could he possibly know what was in the cave?
O’Neill was now on his feet and came quickly into the light of the campfire. After some thought, he turned toward the rest of the men and addressed them.
“You think I’m crazy, that I’ve gone loco, you lazy trash of the earth. You ask yourselves how could I possibly know where the cave leads to.” O’Neill looked each man in the eye before continuing. “When you found me on the desert, you figured I had wandered out there to escape whoever killed Thomas.
“I heard some of you say I was insane when you found me. Maybe so, but I think not! I know what is in the valley because I have been there! I have seen where they keep the gold and I have felt their mark upon my very soul!”
As the men watched wide-eyed, O’Neill took a firm hold of his shirt and tore it open to reveal a hideous burn across his chest. The men, most being cowboys, had at one time or another branded cattle and knew the unmistakable mark that a red-hot iron makes on flesh: the grisly puffed up skin, the red-black scar tissue, and blue-green scab that forms inch by inch to protect the new skin as it forms underneath. That he had been to hell, they all now agreed. But was hell at the other end of this tunnel, or was it their destiny?
It was Donoven who first broke the silence. “How were able to get away from the ones who did that to you?” he asked suspiciously.
O’Neill let a sinister smile cross his face. “When they put the hot iron to my flesh,” he said, letting the effect of his words soak in, “I pretended to pass out.
“When they thought I was out, they relaxed their hold on me. It was then I pulled a derringer out of my boot and shot one of them through the head. I took the other one hostage and made him show me where the cave went. After I saw, I made him lead me out again.”
“But how’d you get away from the others?” Donoven asked.
“It was dark, and I didn’t see any others. When we reached the mouth of the tunnel, I cut the man’s throat and hid him in the rocks. He’s right over there, if any of you want to have a look,” he said, pointing to a spot where a small ravine ran off in the darkness. “Then a fever must’ve took hold of me, cause the next thing I remember was someone hit me in the face. You know the rest.” O’Neill purposely left out the part about being scared half out of his wits at seeing the head of Thomas.
At first light the men were gathered ‘round the campfire, trying to keep warm in the frigid desert wind. Soon the sun would warm the ground and surrounding rock faces, and they, in turn, would warm the air. But each man knew that long before the day’s chill burned off, they would be deep in the bowels of the earth seeking their fortune or their death.
To everyone’s surprise O’Neill insisted that no one stay with the horses, let alone stand guard at the cave’s opening. Maybe he didn’t feel the need for it-or was the real reason that he didn’t want to give any man the chance to escape? One could only guess at his thinking. So it was that every last man went into the cave while the horses were left tied outside by a small trickle of water, where they could help themselves if need be.
The extra supplies were hidden in the rocks, both from the heat of the day and from any wandering animal that might decide to make lunch from the extra food packs.
Nervousness was not the word for what the men felt as they entered that black foreboding hole in the side of the cliff. There was no backing out for any of them. O’Neill saw to that as he stood just outside watching the men go blindly through the entrance one by one until the last man disappeared in the darkness.
A few feet inside, the first man lit his torch, which had been prepared for the occasion the night before. Instantly the interior was illuminated in yellowish light and the men were astounded at the vastness of the cavern. As the flickering light fell on the huge mural, the men gasped in amazement, for O’Neill had not mentioned a word of the painting to any of them.
For the moment the men were caught up in the sight of the painting. Even O’Neill had to stare in wonder, for he had only seen a small portion of the mural at a time, as he had only the light of a candle to see by. Now, as a second and third torch were lit, the full majesty of the painting displayed itself before them in all its glory.
And glory it was. There were reds, golds, and yellows more brilliant than any found in the real world. A patch of blue reminded O’Neill of the bluebirds he watched as a child on his father’s farm back East. How these colors survived all these years was anyone’s guess, but here they were.
In a sudden flash of guilt or conservation (no one could tell) O’Neill ordered the men with the torches to step back so the smoke would not harm the mural. His concern for the mural had completely taken the men by surprise, for it was not his usual character to worry of such things.
Soon the men were on the move again, cautiously moving along in the darkness, not knowing what lay ahead of them. From time to time a man would trip and fall, cussing at the unseen obstacle that had fallen him in the dark while the flickering light of the torches served to blind the men as well as light their way. And so it was that they walked deeper into the cave.
Whenever a man would trip and fall, he would be jeered by his friends for being clumsy, and the whole procession would have to come to a halt while the man regained his feet. It had almost become a game with the men, each waiting to see who would be the next victim of their insults.
Charlie Scott, a short, round man with ruddy complexion and a gripe for everything, was walking a few feet in front and slightly to the side of the lead torch man when he went down like a ton of bricks. The laughter started immediately, followed by the usual verbal abuse bestowed on those unfortunate enough to take a spill.
“Get to yer feet, you clumsy oaf!” Donoven sneered.
Scott didn’t move. Urging Scott to his feet, the men became dismayed when he still failed to rise. On further investigation, the truth was revealed. There sticking out of Scott’s forehead was the shaft of an arrow. The chronic complainer hadn’t known what hit him.
In a heartbeat the men scattered for cover, flinging the torches away from them in their mad scramble so as to make as hard a target as possible, each man using what little cover he could find. All of them except O’Neill, who stood his ground dimly illuminated by the glow of a torch thrown down a few feet from him.
O’Neill appeared ghost-like standing there, his white hair blowing softly in the current of air that had been growing stronger as they moved deeper into the cave. Nothing moved, not the men or O’Neill. No one even dared breathe. Then, in the blackness ahead, a low drawing sound was heard, quickly followed by the explosive roar of O’Neill’s Colt. In the confines of the tunnel, the explosive roar of the gun was deafening, and it would be several minutes before the men were able to hear again.
When they again dared lift their heads to look around, they were shocked to find that O’Neill was gone! The men, overcome by panic, clung to the cave floor in the dim light of the single torch that still burned. No noise was heard, save the breathing of the men and an occasional nervous cough. What seemed like minutes passed; then in desperation someone asked the question that was on everyone’s mind.
“Where the hell is O’Neill? What should we do now?”
“You might try waiting for my orders!” came the reply from O’Neill from out of the darkness ahead.
In seconds O’Neill reappeared dragging the corpse of a man behind him. The torches were quickly relit and the men gathered round the dead man.
“He’s some kind of Indian,” Jack Ward said as he peered at the body, “but none the likes of any I’ve seen.”
The body before them was that of a man in his mid-forties, yet he had the physique of someone in his early twenties. He was muscular and tanned the color of rich bronze. His hair was cut short and well trimmed, not like the usual Indians who liked to leave their hair long about their shoulders.
The bow with which the man was armed was not like any the men had ever seen before. Made of wood, it had a handle made of some type of metal that shined in the light from the torches. And the wood that made up the limbs of the weapon were made of several layers of flat wood carefully fitted together so as to fit as one, each piece being a shade of color different from the other. An attractive weapon to be sure.
Apache John, a half-breed saddle tramp that had joined O’Neill’s gang in Durango, came forward, stooped over, and picked the bow up. After examining it for some time, he slowly brought it up and tried its pull.
Now Apache John was known to have used a bow for a good part of his life, and when he spoke of the weapon he held in his hands, he spoke with some authority.
“I’d say she pulls about sixty-five pounds,” he started. “Enough to give it a range greater than three hundred yards with the right arrow. And looking at the arrow in Charlie there, I’d say it’s matched pretty well to the bow.”
