The quail hear it coming, or maybe sense the shadow. They scatter, but not before the net comes thumping to the earth, trapping three of the birds beneath its webbing.
“Ha!” I says, leaping upright. Lil walks calmly to the birds and wrings their necks, then scoops them up in the net and slings it over her shoulder.
“Time to eat.” She hands me my Winchester and heads for camp.
She’s silent as we walk. She don’t congratulate me or smile or say I done good. And I don’t care. I’m too busy staring at my rifle, wondering how in my right mind I turned my back on an Apache who was holding a loaded weapon.
We cook the meat over a small fire and dish it out evenly, ’long with a bit of jerky and the stale biscuits.
Jesse makes some comment ’bout the quail being poisoned and I answer him by taking a huge bite and chewing while looking at him.
He mumbles something I can’t make out—unkind, I’m sure—but after I swallow and don’t drop dead, he tears in. Even Jesse ain’t so proud he’d pass up this meal. We ain’t had variety since leaving Wickenburg, and the quail tastes like heaven.
We got another day’s worth of travel to Waltz’s, according to Will. He goes on talking ’bout a temporary home built into the nook of a hillside, right ’long a deep, flowing section of river. It sounds like a fool’s wish. The Salt ain’t running very wide here, and when I look at the parched and rugged land surrounding us, it’s hard to imagine her opening into anything substantial. But he swears it’s true, and Jesse nods in agreement, though he don’t take his eyes off Lil. He’s been scowling at her all night, but she don’t seem to mind. She licks her fingers clean, hums a tune, pretends like he ain’t even there.
I finish off my last few bites of quail and set my mess plate down. “God bless you, Lil. That’s the best meal I had all week.” But she’s drifted off again. I spot her down by the water, washing her hands. “Girl’s quieter than snowfall,” I says.
“Apache are good at sneaking,” Jesse says.
I shoot him a look.
“It’s true. They’re murderous and bloodthirsty and sneaky.”
“Maybe we’re just noisy and clumsy. Besides, both kinds’ve been attacking each other long as I can remember, so it ain’t like we’re the more virtuous people.” I don’t know why I’m sticking up for Lil so fiercely. She ain’t a friend. Hell, she ain’t much but a stranger. I reckon I just ain’t fond of this side of Jesse—the hate and the grudge and the anger. I liked him better when he were nagging me at White Tank, when he thought he knew everything but there was still a bit of laughter in his squinty eyes.
“We should let the fire die out,” Jesse says, standing. “Who knows where them Riders are at, and we don’t need to be announcing our location come dusk. Help me with the horses, won’t you, Will?” He stalks away from camp and don’t look back.
Chapter Seventeen
After I’s cleared my plate and skillet and cleaned my weapons of dust, I roll out my bedroll. Then, propped up ’gainst my saddle and using it like a backrest, I pull out Pa’s journal.
Getting to the mine sounds so easy on paper: Head south into Boulder Canyon and pass the three pines. Find the rock form shaped like a horse’s head and wait for the sunrise from a specified bluff. When the light shines over the horse’s neck in late summer, it will fall on the location of the mine. On one of the maps, the location is also marked by a small x, supposedly within the shadow of Weavers Needle. But this is where things no longer sound so simple.
Pa made a whole page of notes on Weavers Needle, the massive column of rock that rises outta the mountains like a spire. He reckons the summit is a couple thousand feet high. I gaze beyond the foothills to the dark shadows of the Superstitions. I can’t see the Needle from camp, but the journal claims it’s visible from many vantage points within the mountains, and if it’s as massive as Pa says, knowing the mine lies in its shadow don’t help much. Early or late in the day, that shadow could stretch forever. I reckon it’s good there’s the horse-head clue, then. That is, assuming I can find the rock form. The boulders ’long this bow in the Salt are so mangled, I bet I could see any number of creatures in ’em if’n I stared hard enough.
Supposing the whole light-over-a-rock-form method fails, there’s still a few other clues. One haphazard map drawing shows a large palo verde tree noted to be a few hundred paces from the mine. Scrawled at the bottom of the page is a note claiming that a few saguaro cactuses west of the mine shaft have been altered by knife so the limbs point the way toward the gold.
I keep reading after the fire dies, till the sky’s lost most of its light and my eyes are starting to smart. Snapping the journal shut, I tuck it into the back of my pants. Ain’t no use obsessing over details and landmarks now. I reckon they’ll all make more sense when I can see ’em. And besides, I got something Rose don’t: a scout.
Lil’s down at the Salt now, enjoying a bath. ’Cus she ordered the Coltons far outta peeping view, and ’cus Jesse decided to be agreeable for once, the boys’re on the other end of camp, observing the mountains and having a smoke. I figure now’s as good a time as any to tell ’em ’bout Lil’s issue with gold. I push to my feet and make my way over. They don’t say nothing when I tell ’em not to mention their side of our deal round Lil, which is a relief. I half expected Jesse to shout it to the heavens in hopes that she’d leave. Maybe he thinks she’ll slit their throats while they sleep if she knew the truth. Either way, the boys both agree to keep quiet.
When I head back to my bedroll, they follow, only Jesse don’t stop at his. He trails me clear ’cross camp and plops down at my side.
“I’s been wondering,” he says, a rolled cigarette still stuck between his lips, “how a deaf gal like you coulda heard something I ain’t said.”
“Huh?”
“’Bout my ma,” he clarifies. “That raid in Wickenburg and how she died.”
“Will told me back at White Tank, while you were sleeping.”
He exhales and nods, not looking at me.
“I’m sorry. It ain’t right when we lose folks before we’re ready.”
“That ain’t what’s bothering me,” he says. “It’s just . . . maybe I ain’t the best at letting the past be. Maybe I don’t heed my own advice. But either way, I don’t like digging up what’s already done—speaking on it, reliving it. And I certainly don’t like my brother doing it for me. ’Specially with someone we barely know.”
I frown at that. Uncertain what to say, I look ’cross camp to where Will’s playing with Mutt. The hair on my neck goes all prickly, and when I glance back to Jesse he’s looking dead at me, features serious.
“You were right earlier, ’bout how I was blaming yer scout for crimes that ain’t her doing,” he says.
“It ain’t me you gotta apologize to, Jesse.”
Lil’s back from her wash now and rolling out her bedroll, but Jesse don’t make an effort to go talk to her.