Drovers and Demons: A Weird Tale of the Old West (Murphy and Loco Book 1), Page 2

  The thought put a rare smile on Ford’s lips, his previous uneasiness now all but forgotten. He lifted his pickaxe and took a mighty swing at the rock wall in front of him. Instead of glancing off the rock, however, the pick’s momentum continued forward as a small portion of the rock wall crumbled inward, exposing a dark void on the other side. Black Pete had to grab Ford to keep the younger man from falling forward on his face.

  “You’ve broken through to another shaft!” Pete exclaimed.

  “Like hell I have!” Ford argued as he struggled to regain his footing. “There ain’t no shaft beyond this one. We’ve both been here long enough to know that.”

  Pete opened his mouth to respond, but his silence indicated that he conceded the point.

  “But if it ain’t a shaft,” Ford continued, his expression curious, “then what the hell is it? A natural cave?”

  “Must be,” Pete agreed. He wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “Smell comin’ out of there is god-awful. Like sulfur, maybe.”

  Ford took a healthy sniff and scrunched his own nose. “I don’t like this,” he said. “Let’s skedaddle.”

  “Wait,” Pete urged. “Fetch that lantern. Let’s see what’s in there.”

  “How about we don’t and say we did?” Ford turned and took a step back toward the entrance, then sighed as he relented and grabbed the lantern. Curiosity killed the cat, and it was likely to kill him one of these days, too. But he had to admit he was intrigued by what might lie on the other side of the opening. He handed the lantern to Pete.

  “Take care,” he said to the older man. “Might be some sort of gas built up in there. I might be planning a trip, but it ain’t to the moon.”

  “Sulfur gas don’t explode,” Pete smirked. He lifted the lantern to the jagged hole and stuck his head close to peer inside.

  “See anything?” Ford asked nervously.

  “A whole lot of black,” Pete replied. “The air coming out’s awful hot, though. That’s strange.”

  A sudden noise behind Ford startled him so badly that he lit right off the ground like a cat that had jumped on a hot stovetop. He spun around and saw the nameless Indian standing in the shaft, still gripping the handcart, his eyes wide as he stared at the hole in the mine’s wall.

  “Sonofabitch!” Ford gasped. “You damn near scared the life right out of me!”

  The Indian dropped the handcart and shouted something in Apache that Ford didn’t understand.

  “What’s all that commotion?” Pete asked, turning away from the opening.

  “I don’t know,” Ford said. “He’s all worked up over something.”

  “Well, hush him up!” Pete hissed. “The last thing we need is—” His words ended abruptly in a startled yelp. The lantern crashed to the ground, sending flaming oil splashing across the floor of the shaft. There was a sickening ripping sound, and Pete began to scream in a high-pitched voice that reminded Ford of a young girl. He had time to think that he’d never heard such sounds coming from a grown man before, and then the flames began to spread dangerously close to his feet.

  “Pete!” Ford yelled as he danced away from the burning oil. The fire provided some illumination, but the flickering flames were casting weird shadows and playing tricks with Ford’s eyes. It looked, for instance, like Pete had somehow managed to stick his head inside the hole Ford had inadvertently created in the shaft’s wall. Which wasn’t possible, of course, since the aperture was only the size of a teacup saucer. The man was thrashing violently, and his screams now seemed muffled and distant.

  “Anasazi!” the Indian behind Ford gasped.

  Ford heard a sucking noise like someone pulling free a boot which had been mired in the mud. He glanced up to see that Pete was now in the small opening up to his waist. The screaming had stopped, and the visible portion of his body had gone limp except for the occasional violent spasm.

  A death shudder.

  Ford had seen all he needed to see. His brain was telling him to get the hell out of there, but his body had suddenly become mutinous, refusing to obey his orders to turn tail and run. He might have stood there until the fire sucked away what precious little oxygen was left in the shaft, but he was abruptly yanked backwards by two rough hands and hauled roughly back toward the mine’s entrance. Turning his head, Ford looked into the eyes of the Indian who was stoically dragging him back to the safety of the outside world.

