The room hadn’t been worth the price. The mattress had been little more than a sack stuffed with straw, the walls had been so thin that every noise from the hallway and every word spoken on the street had drifted up to him. The air inside had been heavy with humidity and had failed to circulate, making it difficult to sleep. Just lying on the bed and staring up at the ceiling had been enough to work up a sweat even after Travis had removed most of his clothes.
The hot desert air blew in the open window. There was a dull, flickering light from outside, and the noise boiling up from the saloon kept him awake. Men were shouting at one another. Arguments about the war in the East, or the desert in the West, or the Indians everywhere. Travis rolled to his side, glanced at the window, and then closed his eyes. He tried to ignore the sounds and the heat.
Later, light pouring through the window woke him. He sat up and looked out. The heat hadn’t broken during the night and neither had the humidity. He rubbed a hand over his face and then wiped the sweat on the soaked mattress cover. Standing, he walked to the window and looked out and down.
A single horse was hitched to the rail in front of the saloon. The place was still open, the arguments still going but quieter now, and Travis wondered if the bartender ever slept.
He turned away from the window and walked to the water basin set on the top of a chest. He poured water from a pitcher in it, splashed the tepid liquid on his face, and then dried himself on the small cotton towel.
There was no reason to shave, especially since he didn’t have a sharp razor. He’d wait until he could find a barber. He dressed and then looked at the pistol in its black leather holster.
Downstairs he was directed into the restaurant. It looked to be an afterthought. Those who had built the hotel realized that the travelers were going to need food, so they had cobbled the restaurant to the side of the building. The floor was bare wooden planks, the walls had been painted once, but the color had faded. A single door led out into the street, and it stood open. One of the two windows on either side of it was broken and had been repaired with greased paper.
There were three tables, each surrounded by four chairs but no linen. There were lamps on each of the walls with soot marks above them on the ceiling.
Travis entered and took the table closest to the window so that he could watch the street. He wasn’t looking for anyone or anything in particular, but then, he never knew what he might see out there. It was a way of avoiding unpleasant surprises.
A girl, no more than twenty, appeared. Her brown hair was pinned up, although a few strands had escaped. She wore a stained apron and there was a smear of flour along her jaw line. Sweat was beaded on her upper lip. She looked as if she had already put in a full day.
“Breakfast?” she asked.
“With..?”
“You get what we got. A steak, some eggs, and a few potatoes. We got coffee and we got some milk if it ain’t spoiled yet.”
“Whatever,” said Travis.
While he waited, he watched the street. A skinny dog walked along it and then darted around a building, disappearing down the alley. One man then staggered out of the saloon, held a hand up to shade his eyes as if surprised by the brightness of the sun, and walked away.
The waitress returned, set a plate in front of him, put a knife and fork down next to the plate, and asked, “You want the coffee?”
“Sure.”
She left and came back with a mug and a huge coffee pot clutched in her hand. The wooden handle looked well used. She filled the cup, glanced at him, and then whirled, heading back to the kitchen.
Travis turned his attention to his breakfast. He salted the steak and then cut into it. He took a bite and then tried the eggs. They were runny and the potatoes were cold. Travis found that he didn’t care about that because he knew there were men still at war who were chewing on maggot-infested hardtack and eating biscuits that were as hard as rocks. They were the men who had stayed on the field after Gettysburg, the men who had stayed in the army after the slaughter that battle had been. There was nothing as bad as that here. Nothing for him to complain about here. He put the image out of his mind.
He ate slowly, sipping coffee and keeping an eye on the street. He put down his fork as the old prospector appeared in the doorway of the saloon. He paused long enough to put his hat on his head, tug at the waist of his pants, and then step off, walking along the front of the building.
From the unsteady gait, Travis knew that the prospector had spent the night spinning stories about the Spanish gold. It looked as if more than one man had volunteered drinks to keep the old prospector talking.
Travis finished the last of his coffee as the prospector disappeared into the early morning shadows. Travis stood and dug in his pocket for a dollar. He dropped it on the table but before he could turn, he saw the two Kansans move from the shadows in the alley near the saloon.
“Now what the hell?” he said.
The men stopped at the door of the saloon, peered in and then began walking again, looking as if they were following the old man.
“You want anything else?”
Travis turned, surprised by the woman. He hadn’t heard her approach. He looked at her. “No. Thank you.”
She picked up the empty plate, dropped the fork onto the center of it, put the mug there, and left. She didn’t say another word to him.
Now Travis looked back to the street, but it was vacant again. The men from Kansas were nowhere to be seen. He leaned forward and saw only a man on horseback.
Travis walked into the lobby and started for the stairs, but then stopped. Instead he turned and walked out the open front door. He stood for a moment in the early morning light and was aware that the stable was close. He stepped down into the street.
