The Jeweled Spur (19 page)

Cody glanced over his shoulder, then said, “Now, getting the stuff down those Apaches—that’s the hard part.”

“Won’t be hard if we catch them right. They’re like all Indians—they love liquor, and it drives them crazy.”

“What if they get too rowdy and somebody comes to see about them?”

“Well, that’s the risk,” Bailey admitted, “but we knew it would be risky. But nobody messes with those Apaches much—except Jocko. The rest of the guards are scared of ’em.” He stuck the bottle under his shirt inside his trouser band, then said, “Come on. We don’t have much time.”

Cody’s eyes narrowed, and a sharp thrill ran along his nerves. He’d felt it before, just before a fight or when mounting a wild horse. Danger did that to him—made him think and react faster. Bailey had noted this, and it was for this reason he’d chosen the lean cowboy to join him.

“You got the pass from Jocko?”

“Right here.” Diving into his pocket, Al held up a single slip of paper, and a thin smile touched his lips. “Leo and Andretti are pretty sick boys, but they’ll be all right.”

“How in the world did you manage that?” Cody asked.

“When I heard they was going to take the supply wagon out to the work party, I got some stuff from the infirmary. Gave it to them in some of the whiskey I had stashed. I knew they’d come running to the infirmary, and when they did, I
reported to Jocko that his two men were down sick. That was the real hard part, Cody!”

“What if he’d gotten somebody else to drive the wagon?”

“Then we’d have had to wait for another six months,” Bailey shrugged. “But I waited until Jocko was real busy. He cussed and raved like it was my fault. Then he said, ‘You take the supply wagon, Bailey. You’ve been loafing too long.’ I tried to argue but that made him worse, like it was my fault his men got sick!”

“Well, guess he wasn’t wrong—but he didn’t tell you to take me, did he?”

“No, he said to take Dick Manti, but he won’t have time to check before we’re on our way. C’mon, I want to get out of the compound soon as we can.”

The two men exited the infirmary and hurried down the hall and made their way to the stable. A guard stared at them, asking, “What you two up to?”

“Captain Valentine told us to take the supply wagon out to the job,” Bailey said wearily.

“What happened to Andretti and Leo?”

“Got sick—and Captain blamed me for it!” Bailey complained. “I don’t want to get out there with those Indians. They’re crazy enough to do anything!”

The guard laughed. “All they can do is scalp you, Bailey. Now, get that team hitched up.”

“Somebody’s got to get them Indians.” The Apaches always accompanied the supply wagon, and the guard grinned. “Don’t worry, they’ll be at the gate like always. Take them two horses over there.”

Quickly the two men hitched the horses to the wagon, then Bailey complained, “Ain’t we gonna’ get no help loading this wagon?”

“Why don’t you take it up with Jocko, Bailey?” the guard sneered. Then he turned sour and with a curse said, “Get the wagon loaded and get on your way.”

Bailey and Cody loaded the supplies onto the wagon, then climbed up onto the seat. “You drive, Cody,” Al said.

Grabbing the reins, Cody called out to the horses, and the team pulled out of the building into the bright sunlight. When they arrived at the gate, the two guards looked up, and the older one asked, “Where’s the regular drivers?”

“Sick,” Bailey shrugged. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the pass from Valentine.

The guard took it, stared at it, then handed it back. “Open up, Sid,” he said, and the younger guard unbolted the gates and swung them open.

Cody spoke to the horses and they moved through the opening. As soon as they were outside, Cody said, “There they are, Al.”

The two men watched as three mounted Indians came riding toward them. They were wild-looking warriors, armed with rifles and six-guns at their belt. They drew up in front of the wagon and stared at the two men. Quickly Bailey said, “Regular men are sick.”

The flinty-eyed leader studied him so long that both men grew tense, but then he wheeled his horse and the other two joined him. Two of them took position beside the wagon, and the third led the way.

Cody expelled his breath and whispered, “We made it!” His words, soft as they had been, were caught by one of the Indians, who gave the pair a sharp glance.
Those Indians can hear a caterpillar walk across moss at a mile and a half!
thought Cody as he clamped his lips together.

