The Aztec Treasure, page 13
“He ain’t got it,” Yeager growled. “But he knows where it is, like as not with that floozy Starbuck he sides, you can bet on that.”
“I’ll make him talk,” growled the man Ki had jabbed in the throat. “I’d sure like to have the chance. I’m in favor of cashing him in right now. It’s the safest thing to do.”
“Maybe so,” Yeager admitted, “but orders is orders. Herd him back into the hole and we’ll fasten him up.”
Ki was pushed forward again, past his heap of belongings on the table and into the rest of the tunnel, Yeager bearing the lantern behind him. For some sixty paces the tunnel ran straight with unbroken walls; then an opening yawned on the left. Into this Ki was forced. Yeager held the lantern high, and Ki’s breath caught in his throat.
The room, about ten feet square, had evidently been used as a storehouse of sorts. Rusty picks and shovels and bars of curious design were scattered about. And some six feet out from the far wall was a row of thick iron rods set into the rock about three feet apart. The row continued around the far end wall also, Ki noted. To these uprights were secured stout chains riveted to the iron. The chains ended in ponderous manacles, and nearly all of the iron cuffs were locked about what had once been a human wrist, but now was fleshless bone.
Some of the pitiful victims lay prone; some were hunched over with knees drawn up to their bony chins. In most cases the corpses had dried and desiccated in the hot, dry air, until instead of skeletons, they had become grotesque mummies with parchment skin drawn tight over the bones beneath, eyeless sockets staring, shriveled lips drawn back from teeth in grotesque grins. From some of the skulls still hung lank black hair.
The black hair, the darkness of the skin, and the prominence of the cheekbones identified the dead to Ki. They had been Indians, doubtless the slaves held captive by the old Spaniards and forced to work the mine. Here they were kept locked up at night. For some reason they had been abandoned by their heartless captors to die a slow and torturous death by thirst and starvation. Doubtless a hundred years, and perhaps much more, had passed since they had sat down to their last long sleep in the dark.
Yeager held the lantern high and gave an evil chuckle. “You’ll have company while you’re waitin’ for the boss. And I reckon these other bastards will have company while they’re waiting for Judgment Day. Come over here!”
While the other men stood alert and watchful, Yeager picked up one of the clanking manacles that showed signs of recent oiling and use, clamped it around Ki’s wrist, and locked it with a key he took from his pocket.
“You ain’t the first gent this’s been used on,” he remarked, gesturing to a corner where something lay huddled. “Over there is another bastard what got in the boss’s way—or what’s left of him. He’d already been plugged, but you look purty husky. Reckon you’ll be able to last quite a spell, even though you’re liable to wish you couldn’t. A feller gets thirsty mighty fast in here.” He chuckled again, malevolently, then turned to the other men. “Fletch, you’re stayin’ here at the hangout while we go meet the boss. C’mon, boys, he’ll be waitin’ over to the forks to find out if we dropped a noose on this bastard before he decides whether to come over here or ride on south.”
They trooped out together, taking the lantern with them. Ki sat down in the dark, his chain clanking unpleasantly, and mulled things over. It wasn’t hard to guess what they’d been after—that map he’d taken off the salt cart driver. Most likely they’d been looking for it when they’d ransacked the mine office, figuring if he and Jessie left the ore with the superintendent, they’d have left the map with him, too. Now they knew he didn’t have it, and would probably torture him to talk, and when that didn’t work, use him as bait to lure Jessie up there to her certain death. If he didn’t work out something in a hurry, it’d be all over when the boss, whoever he was, got there. And Ki had a notion that would be soon.
Blindly he examined his manacle with his fingers. The iron cuff fitted snugly about his wrist, and the chain, while rusty, was evidently firm enough. A tentative tug or two convinced him it was far beyond his strength to break it. It was securely riveted to the upright bar, and the bar was set deep in the stone of floor and ceiling. He could hear Fletch banging about in the other room, and soon the smell of frying bacon and boiling coffee drifted into his prison. After a while Fletch quieted down, save for an occasional rattle of knife and fork. Then silence ensued.
