SCAVENGERS: A Porter Rockwell Adventure (Dark Trails Saga Book 1) Read online

  “Hoss!” he called, sputtering out a mouthful of river. “I need ya!” Hoss was swiftly gliding toward him. He grabbed the beast’s mane and let the animal carry them down the river.

  Porter figured the bandits would run up to his former position and start shooting at him from a better angle, but they didn’t. The shooting had unexpectedly ceased.

  Daring to turn against his swimming horse and look, Porter saw a pair of Ute Indian braves on the bluff looking down. The Utes were enough of a distraction that Porter’s attackers had been thwarted six ways to Sunday. The Cotterells threw their hats down and cursed at Porter as he disappeared around the bend.

  Taking stock of all that had just transpired, Porter wondered what they had meant by a bone map or why they thought he would have it. He guessed Dirty McCurdie was a still day or two ahead of him. Maybe he was closer than he thought? But how did they know he was even hunting the man? Perhaps they were assuming he had taken a map and was going after some loot? If there was any to be spoken of it was certainly ill gotten and that would be a matter for the law.

  Porter spat a mouthful of river water out and pondered as Hoss made his way to the opposite shore. If he had any inkling that there would have been a gang as big as the Cotterells out of New Mexico, here and involved, he would have brought a posse. One thing was for sure, next time there would be a reckoning.

  2. The Bone Map

  A half mile or more downriver, Porter’s horse tiredly brought the two of them to the far shore. Resting there a moment, they continued up the top of the bluff, all the while watching for any sign of pursuit. If the Cotterells tried to ford the river Porter could more easily make a stand and pick them off one by one. But it seemed the bandits must have thought better of it, especially with unfriendly Utes at their back. Near as Porter could tell the bandits must have headed back toward the Book Cliffs where their roost was probably hidden away.

  He rode downriver another mile or two until he came to the Green River ferry settlement. It wouldn’t have been fair to call this heap a town. A dozen big tents of filthy canvas laid atop pallets to keep them from the mud were spaced up and down a dirty track of ruts. Most were makeshift saloons, one or two were home to soiled doves. Spread out from these were dozens of smaller tents or lean-tos. It was reminiscent of what Porter had seen of the traveling railroad town called ‘Hell on Wheels’. Folk moved up and down the river, washing and drinking and anything else imaginable in a place without hope. An unsanitary smell hung overhead as did flies in clouds big enough to resemble the plagues of Egypt.

  One of the big tents at the end of the line was a church, with a narrow wooden cross lashed to the front and an equally tall and lanky preacher out front proselytizing to a bedraggled handful of sorry characters. The only solid structure was the ferry house and trading post. It was a sorry sight being scavenged from wagon parts, driftwood and whatever piece of scrap the river might be willing to give up.

  Porter had a hunch that if Dirty McCurdie was in town he would be drinking at one of the saloons. So, he started looking for worn out mules in front of the big tents. There was only one dark, uncared for beast tied up beside the Bare Bear Saloon. Peering through the tent flaps as unobtrusively as possible, Porter took in the scene within the crowded little saloon.

  A beefy barkeep poured watered-down grog into a chipped stein. Three quiet men sat toward the front playing with greasy cards. In the rear, three loud men played what must have been the game of their lives with a new deck. A soiled dove munched on a piece of chicken while a drooling man slept with his head across her lap. A black man in a worn Union jacket with his hat down over his face, sat by himself hunched in the back. A half-finished whiskey waiting patiently before him. Several more lost souls were spaced out by themselves in sulky silence.

  One man stood out, having the nervous demeanor of a too-often kicked puppy. He wore dirty, old brown canvas pants and a torn tweed jacket with purple stains down the left arm. His weathered hat had a bullet hole in it. His scruffy beard had more grey than brown and one of his boot heels was missing.

  Jackpot! Porter stepped back to watch his quarry a moment.

  Dirty Ferdie McCurdie had just sat down on the crude wooden plank and had the barkeep pour him a tumbler full of whiskey. He happened to turn and met Porter’s gaze.

