Cave Interlude #5

Murphy hated walking, and avoided it whenever possible.  He had been walking a lot since his mule, Bessie, had broken a leg up on the ridge and he had to shoot her.  He was in a foul mood.  Now he was carrying what he could, and that made him even more ornery.  Since his claim got jumped down on Coffee Creek, he’d had to make the best of it in the backwoods while others were getting rich.  Murphy didn’t get along with other folks much, and he was getting old and didn’t see too well, which made it easy for dishonest types to take advantage.  There wasn’t enough law in these here parts to fill a half-gallon hat, he mused and spat.  A man had to make do for himself.

“Filthy crooks,” Murphy spoke to his mule out of habit, even though she wasn’t there.  Her body lay up on the ridge of that pointy mountain they call Sawtooth, with her grey fur ruffling in the breeze.  They’d had to make a break for it after a falling out at the Grand National Mine near Tangle Blue Lake, where a couple of men died fighting for gold… “What else?” he muttered, now to himself.  The lonely mountain wind seemed to answer him: What else, indeed?  Is gold all you want?

It had been one of those Weaver boys, seeking to take over the source of the gold now that the stage wouldn’t come up here anymore because it always got robbed.  Murphy snorted in disgust at the memory of the lazy, contemptuous gang robbing the miners.  “None of ‘em ever hefted a pick in their lives, or did an honest day’s work, I reckon.  They’d ruther just take from those what dug it out.”  He still remembered the sneering, insolent face of the grubby outlaw, as he fished his poke out of Bessie’s saddlebags.  “Got to get me another stake before winter sets in,” he added, squinting instinctively at the autumn sky.

He had panned a bit where a creek crossed his path, back at the outlet of the bigger lake.  He soon determined that was a lost cause, without enough water to turn up any color.  He was headed up to camp for a few days at one of the Bear Lakes, where Pete Callahan had found some color… or so he had denied.  “Just like Callahan to lie so nobody would find his claim,” he said with sarcasm, this time to nobody in particular.  His mind calculated the possibilities at a dead-end lake with no stream or river running through it.  “Mebbe find a flake or two,” he added glumly.  His gut pains were worse this summer, and he didn’t think he’d see another spring, anyway.

He arrived at a tiny lake and dropped his gear abruptly.  Owing to his cantankerous nature, and just because he felt like it, he let out a wild Indian yell of triumph.  He was startled to hear it echoed back from the forest across the way.  “That ain’t no echo,” he snorted, sorely disappointed that he wasn’t alone.  “Folks is getting thick as fleas on a dog’s back around here,” he muttered irritably, collecting his gear for the final push to meet his new neighbors.  Now he smelled a cook fire, and his aching stomach rumbled.  He hadn’t eaten since the night before, back at the mine.

“Halloo the fire,” He called out from a distance; at an angle where he couldn’t be shot.

“Halloo yerself,” said a strangely familiar voice.  “We got beans an’ bacon if yer friendly, and a belly full o’ lead if ya ain’t.”  That sounded like Pete Callahan!  “My digger’s got a bead on ya right now, so don’t try nothin’ fancy.  He’s mighty trigger-happy.”

“Pete, is that you?”  Murphy stepped out carefully, hands in plain view.

“Murphy?  Well, I’ll be damned!”

“Plenty damned already, I reckon,” Murphy spat and looked around at the squalid camp, taking it all in with a glance.  Just a couple of filthy blankets lay tangled on the ground, but a nice fire was going, with a coffee pot and frying pan, which was all Murphy wanted to see.

An old Indian appeared, as if from thin air.  First there was nobody, then there was an old Injun, as dilapidated and run-down looking as his Winchester was clean and well cared-for.

“That’s Wyntoon.  Least that’s what he calls himself when he’s drunk.  He don’t say much otherwise.”  Pete spat sideways into the fire.

Murphy glanced scornfully at the old Indian.  “Never figured you to be takin’ up with no digger,” he let his revulsion show, and moved towards the frying pan, sort of hopeful-like.

“He’s a good hand in a scrape,” Pete said plainly.  “He’p yerself,” he nodded at the fire.  “We done et up already.”  That was plain from the grease stains all down his filthy gray undershirt.

Murphy ate right from the warm pan with his fingers.  He was hoping Pete wouldn’t ask any questions so he could eat in peace.

“Say, where’s that ol’ mule of yours?”  No such luck.

“Shot her up on Sawtooth,” Murphy said matter-of-factly between gulps, with cold bacon grease clotting on his beard.  “Her leg got broke.”  He wiped the front of his face with a shiny sleeve.

“Too bad,” Pete picked at his teeth with the point of a stick.  “What was you doin’ up on a mountain?” he added, “I ain’t never seen you much interested in goin’ uphill.”

