposit a wagonload of gold. And I can’t lug it around with me.”
“What do you want me to do with it, huh? And where did you get this gold?”
“It was taken from an army pay wagon,” Condor said.
The old man waved his pen. “Get the hell out of here.”
“Apaches stole the wagon ten years ago. Its trail has long since gone cold.”
“Ten years, ye say?”
“Yes.”
“And there’s nobody after the gold, trying to get it back?”
Condor thought briefly of Dallas Steele and the Pinkertons, but he said, “I told you. It’s a cold trail.”
Greed gleamed in Strangewayes eyes. “Where is this gold now?”
“It’s hidden in an arroyo south of here.”
“How did you transport it and from where?”
“The gold was hidden in the Apache Hills and we brought it this far by mules.”
“We?”
“I have a partner.” But not for long, Condor thought but didn’t say.
“So, you can’t carry sacks of gold around with you everywhere you go, is that it?”
“Yes, that’s my problem. I don’t want to raise any suspicions, not with the army all over the territory. There are a lot of men who will kill for that much money.”
“What do you want from me, Captain Condor?”
“Deposit the gold coin for me in a sound bank. I want it clean, no questions asked, and no trail leading back to the territory.”
“Where?”
The suddenness of his decision surprised Condor when he heard himself say, “Boston would be preferable.”
“I can do that, but it will cost you,” Strangewayes said. “Your money will be deposited in several Boston banks as insurance and, as you say, no questions will be asked.”
“How much is your cut?” Condor said. “Speak plain now.”
“Thirty percent. Let’s say forty thousand dollars as a round figure. Take it or leave it.”
It was a chunk and it hit Condor hard. That left ninety thousand for himself. But it was enough for a man to live well if he was careful. “Done and done. Here’s my hand on it, matey.”
“I don’t clasp hands with the likes of you,” Strangewayes said. “Bring the gold here to my office. My associates will take care of it from there.”
Stung by the refused handshake, Condor said, “How do I know I can trust you?”
“You don’t. That’s the chance you take, Captain.”
Condor’s anger always shimmered near the surface. “Silas, I could reach across this desk and wring your scrawny neck. It would be real easy and quick.”
Strangewayes’ eyes lifted. They were almost colorless, tainted, like cholera-infected well water. “Yes you could. But since my associates know you are here, you’d never get out of Silver City alive.” He jabbed his pen at the ceiling. “I have watchers up there and they miss nothing.”
Condor backed off. He should’ve known Strangewayes would have guards. “I was talking in jest, of course.”
“Yes, of course you were.”
“I need a wagon and a couple of good horses to pull it.” Condor had had enough of mules.
“I thought you said you got it this far by pack animals?”
“I let them go.”
“Careless of you.” Strangewayes was perched in his chair like a scrawny parrot on a stand. He rose to his feet, a frail hunchback no bigger than a ten-year-old charity orphan. “Go to Church Street, to the Blue Coyote livery stable, and tell Ebenezer Cobham that I sent you. He will supply what you need. The cost of the hire of a wagon and horses will be deducted from your share of the proceeds.”
Condor fought back his anger. Strangewayes, the poisonous little dwarf, was trying to bleed him dry. “How do I find Church Street?”
Strangewayes pulled on a cord behind his desk, then turned and said, “One of my associates will guide you and he’ll stay with you until you recover the gold.”
“I don’t need help.”
The most unfortunate thing Strangewayes did was attempt a smile. He showed teeth that were long and yellow, an ape grimace totally devoid of humor. “No, but I do. Let’s just say I’m protecting my investment.”
The door jangled open and a small, slender man wearing black broadcloth, a bowler hat, and a scowl stepped inside.
“This is Mr. John Gaudet. He will be your shadow until the gold is safely delivered into my hands,” Strangewayes said.
Gaudet was a gun, Condor decided, taking his measure of the man. Hard-faced, thin-lipped, with the eyes of a Louisiana alligator, he’d be sudden and hard to kill.
“I’ll be back in a couple of days, maybe sooner,” Condor said. “I don’t know who’s riding my back trail and I may have to take care of them.”
Strangewayes gave a dismissive wave of his pen. “Do whatever you think is best. Now, good evening to you, sir.”
“One thing,” Condor said. “Don’t forget those Boston banks.”
“I never forget anything, Captain Condor.”