The cottonwoods ain’t much to look at. Struggling to grow in a well-shaded area of Needle Canyon, the poor things ain’t much taller than me. Their trunks are wide enough to suggest they ain’t young, but they look days away from dying. Mangled, cracking bark. Limbs that grow like broken arms.
As me and the boys pick a spot to make camp for the night, Lil takes to digging round the cottonwood trunks with a sharp rock. Once she gets past the hard surface dirt, the earth goes darker and wetter, till suddenly water’s pooling in the shallow hole she’s carved.
“They drink plenty, cottonwoods,” she says, smacking her hands clean on her smock dress. “During the rainy season, water trickles through these canyons. When the sun dries the creek, the trees still drink from below.”
I dip my cupped hands into the small pool and splash some water on my face. It’s warm and slightly clouded. We’ll have to run it through a makeshift sieve of some sort—a shirt, maybe—and boil it. But we’s got ourselves drinking water. I’m so darn pleased, I don’t bother pointing out the hypocrisy of it all: Lil can dig round in Mother Earth for water, but not gold? Prolly ’cus this is the ground and not the mountains, so the spirits don’t care. Or maybe ’cus if the tree roots dig for it, human hands can too. I ain’t interested enough to ask.
We’re back to our typical meal of cured meat and stale biscuits. The meat ain’t awful after having variety the past two nights, but the biscuits taste like ash. We finish off our water, washing down the meal and knowing we’ll be able to refill our canteens come morning.
The sky ain’t fully dark after dinner, but our little camp is already overrun with shadow. I still feel trapped, and the way the firelight dances over the canyon walls ain’t comforting in the same way it flickers over flat plains. I keep seeing shadowy figures in the folds of the rock—monsters and murderers. No wonder legends like the ghost shooter exist.
“Tell us a story, Lil,” I says.
“Why? ’Cus I’m Apache and in this moment our folklore might appease you rather than annoy?”
“’Cus I don’t know any good stories—how ’bout that?” I says with a glare.
She pulls her knees to her chest and considers this a moment. Jesse quits sketching in his notebook to stoke the fire, which is lit more to keep away any hungry coyotes than it is to provide warmth. Sparks go dancing.
“I think I know of the mine you seek,” Lil says finally.
That gets all our attention.
“The Needle, Black Top Mesa—they are all within distance of a mine I know.”
“Those are landmarks from Pa’s journal,” I says, surprised. “You been poking yer nose in things, Lil?”
“Only once. I asked to look, but you did not answer. I figured you’d have said no if it were important.”
“Asked? You never asked.”
“Yesterday morning, while you slept.”
“Damn it, Lil. Course I didn’t answer if I were sleeping. You don’t do that. You don’t just take things that ain’t yers.”
She inclines her chin. “White Eyes take our land and Ussen’s gold. They take it as though it were always theirs. Least I put the journal back after looking.”
“I still—”
“Hang fire,” Jesse says. “Who cares if she read the journal or not.” He turns to Lil. “Do you know how to find the mine?”
Lil sits a little taller and adjusts her smock dress. “Before I came unto this earth, my tribe faced conflict three moons into my mother’s fifteenth year. A group of Mexicans rode into the canyons from the south and traveled beyond what the journal calls Weavers Needle, and into a gorge east of a black-topped mesa.
“They came to retrieve gold from a family mine. A treaty was to be signed soon and the mountains would then belong to White Eyes. The leader of the Mexicans, Miguel Peralta, feared his family grant would be ignored and that he would lose his mine forever. He told us this when our tribe warned them to leave the yellow iron be.”
I feel a chill spread over my limbs. Peralta. Like the trail approaching the mines from the south, the very route I reckon Rose is taking.
“Our men warned the Peraltas to pack their mules and ride home. The gold belonged to no man, and words on a bit of paper could not make it so. But the Peraltas dug there, pulling the yellow iron from a deep pit for days.
“We tried to discourage them. Our warriors entered their camp as they worked, slaying mules but no men. Still the Mexicans would not take heed. So our tribe gathered among the ridges, hundreds strong, and when the Peraltas left for Sonora our arrows flew like rain. I do not know if any survived, but gold lay scattered there for years to come. The story has been told at our stronghold many moons since, and I have walked the trails on the hottest days to show my gratitude to the warriors who defended Ussen.”
“So you know where it is?” Jesse says, sitting straighter.
“I do not. I have never seen the mine.”
“But the trail. If yous walked the trail where yer people ambushed the Mexicans, you at least know the proper canyon, and points near the mine.”
She shakes her head. “I cannot take you there.”
“What! Why not?” His voice is getting too loud, the veins in his neck too defined. “You can save us time and guesswork deciphering map clues. You can take us clear to the right canyon.”
“You have no more claim to the mine than the Peraltas,” Lil says.
“Goddamn it!” Jesse snarls, jumping to his feet and pacing. “What in the hell is the point of having a scout when she don’t show you the way nowhere?” He turns on me. “You get her to see reason, Kate. She’s yer scout and we had a deal. We help you get Rose if’n the gold can be ours.”
“Gold?” Lil says, turning toward me. “You said you did not want the gold, that you would not touch it.”
“I don’t want it,” I says. “I don’t want nothing but Rose and his men dead.”
“And your deal with them?” Lil glances ’cross the fire at the boys. “It conflicts with ours. You lied.”
“I didn’t.”
“I cannot help you,” she says, standing. “I will not help you.”
“Lil, come on.”
But she goes on marching for her bedroll, her shoulders held back firm, her dark braids swinging.
“Where’s the blasted mine?” Jesse shouts after her. “Goddamn it, tell us. Tell us you worthless, no-good—”
“Jesse!”
“She knows, Kate.” He throws an arm after Lil. “She knows everything! We could hike straight to the damned thing and she won’t help. Yer scout is worthless, and I ain’t gonna apologize for something that’s true.”
There’s a glint in his eyes I ain’t never seen before—an angry fire. I remember Pa’s note to me in Wickenburg, that warning. Gold makes monsters of men. The promise of riches is turning Jesse into someone I don’t recognize.
“It’s yer own damn fault,” I says to him.