To his right was a wagon parked near the front of the feed store. A woman sat on the bench loosely holding the reins. Two men stood in the doorway talking.
To the left was the edge of the town. A small house surrounded by a short adobe fence. And opposite him was a series of buildings including the office of the territory newspaper. There was an alley, and along the side wall a set of steps led up into a second floor room.
There was something in the air. Travis was sure. The appearance of those two Kansans right after the old prospector meant something. They were following him. Waiting for him. Travis couldn’t convince himself that anyone would be dumb enough to believe an old story of gold hidden by the Spanish told by a man hustling drinks.
Just as Travis had decided that nothing was wrong, there was a single scream cut off suddenly. That had to come from the alley on the other side of the saloon. Travis stepped down into the street and started across.
There was a second shout, “NO!” and then silence. Travis broke into a run. He leaped up on the walk and slipped closer to the side of the building. He moved along it and then peeked around into the alley.
The old prospector lay on the ground, his hands up to protect his face. One of the Kansans bent over him, his fist raised as if he was about to strike. The other stood watching. Both of them wore guns though neither had drawn a weapon.
“The map, old man,” said the one with his fist raised. “Where’s the map?”
“No map,” said the prospector. “No map. I memorized it. No map. I told you. No map.”
“Leave him,” said the other man, “He’s full of it. Just trying to scam drinks.”
“No,” said the prospector suddenly. “The gold is real.”
“Well, hell, old man,” said the Kansan. “I was just trying to help you.”
The first man knelt, his right knee on the soft, wet ground. He struck the prospector and the old man moaned.
Without thinking, Travis stepped around the corner of the building. “Leave him be.”
The standing man turned, reaching for the pistol on his hip. He grinned when he saw that Travis was unarmed.
“Shouldn’t give orders if you can’t back them up.”
Travis didn’t move. He watched both the Kansans. “The old man is crazy. Let him go.”
The man who had been holding the prospector up, dropped him and then whipped out his knife. He put it to the prospector’s throat. “Go or I kill him.”
Travis took a step forward and then froze as both men moved to face him. “There’s no gold,” said Travis.
There was a moment’s hesitation and then the man with the knife struck. He plunged the blade into the prospector’s chest. He straightened, the blade of the knife dripping blood. The Kansan grinned. “Now he lies to no one else.”
With that, both men turned and ran down the alley. They stopped at the far corner of the building. One of them turned, looked at Travis, and then both of them were gone.
Travis ran to the old prospector, trying to remember his name. He’d mentioned it the day before, but Travis was terrible with names.
Kneeling next to the old man, he said, “Take it easy old-timer. Take it easy.” He pulled at the blood-soaked cloth so that he could examine the wound. It didn’t look bad. There was a lot of blood, staining the faded flannel shirt and dripping to the ground, but Travis had seen men hurt worse than that survive. Hell, he’d seen men hurt worse than that stay in the fight until the battle was over.
The old man reached up and grasped Travis’s arm. “Thanks,” he gasped. “Thanks.”
“Got to get you to the doc,” said Travis. He started to lift, to help the man to his feet but the prospector groaned.
“No. Too late. Too late.”
“Don’t be foolish.”
The man moaned quietly and closed his eyes. His breathing became ragged. He clutched at the dirt, his knuckles turning white. He opened his eyes and looked up into the bright blue of the morning sky.
“You’ve got to tell her,” he said.
“Tell who?” asked Travis.
He grinned. His teeth were blood-smeared. Travis had seen that a few times in the war. It was always a bad sign. It meant bleeding in the lungs or the stomach and that the wounded man would live only a short time more. Maybe a couple of minutes or maybe a couple of hours.
“They didn’t get it,” he said. “I hid it. I know people. They think they can steal it and they will, so I always hide it. But now you got to take it to her.”
“Who?” asked Travis.
“My daughter. It belongs to her now.” He turned and stared up at Travis, but the eyes were blank, like those of a stuffed animal in a museum. No life in them.
“The doctor,” said Travis.
“No time. Too late for me. You take it to my daughter and tell her to give you half. Reward.”
“Let’s get you to the doctor and then we’ll talk about rewards.”
The prospector coughed, spraying blood. His skin was waxy, looking unnatural, unreal.
“My daughter,” he said. “Stable.” And then his eyes glazed over.
Travis stared down at him and knew that he was dead. He’d seen enough men die to know when it happened.
He laid the man’s head back into the dirt and then tried to close the eyes. He stood up and turned. There were two men and a woman standing at the end of the alley looking at him.
“What happened?” asked one of the men.
“Get the marshal,” said Travis. “This man has been murdered.”