Ki listened intently, hoping the silence meant Fletch had fallen asleep. Impatient as he was, he decided to wait a little longer, for he was almost certain to make some noise. If Fletch heard, he might get suspicious and investigate. Slowly the minutes dragged past, and the silence continued. Ki could stand it no longer and began freeing his wrist from the manacle.
Focusing all his concentration on the task, he purposely dislocated the bones of his wrist, then his hand, even his nimble fingers. Then, by merely twisting and stretching his ligaments and muscles, he slowly wormed his limp, formless flesh through the wrist iron, cradling the iron with his other hand to keep it from dropping with a clank to the floor.
He stood, snapping his bones back in place, and groped about cautiously for the scattering of picks and shovels and iron bars. Locating a stout bar, he picked it up and stole silently out of the chamber and along the tunnel. He reached the outer room and peered cautiously into its lighter interior.
Fletch sat at the table, his back to the inner tunnel mouth, his chin sunk on his breast. He was undoubtedly drowsing. Ki stole out of the tunnel and entered the chamber, the bar gripped and ready. He raised it aloft.
And like a feral animal sensing danger, Fletch woke up. He leaped to his feet and whirled about, a hand streaking for his revolver. Ki leapt forward and struck. The blow missed Fletch’s arm, but it struck his drawn revolver squarely, sending it spinning across the room. Ki whirled the bar for a second blow.
Fletch dived under the swing with more swiftness than Ki would have credited him for. The bar whizzed harmlessly over his head, and Ki’s wrist crashed into Fletch’s shoulder. The force of the contact opened his fingers, the bar clanged to the floor, and before he could recover, Fletch’s huge reaching hands fastened on his throat in a viselike grip. Backward and forward the two men reeled in a silent death grapple.
Fletch, though nearly a foot shorter than Ki, was many pounds heavier, and he seemed to be made of steel wires. Ki chopped at his head and neck with the callused sides of his hands, but Fletch buried his face against Ki’s chest and grimly held on. Ki tore at the man’s corded wrists but could not loosen the terrible grasp of his thick fingers. His lungs were bursting for want of air; his head was spinning. There seemed to be a red-hot iron band tightening and tightening about his chest. Before his bulging eyes a thin, opal-tinted mist formed. And still Fletch tightened his awful grip.
With the strength of desperation, Ki hurled himself backward. He struck the stone floor with a bone-wracking crash. At the same time he jerked down on Fletch’s wrists with every ounce of force in him, driving his leg, stiff as an iron rod, upward. The throttling fingers tore free from his throat. Fletch’s body shot into the air. He howled in pain as he turned a complete somersault and hurtled downward, landing on his head, his body stretched out at an angle. There was the thud of Fletch’s skull on the stone, a sharp crack, then an odd spasmodic tattoo of boot heels pounding the rock floor.
Ki staggered to his feet, gulping in great drafts of air. Reeling and swaying, he stared at Fletch, who lay on his stomach, his head twisted about at a horrid angle, so that his distorted face glared with fixed eyes over his right shoulder.
“Busted his neck when he landed!” Ki muttered between gasps for air, leaning against the stone wall. For minutes he sagged there until his brain cleared a little and his strength began to return. Finally he straightened, stood rocking on his feet a moment, then staggered to the table to collect his vest and weapons.
Somebody had removed his horse’s rig, which lay nearby. Ki cinched with trembling fingers, located his saddle carbine, and slid it into the saddle boot. The urgent necessity now was to get away before Yeager and the other men returned with their boss. Weak and shaken as he was, Ki knew he was in no shape for a desperate battle against overwhelming odds. He paused only long enough to take Fletch’s revolver and turn out his pockets. He discovered nothing of any significance. Sticking the revolver behind his belt, he led his horse out of the tunnel into the night air. Getting into the saddle was a considerable chore, the cantankerous paint making it as difficult as possible.
With only the slim crescent providing moonlight, the brush-flanked lane was black as pitch, but Ki sent his mount along it at a good pace. Without slacking speed, the paint crashed through the thin fringe of growth—and then Ki reined in sharply.
Several riders were streaming up the trail, with Yeager at their head. Spotting Ki, drawing revolvers, they spurred recklessly toward him—all except one, Ki saw, who halted at the edge of the chaparral, then whirled his mount and rode back out of sight. He could hear this unseen man yelling order to the others.
