Travelin' Money Read online

  ‘These aren’t general times,’ Joe responded, knowing that he was about to be gouged again. Just then he did not care. He wanted to be out of Pierce Point and on his way to Newberry if he could find it. Once that task was completed, maybe he could return to the Double Seven and get back to his peaceful life as a ranch-hand where all he would have to watch out for were the longhorn steers, rattlesnakes and the occasional puma.

  They were much easier to deal with than men.

  As the dun was saddled for him, he silently cursed the deceased Pierce Malloy for dragging him into this – and himself for having given his promise to do it.

  But he did not forget that there was a worrying, heartbroken widow named Tess Malloy who was distraught, destitute and might possibly be at least a little comforted by the return of the ‘ill-gotten’ fortune Pierce Malloy had told Joe about.

  It was a hard land for women, a hard one for young widows, even harder for one without resources.

  With the purchase of the dun, which seemed surprised to find itself saddled and ridden again at its age when it probably thought retirement had finally arrived, Joe made only one more stop in Pierce Point. He found a general store, still open on this evening and forked over five dollars for basic trail supplies – flour, salt, bacon and beans. Along with these he purchased a spade. It would do. It would have to.

  Then, ill-equipped, ill-mounted and ill-tempered, he led the way out on to the open desert with Dub plodding after him on the red mare.

  FOUR

  In the chill of the settling night they made their camp. Saguaro cactuses stretched long bristling arms skyward. The chalice of the night was cobalt blue, bright with stars that were like chips of ice. They had made their way only a few miles from the white desert flats up into the folded chocolate-colored hills, but the air was frigid as Joe and Dub rolled up in their blankets to pass an uncomfortable night on the rocky ground.

  ‘How far is this place we’re looking for?’ Dub stuttered, his teeth chattering with the cold.

  ‘You said only another five miles or so,’ Joe had to remind his reluctant guide.

  ‘I guess I did,’ the miserable Dub said. ‘I guess I forgot. I’ve been worried about those chicken flies!’

  ‘I told you that you could go back there if you want,’ Joe said, gathering his blankets more tightly around him.

  ‘I believe Mose would beat me. Probably Sol too, if he was inclined.’

  ‘Couldn’t Miss Adelaide stop that from happening?’ Joe asked around a yawn. Truthfully he was already tired of his traveling companion and the problems on the chicken ranch.

  ‘S-sometimes Miss Addie can, sometimes she can’t. Mister Moses, he’ll kick me when she’s not looking. That hurts awful bad.’

  ‘I understand. Look, I’ve still got a few dollars. After we find what I’m looking for you can take the money and go home, if you like.’

  ‘I should never have….’ Dub started the sentence but fell asleep before he could continue. Joe knew what he was thinking, what he was going to say. The poor misfit had left the only home he had known, a poor one to be sure where he was abused. But where else could a half-bright kid like Dub hope to find work or a better life?

  Well, tomorrow, when he hoped to come upon the ‘treasure’ site on the spot Pierce Malloy had indicated on his crudely-drawn map, Joe intended to indeed give Dub the last of his silver money and let the kid ride to whatever fate he had in store for him. He was not willing to adopt the pup.

  Joe had his own task ahead of him. Take whatever there was to be found on the site, deliver it to Tess Malloy and go on about his own business which was simply trying to make the tired old dun horse deliver him across the hundreds of miles to Socorro and the safety of the Double Seven Ranch. He had never thought of the crowded smoky bunkhouse there as being a comfortable haven, but just now Joe was thinking that living there with the cook boiling coffee and frying bacon while his rowdy bunkmates cursed, scratched, joked and stamped their boots on as they rose was the most pleasurable of times. A steady job, steady friends….

  He himself fell to sleep despite the bitter cold.

  Joe awoke with a hunger-inspired memory of the smell of the cinnamon buns Alicia Morales baked on certain mornings, thoughts of butter melting slowly on their oven-crisp tops. He sat up sharply, actually reaching down to clutch his stomach. Lord, he was starting to miss the old Double Seven. For all of the hard toil and rough men around him, it seemed like heaven in retrospect. He rubbed his head, stood, stretched and reached for his coffee pot, the second he had purchased in a week. He scraped together some branches from beneath the scrawny piñon pines that clung to the ledges surrounding their campsite, looked wonderingly at the long, rugged land beyond where ridges and hills folded together, collapsed on to each other, suddenly parted and widened into chasm-like canyons without reason or an apparent pattern. He hoped that Dub knew his way through this wild country.

