Mystery of the Haunted Mine

7 The Lone Apache

During the three days Gary drove for Fred "Candyman" Platt, he learned things about the western and northern approaches to the Espectros he had never known before. The northern side of the mountains was almost a land apart from that which he had known around his father's ranch. Not far from it was the border of the Apache Reservation. The last stop on Fred Platt's lengthy and lonely northern route was the old Mills Ranch, a place that had been built some years after Jim Cole had established his Chiricahua Springs Ranch. It had been burned out a number of times, and once there had been a massacre there from which there had been no survivors.

The truck ground along in low gear through the desert sands. Gary wondered how Fred could possibly make any sort of a profit by selling a packet of needles or a bag of hard candy in such a remote part of the Espectro Mountain country. Their goal showed in a spray of dusty green against the dun of the Espectro foothills, a sure sign of water in the almost waterless land. Behind a screen of trees were the ranch buildings. A dog barked as Gary drove up and stopped the truck at the gate.

A man rounded the corner of a shed and walked easily toward the truck. He was not tall but his chest was deep and broad, and his slim hips were the mark of the horseman. "Hiya, Candyman!" he called. "Come on in!"

"Hello, Jerry! Hot, ain't it?"

The man smiled, revealing even white teeth. Gary studied him. He had seen many Apaches in his lifetime, and he knew now he was looking at one of the pure quill. The man seemed to be staring right through Gary. "You look familiar," he said easily.

Fred nodded. "This is Gary Cole, Jerry. Gary, this is Jerry Black. Black is short for Black Eagle, ain't it, Jerry?"

"Something like that," agreed the Apache. He held out a hand to Gary. "Your dad ever tell you about me, kid?"

"Not that I know of," said Gary.

"Maybe you'd know me better by the name they called me in the Marine outfit I served in with your dad. Geronimo!"

Gary grinned. "Sure!" he said. "You were with him all through the war!"

"How's your dad?"

"Not too well, Jerry."

"War wound still bothering him?"

"Yes, but it was that fall some years ago that did the worst damage."

A fleeting change came over the dark face. "They ever find out who shot at him?"

"Some folks think it was Asesino," said Fred.

Jerry grinned and waved a hand. "Not that old fairly tale again! Asesino is dead. Long gone!"

"Are you sure about that, Jerry?" asked Fred.

"Why, it's been years since anyone has seen him!"

Fred looked at Gary. He was behind the Apache. The peddler shook his head. Gary looked up at the shimmering Espectros, vague and unreal in the shifting light. "I've heard stories he's still up there."

Jerry shoved back his hat and took out a sack of Bull Durham. He deftly rolled a cigarette and lighted it. His dark eyes studied Gary through the smoke. "I go into those mountains all the time, kid. When I got out of college I started exploring in there. That was twelve years ago. I haven't seen Asesino or anyone like him in there. Sure the man did exist. Sure, he was an outlaw and a killer. But folks have built up a legend about him like they did about Billy the Kid and Wyatt Earp, making him do things he never did."

Gary took a chance. "I thought you Apaches shunned the Espectros because of old tribal taboos and so on."

Again the fleeting look passed over Jerry's face. "That's cornball stuff for the old rimrock 'Paches, kid. Four years in the Marines and four years in college knocked all that hokey stuff out of me, I tell you!"

"Jerry gets a little bitter sometimes, kid," Fred said. "Seems like it ain't easy for a college-educated Apache to get a good job around here."

Jerry grunted. "They still think I'd scalp anyone who disagreed with me. Well, come on in. I have some cold drinks in the refrigerator." He walked quickly to the house.

Fred limped alongside Gary, holding onto his shoulder. "Jerry leases the Mills place. Doesn't run cattle or anything though. He's writing a book or something. Spends a lot of time hunting for relics in the mountains. That's why I come out here. Don't say anything about me seeing Asesino."

Gary's eyes widened as he saw the things Jerry had brought out of the mountains. They were placed on a big table in the shaded living room-pottery, arrowheads, basketry, husk matting, and other odds and ends. Hung on the walls were rusted spurs, bits, old guns, bridles, and other relics.

