It don’t take long to realize that our perch yesterday made the trail look far less rugged and potholed than it is, and that it cuts into more of a ravine than a hill.
I remember a note in Pa’s journal claiming that afternoon light shines into the mouth of the mine, so I tell Jesse to focus on the eastern edge of the ravine. But as we walk the footpath, trying not to roll our ankles, my hope shrivels and prunes. The ridge is overgrown with shrubs and cactuses. Rock pillars rise up like fence posts, and where they ain’t towering, they congregate in loose piles. We could prolly walk within ten feet of the mine and not even see it. Unless we take to crawling every inch of this land, I don’t see how we’ll get lucky.
I grab Jesse’s binoculars, looking ahead for any sign of Rose’s burros. There ain’t nothing but rugged wilderness for as far as I can see.
“Didn’t the journal say something ’bout marked cactuses?” Jesse says.
“Someone hacked limbs off a few saguaros so they only pointed you in the right direction.” I glance round, but nothing in a stone’s throw looks remotely tampered with. “That were years ago, though, long before we were born. The saguaros coulda sprouted new limbs by now.”
“And the tree—weren’t there a clue with a tree?”
“A palo verde not far from the mine. It’s got no bark, according to Pa’s notes, and a distinctly odd shape pointing toward the entrance.”
We scan the land before us. The palo verdes crop up by the thousands, speckling the rocky landscape like vibrant flowers.
“I’m an idiot,” I says. “It all sounded so easy on paper, like I’d just walk out here and find one lone palo verde tree waiting to guide me true.”
“Are we even in the right canyon?” Jesse says.
“I don’t know, Jesse. I really don’t—”
“Shhh! You hear that?”
“Hear what?”
Something clanks in the distance.
“That.”
We stand bone still, waiting. A few seconds later, the noise strikes again. It sounds like a pickaxe on rock, or a hammer. Like a person mining.
“Come on,” Jesse says, and starts leading the way off the footpath and up into the ravine. The burros manage to stay with us despite the extremely rough terrain.
We keep climbing, moving steadily north through the pass as we go. But the higher we get, the harder it is to pinpoint the sound of the pickaxe. It bounces off the surrounding rocks, echoing and throwing us off.
“Hang on. What’s that?” I point ’cross the canyon to what looks like a small cave. There’s something distinctly manmade in its mouth.
Jesse checks with his binoculars.
“Looks like a stone house.”
He lets me have a turn.
The house—if it can even be called that—ain’t much larger than a horse’s pen. I don’t remember a note ’bout this in the journal, but I also stuck to the maps and drawings, to the pages that held Pa’s handwriting.
“Kate,” Jesse says, nudging my shoulder. I lower the binoculars and follow his pointed finger to a shadowy alcove on our side of the canyon, maybe a few-dozen yards ahead. Another cave, perhaps.
But that ain’t what’s caught Jesse’s eye.
No, there’s movement there. Something swaying.
I peer through the binoculars and find a burro snapping his tail at flies.
“It’s them,” I whisper. “Or one of ’em, at least.”
Jesse puts a finger to his lips, then nudges his head for me to follow. Cautious and quiet as possible, I trail Jesse, watching my step round brambles and shrubs, and always keeping a spare hand ’gainst some bit of rock so I don’t lose my footing.
We close in on the burro. He’s standing in the mouth of what is indeed another cave, only the entrance has been boarded up with rocks and tree trunks. Even standing in front of the cave, it don’t look like much.
As Jesse’s pistols twitch to and fro, checking for threats, I skirt by him and duck round the blocked-up entrance.
It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust to the dark, and when they do, the first thing I see is the gold.
It glints where it’s piled in the rear of the cave. Placer nuggets as large as my palm. Others smaller, but still nothing to shrug at. This ain’t the mine, but a cache. And wherever the mine is, it must have one hell of a vein, rich in free gold that can be chipped and cracked out by mere hammer. The burro-driven arrastres in Prescott ground and cracked earth for hours on end only to produce tiny particles the size of pebbles and dust—like what I got left in Pa’s leather pouch—but nothing like this. I ain’t never seen such large pieces.
I tear my eyes from the gold and take in the rest of the cave. A bit of Rose’s gear is dropped ’gainst the side wall: cooking equipment, a lump of clothes, Pa’s journal.
I dart forward and grab it up, my chest singing as the cool leather meets my skin. I tuck it into the back of my pants and freeze solid.
The lump of clothes ain’t a lump of clothes at all.
It’s a man, curled up and sleeping with his back facing me.
I cock my pistol, cringing at the noise it makes. Then I press the muzzle into the Rider’s back. “Don’t move,” I whisper.
And he don’t. He don’t even flinch.
Frowning, I put my hand to his shoulder and pull. The body rolls toward me, lurching like dead weight. His face is a butchered mess; nose broken for sure, lips cracked and bloody, skin stained red from a gash ’long his brow. A nasty raw wound on the Rider’s chest suggests a gunshot, but there ain’t a rose carved in his forehead, not yet at least, so he must still be—
His eyes flash open, and his hands come up, gripping me at the neck and cutting off my air. I’m so shocked, I drop my gun.
“Tompkins,” he gasps.
I reach blindly for my Colt but can’t find it. My fingers go to his, clawing and prying ’em back. He’s weak and drained, and it ain’t a hard fight. By the time Jesse hears me coughing and races into the cache, I’s already scrambled free.
“Tompkins,” the Rider says again, this time staring down Jesse. “He’s gonna kill her.”
“Like he tried with you?” Jesse says.
The Rider just laughs, a low, chuckling gurgle. I think he’s drowning in his own blood. I think he’s already half dead.
“He’s got a plan, Rose . . . always. He’s got the gold . . . and he’ll turn on Tompkins next. Just like he turned on me. Like he turned on all of us.” He pants, breathes deep. “He’ll kill everyone. He’ll send y’all to God with a rose on yer forehead, and he’ll whistle while doing it.” His eyes lock with Jesse. “Exactly like he did when he strung up yer brother.”
Jesse kicks him hard in the side. The Rider howls, and in the time it takes me to blink Jesse’s drawn his Remingtons and pressed one to the bastard’s temple.
“Don’t!” I says, leaping forward and pushing Jesse’s arm away. “The mine’s nearby. If’n we can hear the pickaxe, you better bet Rose’ll hear yer gun. Besides, this guy’s already gone. He ain’t gonna make it much longer.”
A vein bulges in Jesse’s neck as he swallows hard. In the end, he holsters his weapons. When he stands, his fingers dangle lazily near his six-shooters, but it’s a ruse, a game. I’s seen it in rattlers—a steady, indifferent sway before the attack.