  As a matter of course, the guilty generally panic and make themselves known to the perceptive.

  Porter was known as a relentless bloodhound when it came to tracking and the law out west. Never mind he was considered quite the outlaw back in Missouri and Illinois, but here in the west, a man could change which side of the law he was on with ease.

  Porter drew back the tent flap saying, “Ferdie McCurdie, you’re under arrest for horse theft.”

  McCurdie tried to run, but there was no other way out of the tent saloon, so he ran to the rear and tried to lift the rear fold of canvas. But the heavy-duty canvas was lashed to the pallets making up the floor. There was no escape.

  “Drop it Ferdie. I got you dead to rights. You stole Sister Sarah’s mule and a fresh baked pie. You’ve got a serious debt to society to pay.”

  Ferdie dropped the useless fold of canvas while the barkeep glowered at him. “I’m unarmed.”

  “Good, let’s go.” Porter shoved him out the tent flaps and into the harsh glaring sun.

  “Porter, you gotta cut me a break. I can find a way to pay back the Wider,” said Ferdie.

  “I ain’t got time for excuses,” growled Porter. “Let’s go.”

  “Take me back and I’ll work off my debt to her, I swear.”

  “Nope, I’m heading to Cedar City and St. George tomorrow. Gonna cut through the Escalante. That means you’re going with me. You’ve to atone for what you chose to do. Even if it means cooling your heels in the poke for a good long spell.”

  Ferdie shook his head. “I’m too soft. I’ll die in there. I can’t go back to jail.”

  “Looks like you’re in a pickle, then. Don’t it?” Porter pushed him along, toward where his horse was corralled.

  “No jokes please, I’m an old man. I won’t last long.”

  Porter spit and put a cheroot between his teeth, then fumbled with a match. “Everybody’s got to go sometime.” He lit the cigar and scrutinized Ferdie.

  “All right, look, I might have something worthwhile for you. I’ve got a map,” he said, slowly reaching into his satchel.

  “So what?” said Porter, keeping his hand on his Navy Colts pommel as he stood askance from the wilting old man. He pretended not knowing anything about it, waiting to see what McCurdie might tell him, considering the Cotterells had been planning on bushwhacking him for that very map.

  Ferdie slowly withdrew a bleached, white bone with dark lines scrawled across it. “This is legit. This is the real deal. I traded with that drunk Injun, Runs-With-Scissors, or whatever his name was, a whole heap of whiskey, a case really, for this here bone map.” He tapped it with his dirty finger like he was trying to convince Porter to buy it himself.

  “Who’s the idiot in this story again?” asked Porter, with a grin.

  “Dammit Porter, I know this is real. This bone map shows a cave, a mine really, in the San Rafael swell, away up a slot canyon. It’s up the side of a cliff, can’t be seen from the ground, but Lordy, if you could find it you’d be rich, rich as Croesus, I tell’s ya!”

  “Lotta dead men go looking for treasure in the badlands. I don’t know of one that made it rich yet.”

  Dirty McCurdie ignored that statement with a wave of his hand and brandishing of the bone map, he then thought better of it looking around nervously to be sure no one was eavesdropping on their conversation. “That’s everyone else, not me. Any-who, right after he traded it to me outside of Price last week, Runs-With-Scissors was killed by some Utes. They tore apart my camp looking for this here map. They wouldn’t a done that if it weren’t for real.”

  “They could’a been raiding for anything.”

  “No, no, no, see h
ere.” Ferdie waved his gnarled hands about frantically. “They didn’t take anything. Not even his gun. They was mad. There was a whole lot of whooping and Injun swearing going on. Their medicine man, Smoking Badger, I seen him once afore back in Price, he cast a spell,” said Ferdie, with a rapid nod, as if that gave veracity to his shaky testimony.

  “How you talk,” answered Porter, shoving the old man back around toward the tethered horses.

  “Now listen, he was chanting, burning sage, and his eyes rolled back in his head.” Ferdie turned around to face Porter and mimicked a crazed look, letting his eyes roll up into his sockets. “This was savage demonic stuff.”

  “But they left you alive? Decided you weren’t worth a bullet, huh?”