“Weaver boys hit the mine last night.”  Murphy didn’t say he lost anything, but left it to Pete’s imagination.

“Somebody’s gonna shoot holes in them boys someday,” was all Pete said, kind of thoughtful-like, his eyes drifting off to the northwest where the mine lay.  Wyntoon was busy mending a rope and made no comment, but his eyes glanced briefly in the same direction.

Murphy abruptly spoke what was on his mind, a trait that often got him into trouble.  “Whatcha doin’ all the way up here, anyway?”

Pete shifted his huge bulk on the log, and didn’t answer right away.  After a while, he muttered, “I might ask you the same thing.”

“Hell, you know what I’m doin’ man, I’m lookin’ for gold.”  Murphy flicked the edge of the pan with a greasy finger for emphasis.  He carefully watched Pete’s reaction, and noticed that he and that digger exchanged looks briefly.  They had found gold, he was sure of it now.  Murphy had never struck it rich himself, always arriving at a strike when it was panning out.  “I might try some o’ that low lake yonder,” he offered, as a way of testing Pete’s reaction.

Pete had been snowed in many a winter before, and had developed a consummate poker face from the never-ending card games, which was his only estimable skill.  He often found it useful to bluff when he didn’t understand something, which happened frequently enough that most everyone knew he was usually bluffing.  “Yup, that might be good,” and he spat sideways, which was his ‘tell,’ and Murphy knew he was lying.

“Or I might try over by that spring yonder,” Murphy mumbled, loud enough for Pete to hear, as he licked the frying pan like a starving cur.

Pete’s face twitched involuntarily, and he looked at Wyntoon, then shifted his butt on the log with a loud fart.  “Mebbe we’ve been finding a spot of color down in the lake, but you can he’p us work the claim.”

“Claim?”  Murphy blurted out contentiously, which was another hazardous habit.  “I ain’t seen no markers.”  Knowing the Pete had found gold at the spring, he added coyly, “But I’d be grateful to he’p you a mite, so’s I could get a new stake fer the winter.”

Pete was not fooled – he knew Murphy’s twisted mind all too well – but he made a show of bonhomie in a clumsy effort to keep the old man off guard.  “We’ll see how it goes.  Let’s drink to finding a strike!” he exclaimed, producing a bottle of Old Regulator from his blankets.

Smacking his lips in expectation, Murphy produced a battered tin cup out of thin air.  “That would be right neighborly of you, partner!”  He said the word tentatively, like a question, and watched as again the big man and the Indian exchanged glances.  Involuntarily, Murphy touched his sleeve where the Derringer lay in its wrist pouch.  The Weaver boys had taken his guns, but missed this one.  Only one bullet was left after he shot the mule.  One bullet for two armed scoundrels was not good odds.

Pete was thinking of his hole card too, and Wyntoon started cleaning his rifle deliberately, as if to say, “We have the guns and you don’t.”  The wind had picked up, and a few raindrops spattered the ground.  Murphy had noticed the rain clouds moving in, but paid them no mind.  No rain could break his concentration, now that he was convinced there was gold nearby.  Pete looked up at the clouds with a scowl as the first fat drops hit the ground with a thud.  He hated getting wet, and couldn’t remember the last time he had bathed.  “We’d best spend the night in the cave,” he said unnecessarily, as Wyntoon was already moving their meager gear in that direction.

“Cave?” asked Murphy with genuine surprise.  “What cave?”  He prided himself on knowledge of this region, and had never heard of a cave.  He tried to linger and follow behind Wyntoon and Pete, but the filthy bugger stepped off to go pee, so now they had him boxed.  Resignedly, he picked his way among the boulders to a crack in the rocks, waiting for his chance.  The rain was starting to come down hard, now.

He stooped to enter and crawled in easily like a spider, being an old hand at cracks and mines.  Wyntoon had lit a small fire already (how does he do that?), and Murphy could see a small but tidy space made by the way some large boulders had fallen together.  Inside was snug and dry.  The dim light from outside was eclipsed by Pete’s bulk as he filled the entranceway and fumbled his way in.  Suddenly Murphy had a thought, and blurted it out as usual.  “Say, ain’t you got no horses?”

Pete and Wyntoon exchanged looks again.  Murphy was getting tired of their superior attitude.  “They’s picketed nearby,” was all Pete offered, shifting his butt on the gravel floor to find a better position.  He was clearly uncomfortable in small spaces.

“Got any more o’ that whiskey?”  Murphy still had his tin cup handy, but received no answer.  For some time, nobody said anything as the digger snapped branches for the fire, and they listened to the steady sound of rain outside.  Cagily, he formed a sort of plan in his twisted mind.  “Damn, I forgot my gear,” he said, and made for the opening.  Pete moved subtly as if to stop him, and then shrugged.