  “What does that mean?” Ford asked, his voice sounding as if it were coming from a thousand miles away. “That word you said. Anasazi?”

  “For lack of a better definition,” the Indian replied in perfect English, “it means run if you want to live.”

  Ford nodded and smiled. Then he passed out deader than four o’clock.

  ***

  The mine office was neat and tidy, nothing at all like Murphy had expected. Traditionally, such remote bastions of civilization were haphazardly kept, at best. Murphy had been in very few mining town establishments where he would have dared eat anything which had touched the floor for even the briefest of seconds, and that included the eateries.

  Like the office, Henry Northwood, the head of mining operations, looked nothing like Murphy had pictured. Instead of the soft-handed business type Murphy had envisioned, Northwood was tall and rawboned. He exuded the aura of a man accustomed to hard work and not afraid of it.

  At the moment, Northwood was not a happy man. He kept glancing back and forth from Murphy to the office’s window, where several men were removing the now-stiff Pennyfeather from his horse. Murphy had the sense that Northwood was not so much angered over the lawyer’s murder as he was irritated that someone had dared to interfere in his business.

  “There was nothing you could do?” Northwood asked Murphy, clearly annoyed.

  Murphy shook his head. “We had three guns on us before we knew what was what. If he’d kept quiet, we could have both made it out alive. But your man there talked himself right into his grave.”

  “Then how did you escape?” Northwood asked, eyeing Murphy suspiciously.

  “I bided my time and waited for an opportunity,” Murphy replied. He wasn’t too fond of Northwood’s accusatory tone, but he needed the paycheck.

  “And what was the opportunity?”

  Murphy chewed on his answer. He sure as hell wasn’t about to talk about things falling out of the sky. Northwood was already skeptical enough; telling the truth was apt to get Murphy shot or run out of town. He reckoned an abridged and lightly edited version of events was in order.

  “They started going through the lawyer’s saddlebags,” he said. “They got distracted enough for me to make my play.”

  Northwood gave Murphy a few more moments of scrutiny, then shook his head in disgust.

  “This is exactly the reason you were hired,” the mine boss said. “We can’t ship anything in or out of here without the risk of being robbed blind and our men killed. And sometimes it’s our own men doing the robbing.” He stopped and gave Murphy a pointed look. “You were hired because I heard you were good. Have I wasted both our time?”

  Murphy rubbed at his temples. “Mind if I speak openly, Mr. Northwood?”

  “Not at all.”

  “The only thing I lost out there was Pennyfeather, and that’s because he wouldn’t shut up long enough to listen to me. In fact, I came back with an extra three horses, not to mention saddles and personal effects. Now, I’m sorry about your lawyer, but you won’t find a man any better than me. At least not for what you’re paying. So I can either turn around and head back toward Phoenix, or I can go about finding lodging. It’s all the same to me.”

  Northwood studied Murphy, his expression unreadable. After several moments, the mine boss allowed the ghost of a grin to grace his lips.

  “Fair enough,” he said. “I guess I should have known better than to send a lawyer to collect you. You’re welcome to stay in the bunkhouse for free, but if you’d like more sophisticated accommodations and a bit of privacy, there’s rooms in town
fairly cheap.”

  “Think I’ll try my luck in town,” Murphy replied. “I tend to be bashful around others.”

  “Suit yourself,” Northwood said. “Be here by seven in the morning. I have a shipment going out tomorrow afternoon, and I’d like to get your thoughts on it.”

  “I’ll be here,” Murphy promised. He was turning to leave when a man burst through the door, spooked and out of breath.

  “Mr. Northwood, you’d better get on out to the mine,” the man panted. “There’s been a fire.”

  “Fire?” Northwood shouted. “Is there any damage? Have we lost any men?”

  “Not much in the way of damage,” the man said. “We’ll have to replace a few support timbers, maybe. They got it out pretty fast. But we’re missing one man, and another one’s gone off in the head.”

  “Off in the head?” Murphy asked.

  “Keeps babbling about ghosts or something,” the man replied, noticing Murphy for the first time.

  “Well, let’s get on out there,” Northwood said. He turned to Murphy. “You don’t believe in ghosts, do you, Mr. O’Bannon?”