  “Not exactly. I was a dead man walking as it were, but then Smoking Badger and his braves all got shot up. They’s all kilt dead! A gang of fellers bushwhacked them just in time for me to ambascade. I was on the ground pleading for my life from the Utes when the thunder of guns hit and I skeddadled outta there, into the brush and cactus.” Ferdie held up a pinpricked hand to verify his pained yarn. “There was no moon, hardly even any starlight. But I made it back to some kinda civilization, with nothing but this here bone map and that’s why I stole that horse from the kind old Wider. And that pie—I was starving.”

  “Great story, who killed the Utes again?”

  “I think it was the Cotterell gang; Wilson, Andy, Jed and the like. Must have been plenty of them too raining lead down at the Utes just as they was about to kill me, cuz all six or seven of them Utes fell dead lickety split.”

  “But you escaped again.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Just so’s you know. None of this is gonna stop me from turning you in to Judge Shaffer.”

  “I’m just telling you why, Porter. Have a heart, I barely escaped with my life here, from the Utes and the Cotterells.”

  “That is a good story, why didn’t the Cotterells run you down?”

  “It was too dark and I didn’t finish telling you everything, gol’ durn it!”

  “By all means finish!”

  “Well, when Smoking Badger was doing his thing, the braves were looking for the bone map and I told them I didn’t have it.”

  “They believed you?”

  “Course not, but Smoking Badger was gonna do something wicked, he was casting some kinda spell to force the answer outta me. He was calling up a demon just before he was kilt.”

  Porter sighed and raised his brows at that. He was losing all patience with Ferdie but said, “Go on.”

  “Well, Smoking Badger, he dropped dead when he got shot through the brisket but the wind whipped up real bad. I thought at first it was just cuz the Cotterells were shooting but it kept up even as they rode in and then they started screaming, men and horses. I didn’t stick around, as I said,”

  “Yeah, as you keep saying. Finish the damn story!”

  “I saw something, Porter, something to make my blood run cold as a banker’s heart. There were horns I think, shaggy hair and Lord, what a stink. Sulphur and brimstone, I swear. It was black and wet, all shadowy-like. I ran. Lord, did I run.”

  “Ferdie, I’m gonna shoot you myself, if you don’t get to the point.”

  “I’ve been telling the point all along! The bone map is for real. The Utes want it back, The Cotterells want it and the Demon wants it!”

  “Anybody else you forgot to mention?” asked Porter.

  Ferdie looked evasive at the question. “Well, I was told maybe I could sell it to someone here in Ferry-town but I don’t know who that was.”

  “Who told you that?”

  Ferdie’s face reddened as he sputtered out, “I was laying with a whore, in Price, Lord I’m a sinner I know it, but I bragged a little I suppose to her and after I left her bood-wa, she came and found me and tol’ me that she knew someone in Ferry-town who would be very interested in the map. Well, I was supposed to meet her again that night but then I found her with her throat cut. Had to get out of there afore that happened to me! I rode outta Price so fast let me tell you, that’s why I needed the Wider’s mule.”

  At least two things Ferdie had said were true, a soiled dove was murdered the night before and the widow’s mule was stolen. Porter hadn’t thought they were related before now. He didn’t think McCurdie was the culprit for the murder, but now understood that the conspiracy must be growing even if he couldn’t believe half of what the weaselly little man said.

  Porter snatched the bone from Ferdie’s grasp. It looked like a shoulder from a buffalo, triangular and about a foot long. It was scrawled with a few wavy lines and jagged etchings. They were shallow but dirt had recessed into the grooves giving a plain enough picture of a serpentine river, mountains and a canyon. “This is worthless! These lines could be anywhere, there ain’t nothing about it that shows a definitive landmark to start from. I could say this river is the Jordan and follow this map up Little Cottonwood canyon to the gold vein I already found and lost!”

  “I know where it starts,” said Ferdie, with deadly seriousness.

  “These excuses aren’t keeping you from justice,” said Porter, handing the bone back.

