Freeman and Crosby came up to the top of a ridge and looked down into the next shallow valley. At the far end of it was the wagon. Crosby sat there for a moment and then turned to look right at Freeman.
“I know where they’re going.”
“What?” said Freeman.
“Now that I see where we are, and the direction they’re taking, I think I know where that old man was talking about. There’s a shallow river about ten miles from here. North of the river is a cluster of mountains. That’s got to be where they’re headed.”
“You sure?” asked Freeman.
Crosby closed his eyes and was quiet for a moment. He then opened them and nodded. “I know exactly where he was talking about. We don’t have to follow them.”
“Then let’s go,” said Freeman.
Crosby held up his hand. “They’re bearing to the east here, but we can cut across the desert and cut four or five miles off the trip.”
“I’ll follow you,” said Freeman.
Crosby pulled his horse around and then started down the slope. The horse picked its way around the clumps of prickly pear and the peyote and the wiry prairie grass. Some of the ground was soft sand, and other areas were as hard as rock. Once they reached the valley floor and could no longer see the wagon, they began to move faster. They rode around a copse of trees that seemed to mark a water hole, but when they got near they found nothing other than the cracked earth of a hole gone dry. There was the body of a horse near it.
“Now we turn to the northeast. We’ll have to cross that ridge there, but then everything opens up until you get to the mountains.”
Freeman didn’t say a word. He turned his horse and began the long, gentle climb to the top of the ridge. An hour later they had reached it. The land fell away from them and was washed out in the bright sunlight. Far away, barely visible, was the dark shape of the mountains. It looked as if the mountains were across a shallow lake. The heat was shimmering on the sand, giving it the look of water.
“There,” said Crosby, his voice higher. “That cave has it be over there. In those mountains.” He grinned at Freeman. “It has to be.”
Freeman sat there, studying the scene. “It does look like what the old man was describing.”
“Not like it,” said Crosby. “Is. Has to be.” He stopped talking for a moment. “When I was a kid, I heard stories about this. Jim Bowie and a group of his friends found a cave and defended it from the Indians. They talked about a fabulous gold mine hidden in the desert.”
“Bowie never got this far west,” said Freeman.
“How do you know?” asked Crosby. “He got all over Tfexas and Mexico. You don’t know where he might have ridden during those times.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Freeman, “if you’re sure this is the place.”
“We’re close,” said Crosby.
“Then let’s get it over. Freeman was about to head down when movement to the west caught his eye. He turned toward it and saw a dozen riders come over the ridge.
“Looks like we’ve got company,” said Crosby.
Freeman didn’t move. He studied them and then said, “I don’t like this. Not at all.”
Then, to the south of the first group, a second appeared, and as Freeman turned he saw a third. All of them seemed to have a single destination in mind. All were angling, more or less toward the mountains directly in front of Freeman and Crosby.
“What do you think?” he asked.
Freeman shrugged. “I think we’d better head on down there as fast as we can. I don’t want to get left out of this. Could be someone else who figured out the old man’s clues.”
Crosby kicked his horse and it started to move. He slapped the flanks with the ends of the reins and it began to gallop. Freeman followed him. Both men were riding fast now. Down the gentle slope to the valley floor and then north to the mountains.
Freeman was aware of the other riders angling north. Everyone seemed to be headed toward the same place. The only thing he wanted to do was reach the river, cross it, and get into the mountains before the other men could catch up or beat them there.
“Go!” he yelled at Crosby as he rode by him. “Let’s go.”
Crosby tried to get his horse to run faster. He was falling behind slightly. He risked a glance at the closest group of men and was shocked to see that they were not white.
“Apaches!” he yelled.
At first Freeman seemed not to hear. Then slowly, he turned to look. The wind caught his hat, blowing it from his head. He didn’t stop to retrieve it.
“We make the river, we’ll be okay,” he called.
Turning to look back over his shoulder, he saw the second group closing on them. They were Indians, too. Maybe a dozen of them. Maybe more.
“Damn,” he yelled. “They’re catching us.”
Freeman lowered his head so that it was near the neck of his racing horse. He stood slightly in the stirrups so that the constant pumping rhythm of the running animal wouldn’t keep jarring his spine. Now the only thing he could think of was the shallow river. If they could reach that, they would be safe. Somehow he equated the river with safety. Nothing else mattered to him.
The desert opened up in front of him. Nothing to hide them. Nowhere to go. Just the wide open space until they reached the mountains. If the Indians caught them before they reached the mountains, they were as good as dead.
There was a shot behind him and Freeman risked a glance. Crosby had his revolver out. He’d fired it, pointing it to the rear but hadn’t tried to aim it. Maybe he thought the sound would frighten the Apaches.
“Save your ammo,” yelled Freeman. “You won’t hit anything anyway.”
Crosby squeezed off two more shots. The Apaches fired back. Three rounds and then a war whoop. They were screaming as they began to close on Freeman and Crosby.
Freeman was about to give it up. They wouldn’t be able to outrun the Apaches. The only thing he could hope for was fighting it out and getting killed before the Indians captured him. Let them mutilate his dead body. He wouldn’t care then. But he didn’t want them to start the mutilations while he was still alive. They could make it last for hours, and that thought frightened him to the core of his soul.
“There!” screamed Crosby. “Over there.”
Freeman shot a glance to the north where before, they had only been able to see the mountains. He saw horsemen there, too, but they didn’t look like Indians. They looked like white men.
Freeman turned toward them immediately. Suddenly the gold wasn’t all that important. All the gold in the world would do him no good if the Apaches caught him. With enough men with rifles, they could fight off the Indians. They would have a chance to survive.
“Get to them,” said Freeman. He now looked at the first group of Apaches. They were angling in, but it didn’t seem they would cut them off. There were more whoops and a couple of shots. Nothing that came close.
Turning, Freeman caught a glimpse of a shallow stream. There were trees along the banks of it. Bushes and plants. That had to be the river the old man had talked about. Had to be. They had stumbled onto it, and now the information would do him no good.
They rode along the river and then came to a place where the bank was no more than two feet higher than the surface. Freeman wheeled his horse and it leaped into the water. It stumbled but didn’t fall. Freeman looked to the rear. The Apaches were catching them.
“Come on,” he yelled and then ducked, hanging onto the neck of the horse.
They splashed across the river. The horse leaped at the far bank and lifted itself out of the water. Now Freeman slipped from the saddle. As he did, he drew his rifle from the scabbard, used the lever to cock it, and aimed at the Indians on the far bank.
He knelt in the soft sand as Crosby struggled across the river. As soon as he made it, Freeman was up. He swung himself into the saddle and jerked the horse around, digging in his heels. The animal began to run again.
Behind them the Apaches had reached the river, but they had stopped there. There were a couple of random shots that weren’t well aimed.
“If I didn’t know better,” Freeman yelled at Crosby, “I’d say we’re being herded.”
Crosby didn’t answer. He kept his head down and his rifle aimed at the other riders, now no more than five hundred yards away.
And then, beyond them, Freeman spotted another group. It looked as if the Apaches were herding everyone in one direction. Get them all in the same place and then eliminate them all at once.
Freeman reined in his horse. He stopped long enough to see that the Apaches had yet to cross the river. He then saw that behind them were even more Indians. Every Apache in the desert was riding down on them.
Crosby pulled up next to him. He wiped the sweat from his face on the sleeve of his flannel shirt and glanced to the rear. “What do you think?”
“I think we’ve stepped into it this time,” said Freeman. “I think we’re into it deep.”