  Looking at poor Dub, still asleep in the cool of morning, Joe felt a small pang of regret, a little sense of superiority. If he could envision himself riding back on to Double Seven range, what was there for Dub to look forward to? He hadn’t even the humiliating life he had led on the chicken ranch to return to.

  To start the small fire necessary to boil coffee, Joe rolled the branches in his rough palms to separate the bark from them. Slowly, as the bark caught fire he added twigs to the flames. An unexpected breeze began to build, stuttering its way through the rocky hills.

  When the fire had advanced from a flickering hope to a glowing entity, Joe walked to Dub’s bed and tapped the toe of his own boot to the heel of Dub’s worn brogues. Dub’s eyes opened cautiously, one at a time, as if fearful of what the new morning might bring.

  ‘Everything’s all right,’ Joe said, trying to sound cheerful. ‘I’ve started some coffee boiling. I think we’ll have to skip any idea of breakfast this morning.’

  ‘No eggs?’ Dub said, sitting up to gaze helplessly at Joe. His reddish hair hung over his forehead.

  ‘I’m afraid not. We haven’t any.’

  ‘Addie always serves eggs.’

  Joe sighed inwardly. Dub had previously been in the only place he had ever belonged despite the abuse he seemed to have taken from Moses and Solomon. Eggs to eat and a cot to sleep on were all he needed. Again Joe wondered if he was doing the kid a favor by taking him away from the egg farm, but that had never been his intention in the first place.

  ‘Get up and have some coffee. Get your eyes open. I need to find that place on the map today.’

  ‘You mean where the pirate treasure is?’ Dub said, growing eager.

  ‘That’s right,’ Joe said wearily. Dub had the wisdom and understanding of a 6-year-old. ‘But it isn’t mine. I have to take it to its rightful owner.’

  ‘The pretty lady?’

  ‘I don’t know if she is pretty or not,’ Joe answered, although Pierce Malloy had described Tess in those words. ‘It doesn’t matter. She needs it because her husband has died.’

  ‘Out at sea, I know,’ Dub said, lost in his own fantasy. He made his way to the low-smoldering camp-fire, scratching himself as he adjusted his suspenders, and shivered in the light, cool wind. Joe, squatting on his heels, poured each of them a cup of the boiled black coffee.

  ‘Mose always puts whiskey in his coffee,’ Dub said.

  ‘Well, that’s another thing we don’t have and don’t need.’

  ‘I don’t like the taste of it, but that’s what Mose always does.’

  Joe again silently sighed. He wished he didn’t need to have this man-child along to guide him on his way, but perhaps by evening the hidden cache – whatever it contained – could be found and Dub sent on his way.

  Silently, then, they broke camp, Joe saddling the weary old dun horse which eyed him with eyes that seemed offended by the thought of being ridden on this clear, cool day.

  ‘That right there,’ Dub said, swinging on to the red mare’s back, ‘is Mustang Ridge. Once we’re over that
we come down on to what they call Candlewick Creek. Want to know how Mustang Ridge got its name?’

  ‘Not really,’ Joe grunted as they started their horses forward up the rocky white-stone pass before them. The ridge, low but formidable-appearing, stood out starkly in the morning clearness. Dub was suddenly excited.

  ‘A man told me how Candlewick got its name, too. He said it’s because it’s so narrow, can you believe that?’

  ‘Yes,’ Joe said. He thought himself a patient man, but Dub was trying that patience. As a traveling companion, the former chicken-wrangler left a lot to be desired. Joe had ridden long miles with men who had war stories to tell, tales of women loved and lost, once an old-timer named Ike Cavanaugh accompanied him as they rode the perimeter of the Double Seven, rounding up strays for the spring gather.

  Cavanaugh, according to him, had once ridden with John Wesley Hardin, and had a lot of tales concerning the wild gunfighter’s exploits. True or not, they livened up the days under the New Mexico sun in between rousting half-wild steers from their hidden canyon thickets.