“Cut him off! Don’t let him get away!”
A gun blasted and a bullet snarled wickedly past Ki’s head. But Ki was already in motion again, jabbing his heels into the paint’s flanks and lashing with his reins. Bolting into a long, stretching gallop, the paint raced straight for the oncoming riders. Amazement, then alarm, struck at the men’s faces as they saw the crazy-eyed paint and its rider slamming headlong at them. They swerved, scattering.
Only Yeager tried to hold his ground. He snarled an oath, and lead-fanged fire spouted from his gun muzzle. Ki felt the burn of the bullet along his left side. Then Yeager, suddenly realizing his peril, tried to whirl his grulla and get away. But he was too late. The paint, running full speed, hooves churning the earth, hit Yeager’s horse with incredible force. The grulla was knocked from its feet. Yeager hit the ground and rolled, hoarsely yelling his terror. The paint reared and slashed downward with its front hooves at that screaming, scuttling figure. There was a hollow-sounding crunch, like a melon being smacked with a mallet, and the figure stopped screaming and scuttling.
The paint stormed on into the mass of riders, and now Ki began firing Fletch’s revolver. Howls split the air. The paint struck another horse shoulder to shoulder and sent it sprawling to the ground. Ki’s flailing gun barrel crunched against bone. Then they were through the whirling, demoralized tangle and flashing along the trail. Guns boomed behind them, lead whined past as the men tried to regroup. Ki, bent low in the saddle, twisted about and blazed lead back at the milling outlaws. One of them slumped forward, then tumbled to the ground. The riderless horse shied away, throwing the mounts of the others into still greater confusion.
Just before Ki drove into the timber, he again glimpsed that shadowy figure who had halted at the edge of the chaparral. Who was that rider, and why had he remained back out of sight?
Ki thought he had the answer. This rider who had been reluctant to show himself, even when it appeared that Ki was hopelessly cornered and doomed, had to be the so-called Quantrell, the real leader of the outlaw pack.
Stifling a reckless impulse to circle through the chaparral and attempt the capture of the bandit chief, Ki kept on his way. For he knew that this would be suicidal. The gunmen were rallying, and weapons roaring, they were driving at the spot where Ki had vanished into the forest.
Some of the unaimed bullets came perilously close to Ki. Thorny branches slapped at his face and ripped at his clothes. He crossed a spiny ridge, and the gunfire died away behind him. Sighing with relief, but still keeping every sense on alert, he angled down through the foothills toward the valley, a frown of puzzlement furrowing his brow as he remembered the rider who had lurked back in the chaparral. Who was he? That question was still tormenting him when hours later he rode into the Twisted Bar ranch yard.
Chapter 10
Ki slept in late and took his time about rising, every muscle, tendon, and ligament of his body feeling the effects of the night before. He felt better after a meal and a workout, though, and then closeted himself with Jessie to discuss what had happened.
They were still considering what course of action to take, when Sheriff Gillette arrived from town. “Got a wire for you,” he told Jessie upon greeting. “Gabe, the telegrapher, swore it was the longest message he ever took.”
“Thank you.” Jessie opened the envelope and began reading the encoded message from Starbuck headquarters.
The sheriff turned to Ki. “Now, spill. Did you see Shukka?”
“No, it was a trap. Quantrell’s men caught me and took me to their hideout. Or what was their hideout; Quantrell’s too shrewd to keep them holed up there now, knowing I’ll be telling you about this.” And Ki went ahead to explain the events, until Jessie interrupted to show him the telegram.
“Sheriff, you might be interested in this, too,” she told Gillette. “The message confirms what you told me yesterday about Willis Diebold and Olin Thayne, and that Diebold was indeed paralyzed by a bullet that lodged in his spine. The doctors were afraid to remove it and gave Diebold less than a year to live. After his father died, Diebold sold his Arizona ranch to come here, and set off with Thayne and another puncher named Alex Niles. Diebold was well thought of and liked in Arizona. Thayne has worked several years for him and bad a reputation as a top hand, and though he was rumored to have run cows in from Mexico, no charges were ever brought. My informants can’t find anything on Niles, other than that he originally hailed from Texas and worked for Diebold for only a few months.”