Jerry brought in a tray with glasses and a sweating pitcher filled with tinkling ice and ginger ale. "What do you think of my collection?" he asked.

"Terrific! Museum pieces some of them."

"Hardly that, Gary," said the Apache dryly. "Fred peddles some of the stuff for me."

"Now you know why I come all the way out here to this suburb of Hades," grumbled Fred.

"And this is how you make your living, Jerry?" asked Gary.

Jerry nodded. "It keeps me going while I do research on my book about the Espectro Mountain country."

"It's supposed to be against the law to loot ruins," blurted out Gary without thinking. He was guilty of the same thing himself.

Jerry's dark eyes hardened. "Maybe it is," he said in a low voice, "but the state doesn't seem much concerned about how I live. If I don't dig out those relics to make a fast buck now and then I'd go hungry. Besides, who else would go that deep into those canyons? Remember Asesino, kid! Remember the men with the bullet holes in their skulls! Remember the mysterious marksman of death who keeps inquisitive strangers out of the inner canyons!"

"It ain't funny," said Fred sourly. "Remember it was Gary's pa who got shot in there. By God's grace he come out alive."

Jerry rested a hand on Gary's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said. "I get a little bitter at times. Does your father still talk about the Lost Espectro, kid? It used to be his chief topic of conversation overseas."

"I just told him the other night that he and Gary had the best right to the Lost Espectro."

Jerry's eyes flicked up. "No man has a right to the Lost Espectro."

Fred tinkled the ice in his glass. "Oh, I've heard tell you 'Paches know exactly where it is but you won't talk. How about that, Jerry?"

Jerry did not speak. He waved a hand toward the relics on the table. "How much of this junk do you want, Candyman?"

Fred winked at Gary. "You didn't answer my question, Jerry."

The Apache turned slowly. "Do you want this stuff or not, Fred?"

Gary wandered over to look at the items hanging on the wall. He noticed with a start that there were several mule shoes with flared ends identical to those he and his companions had found near the arrastres. Jerry looked at him. "Ever see mule shoes like those, kid?" he asked.

"No," lied Gary.

"Spanish style. They still make them that way in Mexico."

"You didn't find these in an old cliff dwelling," said Gary.

"No. Over on the southeast side of the Espectros there is a blind canyon with some old arrastres in it. I found those shoes around there."

"Interesting," said Gary over his shoulder. "You find anything else in there?"

"Such as?"

"Lost mines?"

There was a moment's hesitation, and then Jerry spoke. "I wouldn't know," he said quietly. "I'm not interested in them as such. There are less dangerous things in there."

"Why dangerous?" prodded Gary.

"All old mines are dangerous. In the canyon where I found those mule shoes there is always danger of falling rocks because of the rock formations in it. A man could easily get killed in there."

"Yeh," said Fred dryly. "In more ways than one. Gary, take this stuff out into the truck and make sure it's packed right. I don't want any of it broken."

Gary carried the box to the truck and stowed it away. He walked to the windmill and scooped up some water from the trough to wash his sweaty face. As he turned away he saw something brassy-bright lying beside one of the legs of the windmill. He picked up a large brass cartridge and turned it to see the base. It was marked W.R.A. Co. 50/110 Ex. "Winchester Repeating Arms Company," he translated, "Caliber .50/110 Express Cartridge." He swiftly palmed the brass hull and slipped it into his Levi's pocket as Fred and Jerry walked toward the truck.

Fred limped to the truck. Sweat dewed his red face. "I hate to call it quits," he moaned, "but we'd better head back home, Gary. This heat and my ankle are killing me." Gary helped him into the truck. Jerry beckoned to Gary and walked toward the windmill. Gary felt a twinge of fear. Had Jerry seen him pick up that cartridge case?

Jerry smiled. "Tell your dad I'll be by the ranch to see him one of these days. How is it going?"

"Pretty tough, Jerry. He has his pension and I work when I can, but it isn't enough to keep the ranch, I'm afraid."

"As bad as all that?"

Gary nodded.