  “This ain’t about justice, nor revenge neither. This is about fulfilling your hopes and dreams. Think of what the amount of good this gold could do. I know a little ‘bout some of the dark things you’ve done for gold. I’ve heard plenty of campfire tales. I know what happened to the Escondido Company.”

  Porter smirked, “Funny. I don’t remember seeing you there. Ain’t no one alive but me that knows for sure what happened there.”

  “Tain’t hard to figure out. Everyone knows. You rode out on your lonesome and came back, leading a dozen mules, but with enough gold to print all them Deseret Eagles and put the gold-leaf veneer on the twelve-foot angel.”

  “Keep talking,” said Porter, poking Ferdie hard in the chest. “You trying to get me to throw down on you before I take you in to Judge Shaffer?”

  “Course I ain’t. I want you to partner up with me and we go get the treasure! I’ll make it up to the Wider I stole the mule from tenfold and then some. That make you happy?”

  Porter shook his head. “I don’t need to follow your fool map. It’s probably just a sacred burial ground. If you knew anything about the Utes, you’d know they don’t care nor store up any such treasures.”

  “Don’t feed me that Port, they have sacred treasure grounds and you know it. How’s about what Rhodes found?”

  “Only my friends can call me Port.”

  “Well, can I call you Port, then?”

  “You ain’t my friend,” answered Porter, with a shake of his lions-mane like head.

  “All right, I’ll grow on you. But what I said about Rhodes? You know that’s true.”

  “I don’t know for sure what’s up there. I haven’t seen it for myself.”

  “I think you know, but you’re right, its sacred. We aren’t messing with that. This is something different. I got it straight from Running-With-Scissors. He was drunk when he told me but I could tell he spoke the truth as he knew it. He said when he first gave Tall Eagle, his grandfather, whiskey—the old man became addled and said it was bad thing the next day.”

  “Stick to just one tall tale, will ya.”

  “Right. He said the old man told him, that this was a map to a sacred cave. That it lay on the Path of the Skin-Walker that the ancient ones brought the gold up here to hide it away from some bad men. Spanish, I think.”

  Porter gave a snort. He didn’t buy any of this treasure business and thought it was all rot, though he had to admit to himself that there was something behind the legends. He just didn’t believe Dirty Ferdie McCurdie would be a part of it.

  Ferdie continued, “I would know the place if I saw it because of the Injun paintings on the rocks. That there would be one hidden behind a boulder and that there would be seven like watching over that hidden horned one. I know where that place is. I was with the Cotterells after the Hud
son stage robbery and we were out there and I remembered cuz I had the willies in that place. Lot of bad juju went down there.”

  “Let’s go. I’ve had enough of your storytelling,” growled Porter.

  “I ain’t done yet!”

  “My fault, I should’a stopped you a long time ago.”

  “No, Porter we need to do this. The rest of the story is that there is a sacred mine full of cursed gold that belonged to the ancients. Thing is, they’re just dust in the wind. They don’t matter so it’s ours for the taking now. Nobody living cares anymore.”

  “Oh? The Utes don’t huh?”

  “Well, the shaman’s that knew the secret are dead now too ain’t they?”

  “And the Cotterells?”

  Ferdie shrugged. “They might be. That Demon probably cleaned house on ‘em.”

  “Uh huh. So what about when that Demon comes calling for you?”

  Ferdie blanched. “I never thought of that.” It was the one thing body language wise that made Porter think there was a grain of truth somewhere in the rambling tale.

  “I better put you somewhere safe, like in Judge Shaffer’s custody in Cedar City.”

  “If I’m lying I’m dying. Do that after we go after the treasure. What do you say?”

  Porter puffed on his cheroot then blew smoke into Ferdie’s face and said, “You told me the Utes were gonna kill you for it. And how would the Cotterells know anything bout it? And come looking for you?”

  “Because Runs-With-Scissors was drunk and told everyone at the Crescent Junction tavern, that’s why. I was the first one to offer him a whole case of whiskey for the map and he took it.”

  “So you’re telling me plenty of desperadoes know about it and are gonna come looking for you and this hunk of bone? You can’t even keep your map straight.”