The road was rough but plainly marked with old wagon ruts, and soon the prison faded from sight. The guards alongside the wagon grew lax as they rode together, speaking their guttural language. The leader looked back from time to time but seemed uninterested.

“Where do we make our play?” Cody asked softly.

“I don’t know. Never been out to the work camp. But we got to do it right, Cody. We wait too long, we’ll be in sight
of the guards. I got out of one of the drivers that the camp was about six miles—but how we gonna know when we’ve gone three miles?”

“I can make a pretty good guess,” Cody nodded. “Getting them savages drunk is the trick. Has to be done right, or they’ll get suspicious.” The two of them spoke quietly, trying to plan, but there was little to be done. Finally Cody said, “I think we’re about halfway there.”

“Not a soul in sight,” Bailey murmured, studying the horizon. “Look, we got to let them think the whiskey is
their
idea. We can’t just invite them to have a drink with us.”

“How about we sneak us a drink every now and then—until they catch us?”

“That’s it!” Bailey said with relief. He took a deep breath, and reached under his shirt. When he had pulled the whiskey bottle out, he pretended to take a drink, turning his head as a man would who was trying to hide something. “They didn’t see me,” he said. “You try it.”

Cody picked up the bottle, lifted it to his lips, then lowered it. He made his movements furtive and cut his eyes around. “Didn’t see me either. Let me try again—”

This time, the trick worked. The leader had turned just in time to see Cody put the bottle back under the seat, and at once the Indian turned his horse and drove him toward the wagon. Pulling the animal up cruelly, he stared at Cody out of obsidian eyes. Pointing at the seat, he held his hand out and uttered a single word, “Give!”

Cody blinked and tried to look guilty, but he had little time. The other two Indians had moved to stop the team, and a quick question drew a brief answer from the leader, who lifted his rifle, training the muzzle on Cody. “Give!” he said coldly.

Cody wiped the sweat off his face and said weakly, “It’s just—water.”

But the Indian drew the hammer back on the Spencer, and Cody cried out, “No—don’t shoot—” Reaching under the
seat, he picked up the bottle and handed it carefully over to the Apache.

Bailey cursed and said, “That no good for Indian!”

The Indian ignored him, took the top off, and smelled the contents. Then he smiled for the first time and said something to his fellow guards, who came to him at once. He lifted the bottle and drank deeply, then handed it to one of the other Indians.

Bailey made a show, standing up and saying, “Captain of guards will not like it. Firewater no good for Indians.”

One of the Indians, a short pug-nosed man, drew his pistol and sent a shot close to Bailey’s head, whereupon Bailey at once fell into the seat. The three Indians all laughed and began to take turns with the whiskey.

The effect of the liquor was almost magical to the white men. They were shocked at how quickly the whiskey hit the Apaches—and then saw that things were getting out of control. The three began arguing over the bottle and soon were shouting at each other.

“Watch yourself, Al,” Cody muttered. “They’d just as soon kill us, crazy as they are.”

And he was almost right, for soon one of the Indians fell from his horse. He got up staggering, and his eyes grew wild when the other two laughed at him. He pulled his pistol and fired a shot, not to kill, but in anger. The other two laughed and pulled their revolvers and began firing wildly. Cody and Al could only sit there hoping they would be ignored.

But that was not the way of it, for soon all three Indians were on their feet, allowing their horses to drift away. They scuffled with each other and pulled knives, but drunk as they were, they did not kill each other. “Just a few minutes and we’re okay,” Cody breathed, but at that moment the leader glanced at him. His eyes were wild and staring, and he uttered a wild scream and made for the wagon. He had a Colt in his left hand, but with his right reached up and pulled Cody from the seat. Cody sprawled in the dust, and one of
the other Indians ran around the wagon and pulled Bailey down. They were all three screaming and dragged the two men together.

The next ten minutes were the worst Cody had ever known. The Indians were insane—there was no other word for it. They fired shots that missed the two men by inches, and both Cody and Al knew they could be killed at any moment.

When the Indians tired of that, they began to beat the two men, who covered their heads and suffered silently. Most of the blows they caught on their arms, but one brave hit Al in the nose, producing a spurt of crimson blood. The sight of the blood increased their rage, and the Indians threw the men down and began to kick them. They were wearing moccasins instead of boots, which was all that saved the two convicts.