Jerry glanced toward the shimmering mountains. "And with all that gold supposed to be hidden in there so close to your place."

"Then you really believe in the Lost Espectro?"

"Of course."

"And not Asesino?"

Jerry began to roll another cigarette. "I'll bet he's long dead, kid. You keep looking for the mine. It's in there all right. You weren't too far from it the other day."

Gary looked quickly at him. How had he known they had been looking in the canyon of the arrastres?

Jerry lighted the cigarette. He blew a smoke ring. "Dangerous in there, kid. Lot of falling rock." The dark eyes studied Gary.

If Jerry had been in there he must have seen that skeleton and the bullet-punctured skull as well. The hole in the skull had been a big one. A .50/110 bullet might have made such a hole. It seemed to Gary that the empty hull in his pocket was burning against his flesh.

"You happen to see the skeleton and the skull with the bullet hole in it?" asked Jerry casually.

Gary nodded. His throat tasted like brass.

Jerry blew a smoke ring and stabbed a finger through it. "You going to tell the Sheriff about it?" he asked.

"Why didn't you if you knew it was in there?" asked Gary boldly.

Jerry smiled. "Remember I'm an Apache, kid. Ignorant and superstitious despite my college degree. Apaches won't stay near the dead. It's taboo. Like you WhiteEyes say, we 'Paches steer clear of the Espectros. There are things in there we do not like. The undead haunt these mountains. Bu, the Owl, calls at night in the voices of the restless spirits of the dead." The dark eyes studied Gary.

Jerry looked again at the mountains. "I know one thing, kid. If you ever find that old derrotero your great-grandfather made, you might just get a lead on the Lost Espectro."

"No one knows where it is."

"If you ever find it, keep it to yourself. There are men around these mountains who'd do anything to get their hands on it. Kill even…"

"Yeh," said Gary weakly.

"You believe that, don't you?"

Gary nodded.

"You ever see any of those old Spanish mining symbols in the canyons?"

"Yes. In Cholla Canyon. Jim Kermit said they were phonies."

"He did? Kermit said that?"

"Yes."

Jerry smiled knowingly. "Well, he might say so, but Jim Kermit can keep his mouth shut when it comes to making a fast buck. You ever see Jim Kermit need money? The rest of the ranchers around here are always borrowing money, but not Jim. Jim always has a buck."

"Gary!" called Fred from the truck. "You aim to let me roast in here?"

"Go ahead, kid," said Jerry. "Keep hunting for the mine. Something tells me you might be the lucky one."

Gary shrugged. All the way to the truck he could feel those dark eyes boring into his back.

When the truck reached the road Fred glanced at Gary. "Jerry is a bitter man. I think he knows a lot more about those mountains than he lets on. 'Course I can't see an Indian getting the rights we got, but don't tell him I said that."

"He's a citizen, isn't he? He fought in the war. He was in my father's outfit."

"Sho! What'd he do?"

"Seems to me my father told me once he was a sniper." Then a cold feeling came over Gary. Jerry had been a sniper, a dead shot with a rifle in the jungles of the Pacific Islands. He had made a record for himself in that deadly game. Asesino had also been handy with a rifle. Maybe Asesino was dead, but there was nothing to stop Jerry from taking up the trade of the outlaw. Maybe it was Jerry that Fred Platt had seen last Sunday. Maybe Jerry wanted to keep the legend of Asesino alive so that men would fear the Espectros. Killing was no novelty to Jerry Black.

Fred eased his leg. "I'm taking off tomorrow, Gary. I'll pay you anyway. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday ought'a be enough rest for this game leg of mine."

"You don't have to pay me for Friday, Mr. Platt."

"Sho! You did a good job, kid. Besides, it was nice having company. I learned a lot listening to you, Gary. Fella gets lonesome out in these places."

Gary smiled. Fred Platt had a name for being close with a buck, but Gary had always thought he kept up that pretense so people wouldn't know how really softhearted he was.

Gary glanced at the Espectros. He and Tuck would have three full days to continue their search. This time Gary was bound and determined they would come out of there with some definite conclusion about the Lost Espectro.