  “Never met one,” Murphy lied, and followed Northwood out the door.

  Chapter Three

  By the time Murphy and Northwood arrived at the entrance to the mine, most of the commotion had already died down. A few tendrils of grayish-black smoke drifted lazily from the shaft’s opening and floated up into the arid afternoon sky. They reminded Murphy of snakes, for some reason.

  “Who are we missing?” Northwood demanded as he strode up to a serious-looking man with dark features and a prominent scar on his left cheek.

  “Pete Williams,” the dour man replied. “No sign of him in the shaft where the fire started. I’m thinking he got turned around in the smoke and wandered down one of the other shafts.”

  “Then find him,” Northwood said irritably. “Dammit, Skillings. We can’t be shutting operations down in the middle of the day.” He shook his head and spat in the dirt. “How did the fire start, anyway?”

  Skillings shrugged. “Oil lamp, from what we can tell. There were two other men with Williams at the time, but one’s talking nonsense and the other’s an Apache. We ain’t getting much out of either one.”

  “What’s all this talk about ghosts and stuff?” Northwood wanted to know.

  “That’s coming from Ford Earheart, one of the men who was in there with Williams. He’s saying something pulled Williams through a crack in the wall.”

  “Is he drunk?” Northwood grunted.

  “Don’t reckon,” Skillings replied. “But the smoke might have gotten to him. He’s always been a straightforward worker up till now.”

  “You said there was an Apache with them?” Murphy asked. He’d been standing a few feet away, listening to the conversation.

  Instead of answering, Skillings gave Murphy a quick look and turned to regard Northwood, eyebrows raised questioningly.

  “This is Murphy O’Bannon,” Northwood said, making hurried introductions. “He’s our new security chief. Mr. O’Bannon, this is Alvin Skillings, the mine foreman.”

  “Good to meet you,” Murphy said, extending his hand.

  “Likewise.” Skillings took Murphy’s hand and shook it. Murphy had known three-year-olds with a firmer grip.

  “The Apache?” Murphy prompted.

  “Yeah. I don’t think he speaks much English. To tell the truth, I don’t think I’ve ever heard him do more than grunt. He’s a hard worker, though. We hired him to clear away the attle in the shafts.”

  “Mind if I speak to him?” Murphy asked. “I’ve picked up a little of the Apache language over the years.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” Northwood said. “Skillings, show him which man you’re talking about.”

  “Yes sir.” Skillings turned and began to walk toward a group of workers who were knotted together and talking amongst themselves in hushed tones. “Follow me, Mr. O’Bannon.”

  “Make it Murphy,” Murphy insisted, catching up. “How long you been working at the Vulture?”

  “Little over a year,” Skillings replied. “It’s a steady job, and I figure the mine’s got another year or two before it plays out.” He gave Murphy a casual glance. “You’re a hired gun, right?”

  “Is that a problem for you?” Murphy asked.

  Skillings shook his head. “I got no dog in the hunt. Just figured you’d like to know that the last two security chiefs didn’t make out too well.”

  “Dead or quit?” Murphy asked.

  “One of each. Tulley—the one before you—took a bullet or twelve in the saloon in Vulture City. He’s buried out in the town cemetery. Dalton was the one before Tulley. He just got a beating, but it was enough for him to see the light, so to speak. He hightailed it out of here in the middle of the night.”

  “Is the local law any help?” Murphy wondered.

  “Ain’t none,” Skillings answered. “The folks in town elected a marshal last year, fella by the name of Pike. He lasted all of three days before they were planting him in the ground. After that, nobody seemed to have the stomach for the job.”

  “So outlaws have free rein around here?” Murphy asked.

  “Pretty much,” Skillings admitted. “So, which are you? Lawman or outlaw?”

  “A little of each, I guess,” Murphy conceded. “I’ve kept the company of both angels and devils.”

  “Then you might do all right,” Skillings said. He stopped and pointed to a man sitting by himself behind the main group of workers. “That’s him. His name’s Loco, as far as I can tell. Least that’s what he answers to.”