After a few minutes, one of them drew a wicked-looking knife and made jabbing motions at the pair. The other two cheered him on, and more than once the razor-sharp blade caught the flesh of both men, and cut their now-bloody shirts to shreds.

Can’t stand much more,
Cody gasped silently.
They’ll kill us for sure!

A few seconds later, one of the braves suddenly swayed and fell to the ground, totally unconscious. The other two hooted at him and shared the last of the whiskey. Both of them were weaving and moving very slowly—but were as dangerous as rattlesnakes.

Finally the Apache screamed and fell on Al Bailey. Drawing his knife he held it across the man’s throat, and the leader was crying out something.

He’s telling him to kill Al!
The thought raced through Cody’s brain, and he reacted instantly. The chief of the three was standing beside him, not two feet away. His eyes were fixed on the struggling white man and the maniacal Apache, who was intent on slitting the helpless man’s throat. Cody, despite the buffeting, had been watching the Indians as they fired their guns and had noted that the leader had fired his
rifle most of the time, firing with his Colt only twice. The Colt was in a holster on the Indian’s right thigh, and in one motion Cody threw himself forward and snatched at the gun. He knew that if he missed he was a dead man—but he didn’t miss!

The Colt came free, and at once Cody leveled it at the Indian who was slicing into Bailey’s throat. The slug hit him along the skull, leaving a ragged track, and he crumpled to the ground.

Drunk as he was, the Apache beside Cody whirled and lifted his rifle. Cody saw the muzzle rise and point at his stomach. With his left hand he shoved the muzzle to one side just as the rifle roared. Cody shoved the Colt in the Indian’s side and pulled the trigger—but the hammer snapped on a spent shell. Instantly, he lifted the heavy revolver and brought it down on the man’s skull even as the Indian got off another wild shot. The Apache fell as if pole-axed, then Cody whirled to look at the third Indian—but all of the noise had not disturbed him, for he lay still on the ground.

“Al—you all right?” asked Cody, breathing heavily.

Bailey was dazed and stared uncomprehendingly at Cody. He’d almost been a dead man, and he was amazed at the way Cody had exploded into action right then. He touched his throat, then stared at the blood on his fingers. Then he managed a weak smile, “I guess so—but it was a close thing, Cody.”

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Cody snapped.

“What about them?” Bailey asked, gesturing at the three Indians.

“These two won’t die. We’ll leave ’em here. Al, if we miss that train, we’re dead men!”

After picking up the weapons, they captured the Indian ponies, and then drove the horses from the wagon until they were ready to drop. Avoiding the work camp, they circled around and found the tracks of the railroad just where one
of the men had told them. Within minutes, they found the water tank, and Cody said, “We’ve got a chance, Al!”

Quickly dressing in some of the old work clothes that had been designed for the camp, they huddled behind a clump of sage and waited.

“If they find out we’re gone,” Al said as they listened for the train, “they’ll know where to look for us. Hope the train’s not late!”

It wasn’t long before they heard the distinctive sound of the train coming out of the east chugging across the desert. When it stopped to take on water and firewood, Cody and Al climbed into a stock car and hid among the steers, which stared at them suspiciously.

Finally the train began to move, and Al gleefully grabbed Cody and hugged him. “We made it! We made it!”

Cody was still cautious, though elated. “We can’t stay on this train for long, Al. We need to get off and get us some horses. They’ll check this train down the line.” He laughed then, his face filled with exultation. “But we made it, Al!”

Bailey looked embarrassed, then said, “Well, you saved my life, Cody. I owe you.”

“No, it was you that got us out, Al, so we owe each other.” Cody struck the smaller man a friendly blow on the shoulder, then an odd look crossed his face. “Know what I feel bad about?”

“What, Cody?”

“I feel bad that I can’t be there to see Jocko’s face when he hears how he lost his prisoners!”

The thought struck Bailey as funny as the two of them stood there in the smelly cattle car, and finally they roared with laughter.

The train moved across the desert, passing into foothills and revealing small ranches. That night they slipped off the car and found a small herd of half-wild horses. Cody managed to lasso two of them. “Hate to be a hoss thief,” he said
regretfully as the two of them mounted and rode away. “But we got no choice, have we, Al?”