  No matter – Joe didn’t have Cavanaugh or any of the old bunch riding with him. He had only Dub – and Dub knew the way to the cache of Pierce Malloy’s ‘ill-gotten’ treasure.

  Or Joe hoped he did.

  It was difficult to tell with Dub. He seemed so utterly innocent of or unconcerned with the ways of the world, but he guided their way surely over broken, raw country until by mid afternoon they found themselves sitting on a ridge from which Joe could see the silver, snaking river which had to be Candlewick Creek.

  ‘There’s the place,’ Dub said as they walked their horses across the creek, startling a young mule-deer buck on the far bank. Joe nodded. He could see the large grove of scattered oak trees indicated on Pierce Malloy’s treasure map. Now it was a matter of finding the right spot.

  There was supposed to be an ‘X’ carved on to one of the trees. ‘Let’s start searching for it,’ Joe said, sliding down from his saddle. This could turn out to be a long, useless day after all. Or, he thought, perhaps it would lead to the conclusion of this long trek.

  Dropping the reins to his dun to let it graze, he wandered among the oaks. The wind had increased, although it had grown warmer since leaving the ridge, and it ruffled the leaves of the oak trees with some vigor.

  It took most of an hour, but they found it – or rather Dub found it and began whistling like some crazed prairie dog until Joe went to where he stood, pointing at the trunk of a large oak tree. The ‘X’ blazed into its bark was clearly visible, carved not long ago.

  ‘Pirate treasure,’ Dub panted, his mouth hanging open, eyes glittering dully.

  ‘Yes,’ was all Joe managed to say in answer. In truth he was probably as excited as Dub was – each for different reasons. Returning to the dun, Joe removed the spade from his pack and walked back to where the over-eager Dub waited as if standing guard. Joe glanced at the much-folded map he had been carrying in his pocket and saw, beside a drop of Malloy’s blood, the scrawled words:

  ‘Three long paces due north.’

  Joe had no compass, of course, but he oriented himself northward as well as possible, using the high sun and the shadows sketched across the dark, leaf-littered earth. He walked nine feet from the base of the tree – three long strides and began looking for disturbed earth, Dub following him like an interested hound. Nothing was immediately evident, and so Joe began to move in an arc, using the point of his spade to search the ground.

  He struck metal.

  Muttering silently, he impatiently, energetically, began to probe, and the spade caught the edge of a small, flat metal box wrapped in oilskin and brought it to the surface. Dub fell on it, scrabbling at the earth with his bare fingers. He lifted the box skyward as if in veneration. Joe tossed his spade aside and took it from Dub’s grubby hands.

  ‘Open it,’ Dub panted.

  ‘I mean to – I hope it doesn’t have a lock.’

  ‘You can shoot it open,’ Dub said, moving around Joe with manic energy. Apparently he had never seen lead bullets ricocheting off of a steel box or he wouldn’t have said that. Strongboxes with their clasps of tempered steel are not so easily opened, or so Frank Cavanaugh said he had learned from his days with John Wesley Hardin.

  Fortunately Joe did not have to prove or disprove this as the steel box, once unwrapped from the protective oilskin, had no lock, only a brass catch which, despite the care taken to protect it from the elements, held fast and refused to open.

  ‘Gimme it. I’ll open it,’ Dub said, clutching at the air around Joe.

  Joe said nothing. He pulled his belt knife from its sheath. The knife’s blade was thick and unlikely to snap. Joe inserted the blade, wedged it a little tighter with the heel of his hand and twisted. The latch sprang free.

  ‘I knew it!’ Dub fairly screamed with delight. Joe was less demonstrative, but he, too, was slightly overwhelmed by what the box contained. From his knees where he had gone to pop the latch, he had opened the green box’s lid to reveal sheaves of banded currency and two neat rows of gold coins stored in wooden racks.

  ‘Tess Malloy,’ Joe said, ‘is going to be one happy woman.’

  He closed the box then and refastened the latch despite the pleas of Dub who excitedly asked for one more look. There was no sense looking, no sense in counting what lay within the box. Having actually found the treasure, Joe wished for nothing more than to dispose of it. Newberry.

  ‘Which way is Newberry now?’ he asked Dub.