  “Much obliged,” Murphy said. “I’ll see if I can get anything out of him.”

  “Good luck with that,” Skillings said as he turned to walk back to the mine’s entrance.

  Murphy ambled over to the Apache, who was sitting on the ground staring down at the dust in front of him. If the man was aware of Murphy’s approach, he gave no visible indication.

  “Da'anzho,” Murphy said affably, using the standard greeting for the Eastern Apaches.

  The Indian looked up and took in Murphy slowly, his eyes lingering on the revolver on Murphy’s thigh. He remained silent.

  "Shi'dojii Murphy O’Bannon,” Murphy said, searching the Apache’s eyes for any hint of understanding.

  The Indian looked back down at the ground and gave a heavy sigh. Rising, he looked at Murphy and nodded his head toward a small equipment shed. Understanding, Murphy followed the man behind the structure, where he assumed the Apache wanted to talk in relative privacy. Once they were out of sight from the other workers, the Indian turned to Murphy.

  “If you insist on speaking to me, we might as well do it in English,” he said. “Your Apache is atrocious.”

  “I’ll admit it’ll make things a lot easier,” Murphy said, surprised. “You don’t talk like any Apache I’ve ever run across.”

  “That’s because I availed myself of a few years of your higher education,” the Apache explained. He studied Murphy carefully. “Does it shock you that an Indian is capable of complex learning, Mr. O’Bannon?”

  “Not at all,” Murphy replied. “I just meant that I’ve run across very few with the inclination to learn anything about the ways of the white man. And please, call me Murphy.”

  “Very well, Murphy. I am called Loco. Not because I am crazy, but after the Mimbreño Apache chief. Though some might argue that I am crazy, as well.”

  “I’ve been called that and worse,” Murphy concurred. “I was hoping to find out what happened in the mine today. There seems to be some ambiguity concerning the disappearance of one of the miners.”

  “There’s no ambiguity at all,” Loco countered. “Ford Earheart told them what happened.”

  “The crazy fella? He said Williams got sucked through a crack in the wall.”

  “It was larger than a crack,” Loco corrected. “More of a small opening. They inadvertently broke into another chamber while mining.”
r />   “Chamber?” Murphy asked. “What kind of chamber?”

  “One that had been purposefully sealed long ago,” Loco replied. “And one that should not have been opened.”

  “You mean like a cave or something?”

  “More like a tomb. Or a prison. That’s the reason I took this job, Murphy, to keep an eye on things. I’d hoped that this day would never happen.”

  “Loco, you’re not making a lot of sense,” Murphy said. “Did you breathe in a lot of smoke before you got out?” He’d heard that too much smoke could addle a man’s brain, though he’d never witnessed it firsthand.

  Loco stepped back and gave Murphy a look of appraisal. “You’re not like the others around here. You’re neither a miner nor a businessman. You have the mark of a warrior. You’re also cunning, like the coyote. I sense a destiny within you.”

  “The only destiny I’m worried about is earning a steady paycheck,” Murphy said. “One that doesn’t involve the risk of hanging if I’m caught. And I’d like to get off on the right foot with my new employer, so I’d greatly appreciate any information you could give me.”

  “There’s no future here, Coyote,” Loco said sadly. “Only death. Maybe I misjudged you. Perhaps you should leave while you still can.”

  “I don’t run from fights,” Murphy replied, shaking his head. “I can handle a few outlaws. Once you put a couple of them down, the rest tend to tread lightly.”

  “I’m not talking about outlaws. I’m talking about what’s on the other side of that opening in the mine.”

  “And just what would that be?” Murphy asked.

  “The Anasazi,” Loco responded.

  “Anasazi? I’m not familiar with that word,” Murphy said. “Is it Apache?”

  “It’s Navajo. The Apache borrowed the term.”

  Murphy nodded. “So, what does it mean?”

  Loco gazed out across the desert as a sudden gust of wind tousled his long hair. “It means ancient enemy.”

  There was a shout from up near the mine’s entrance, followed by a general commotion among the idled miners. Murphy looked around the corner of the shed and saw the men moving back toward the mine. He turned back to Loco.