“Well,” Gillette grunted, “that don’t tell us much we didn’t already know.”
Ki, however, sat staring straight ahead of him, his eyes brooding. At last he said, “Sheriff, mind taking a paseo to the Quantrell hideout?”
“Sure! Think you can find it again?”
“Given time . . .”
It took time. Heading northwest from the Twisted Bar with Jessie and the sheriff, Ki rode into the hills swiftly yet cautiously, watching for Quantrell’s gun crew as well as for familiar landmarks. He had a keen sense of direction, and felt he was generally following the route he’d taken to escape, but then the terrain had been shrouded by night, and now it was reversed for him. Keeping on his mental trail was one long headache.
A half dozen times, Ki had to rein in to carefully study the deceiving perspectives. Twice he found he’d strayed off course, and had to backtrack, listening to Gillette swearing under his breath. And once he got lost and wound up in a box canyon, then overshot his return, passing the point where he should have resumed his unmarked way. When he realized this and was about to swing back again, he recognized the forest that bordered the thick chaparral that hid the mine tunnel.
Finally reaching the stretch of screening brush, Ki led the way through the fringe. They halted and listened. All was quiet, however, other than the moan of the wind through the growth. The mine tunnel was silent and deserted. Inside, Ki struck a match and lighted a lantern they had brought with them. The outer rock-walled room was much as he had left it the night before, except that the body of Fletch was not in evidence.
“I figured they’d be sure to take Fletch with them,” Ki commented. “I hope they didn’t think to take the other one when they cleaned out, and I’ve a hunch they didn’t. It would hardly be recognizable by now, anyway.”
“What other one?” the puzzled sheriff demanded. “What’re you talking about?”
But without replying, Ki led the way to the inner chamber where he had been shackled prisoner. Both Gillette and Jessie exclaimed at the mummified corpses of the Indians, but Ki did not waste a glance on them. He hurried directly to the corner where lay what looked to be a bundle of rags, but which was the shrunken, desiccated body of the man Yeager boasted had worn the prison chain prior to Ki, the man who had “got in the boss’s way.” Nearly all the flesh had sloughed away from the dead man’s skull, but the skin of the body remained stretched over the bony skeleton.
Ki stripped off the rotting rag that had been a shirt, to bare the shrunken chest. Below the ribs on the left side showed the scar of an old bullet wound. He turned the body over on its face. No corresponding scar showed at the back.
“This won’t be pretty,” he warned, drawing one of his knives. “But it’s necessary.” With swift, sure strokes he made incisions in the parchmentlike skin on either side of the spinal column. He cut away sections of the skin and the withered flesh and removed several ribs. Suddenly he uttered a sharp exclamation. “See it? Stuck in the backbone?”
“A bullet,” Jessie gasped.
“Uh-huh,” the sheriff gulped. “Sure as shootin’.”
“And just as I expected,” Ki said. “A slug lodged in the spine, the bullet the doctors were afraid to remove, and which paralyzed Willis Diebold.”
“This’s Diebold?” the sheriff blurted. “Why—Why then, that’d make the Diebold over at the Double Diamond a cussed imposter, and a cold-blooded killer to boot!”
“Exactly!” Jessie exclaimed. “Of course, it makes sense! The man posing as Willis Diebold, the cripple, must be Alex Niles, the cowhand who left Arizona with Diebold and Thayne.”
Sheriff Gillette leapt erect. “C‘mon!” he barked. “We’ll put the arm on the coyote pronto. Folks o’er Arizona will recognize him as Niles, not Diebold, right off.”
“Whoa up,” Jessie cautioned. “We haven’t much on him and Thayne—yet. You could have him sent to prison for fraud, and that’s about all. In a mighty short time he would be out and causing trouble again.”
“But he cashed in poor Willis Diebold! Here’s the body!”
“To prove he’s dead, that’s all. There’s nothing to show that Diebold didn’t die of natural causes. Remember what my message said, Sheriff—that the doctors gave Diebold less than a year to live. Niles and Thayne would swear the trip over here was too much for him and he died before he got here, and that then they cooked up the scheme to gain his inheritance. No, we’re not ready to move just yet.”