  ‘Along the Candlewick, not far.’

  Then Dub leaped up and began dancing in a crazy circle, whistling and shouting like a dervish. Joe didn’t see what had gotten the kid so excited.

  And then he did – from the creek bottom, Solomon and Moses were approaching, weapons at the ready.

  There was no mistaking the two men from Pierce Point. Mose’s wide frame and puffy face and Sol with his grim expression and sharp, unshaven jowls made it possible for Joe to identify them even at this distance. That and Dub’s apparent joy at seeing the two familiar faces.

  How had they found them? Had Dub somehow tipped them off about the possible hidden treasure? Joe thought back, but could not think of a moment when he had had the opportunity to do so. Perhaps Mose and Sol had decided on their own that Joe had more than he was willing to share after finding the silver money he had given to Addie. She might have sent them herself. Who knew! Maybe they had just decided to come hunting Joe down for the hell of it.

  It didn’t matter – they were here. And they would have to be dealt with. Joe doubted that matters could be cleared up with a handshake and a smile.

  The two men wanted gold … and blood.

  FIVE

  There wasn’t a lot that could be done. Joe stepped behind the broad, rough trunk of the big oak tree for cover. As he watched, Mose and Sol split up and began riding different routes, presumably to encircle him. Joe waited, Colt clutched tightly in his hand, thumb on the hammer, watching. He glanced behind him too late and could do nothing to avoid the staggering blow of the rock in Dub’s hand. Joe hit the ground hard, but he did not feel it. He was already out cold.

  He awoke when the sky was fading toward sundown, and sat up. He tried to stand, but the throbbing pain in his skull was enough to drive him back to a sitting position against the grass. There was a trickle of dry blood from his ear. His hair was in his eyes. He looked around, knowing what he would see:

  Nothing.

  The treasure box was gone, of course, and so was his old dun horse. His Colt lay near at hand and he scooped it up, though it was of no use at the moment. No target offered itself except for a scolding crow high in the oak tree. Joe couldn’t have hit it even if he’d had a reason to try.

  With the black bird still mocking, he turned, placed his hands against the base of the tree and clawed himself erect. His skull still pounded and a spiral of tiny colored dots spun behind his eyes as he panted his way to his feet.

  He stood with
his back against the tree, hands behind him pressed against the rough bark of the old oak. He feared that if he fell he might never rise again. The crow cawed one more insult and winged away. Joe rubbed his eyes and stared bleakly at the western sky. It was not yet splashed with sundown color, but it soon would be. Then it would go dark and cold, leaving Joe afoot in the night in unfamiliar country.

  He pushed away from the oak and began staggering through the trees toward the creek that lay beyond. Why that direction instead of another, he could not have said – but he had to start on, and the best bet was that the robbers would head back toward Pierce Point the way they had come.

  Why had Dub suddenly switched loyalties? He knew nothing else but the chicken ranch, Addie and the brutality of Sol and Moses. Perhaps he had been trying to please them.

  More likely he had just been scared stiff of what they might do to him for running away, helping Joe in his escape.

  It was a weird, blurry landscape Joe Sample trudged through. His head ached, his vision was confused. It was almost as if he were moving underwater. He could make out Mustang Ridge, across the creek. Rough and jagged against the skyline, it was far away, very far, and impossibly high.

  Joe waded the creek, his legs rubbery, his vision still blurred. Around him peeper frogs had begun their night chorusing. The current was swift against his boots, making the going even more uncertain. The rocks underfoot were slick, but he managed to make it to the far bank. There he had no choice but to sit and rest, his head hanging between his knees in exhaustion.

  How could he expect to go – across the Mustang Ridge, all the way back to Pierce Point with night already settling. It didn’t seem unlikely; it seemed impossible. Why had he ever put himself in this position? The sky darkened; the night birds began to call; the river continued to trickle past. And….

  A horse nickered nearby!

  Joe scooted up the bank, took hold of a willow branch and somehow managed to leverage himself to his feet. He stood in the silence, listening and watching. Something moved through the willow brush and Joe dropped his hand to reach for his gun, eyes straining. Then he saw the animal – the dun, its saddle canted over to one side, emerged from the underbrush and fixed accusing eyes on Joe.