“Don’t git too wet, you could catch your death out there.”

“Thanks, Maw,” Murphy thought wryly as he emerged back into what little light was left, given the gray clouds and lateness of the day.  He sought cover from the raindrops as much as possible, but was fairly soaked by the time he got back to camp.  He moved his gear under an overhang of rock; then stood under a large tree where he was partially sheltered, and took a good look around.  Where would they hide the gold?  He figured they were finding something, and he aimed to find their cache.

“You damn fool, it’s back in that cave,” he realized with certainty.  No wonder it looked like somebody had been in there before!  He headed back, not wanting to arouse their suspicions by being gone too long.  On the way, he found where three unsaddled horses were tied under a large overhang.  The saddles and blankets were stuffed in a crack.  The big bay would be Pete’s, he guessed, and the Indian pony must be the old digger’s.  He looked quickly at the third horse, and deduced from its calluses that it was a pack horse, used to carrying heavy loads.  “Hmph!” he snorted, “So they have been finding gold up here!  I knew it!  Think they can fool ol’ Murphy, do they?” he muttered as he picked his way across the jagged boulders.

He made lots of unnecessary noise approaching the cave entrance, not wanting to startle the mountain men.  He tensed as his eyes adjusted to the darkness – if they were gonna shoot him it would be now, when he couldn’t see them at all.  But Pete was rolled up in his disgusting blanket with his eyes closed, and the old digger was squatting by the fire, just looking at him.  Murphy had brought his own blanket roll, and made a fuss about where to spread it out, first trying it here then there; checking all the cracks and crevices of the cave as he did so.  The digger watched his every move.  Judging by his alertness, Murphy guessed that the gold was hidden in the cracks behind the old Injun; perhaps even in the hole where the fire was cheerfully blazing.  He sat down hard on his blankets and pulled his boots off.  He was tired – almighty tired from his trek over three mountain ridges, and despite the ceaseless, hammering stamp mill of his avarice, he fell asleep.

He awoke to a deafening ruckus, like a bear mauling a bull.  That would be Pete, snoring through every hole in his face.  He opened one eye slyly.  The fire had burned down to glowing embers, offering a chance to check behind it.  In the dim light, he could make out the shapeless form of the old digger, lying down next to the wall where the fire was built, like a dog in front of a hearth.  With practiced deliberation and skill, he raised himself deftly from his blankets and crept across the small cave’s floor, placing his socked feet ever so carefully in the gravel so as not to make any noise.  His derringer was a comfort in his hand, just in case.  The roaring from Pete’s blankets was a bizarre accompaniment to his stealth, but he moved in time with the racket and soon gained an advantageous position over the digger’s sleeping body.  With great deliberation, he reached his arm back behind the coals.  It was still devilishly hot in there, and he had to pull his arm back quickly, but in so doing his fingers brushed what felt like a burlap sack.  He reached even further inside – a remarkable act of dexterity, considering his socked feed, the hot coals, and the sleeping Injun beneath him – grabbed the heavy bag, and pulled it free without making a sound.  His heart was pounding in his ears with glee and exhilaration.

Now to make his escape!  He suppressed his excitement and forced himself to retrace his steps with the same careful rhythm, stepping in time to Pete’s snoring, with his gun hand on the ceiling to keep his balance and clutching the heavy sack in the other.  He left his blankets where they lay but caught up his boots in a soundless grab, to put them on outside.  One last glance told him they were still asleep, and he would make it.  He crawled out silently, stood up outside, and paused.  His eyes checked the stars by habit, mentally recalling the path across the rocks to where the horses were tied.  The huge boulders hunched dim and gray in the blackness.  He turned to place his first careful step, and was startled by the sudden blast of a gunshot louder than any he had ever heard!  It seemed to come from everywhere at once, and a rush of air from behind hit him in the back and knocked him off the rock ledge.  He landed sprawled on his back in a heap of hurt, and realized he had been shot!

Murphy wanted to rise, but could not.  His body was not responding to his desire to leap up and run away.  The pain was an exploding ball of fire in his spine and chest.  The old miner knew he was hit bad, and needed to find a place to hide.  He had lost his own gun in the fall, and his attacker was still out there, somewhere.  He willed himself to roll over and get up, but could not feel his legs.

The gold!  His frantic fingers groped around in the darkness for the burlap sack, and dug spasmodically into the wet pine needles.  The rain started to fall again, and he coughed up something warm and oily.  Must be blood, he mused grimly, and that was his last coherent thought.  In a queer light, his dying eyes framed the form of a withered, old Injun standing on the rocks above him, with wild, white hair backlit by a beam of silver moonlight that had peeked out from the clouds.  Then Murphy saw nothing at all, and the raindrops splashed off his unfeeling eyeballs, soaking the ground with water and blood.