Dead Man's Gold. J.A. Johnstone

even more. “A shovel?” she repeated. “What are you doing here? Why do you want a shovel?”

      “Saving your lives, to answer the first question,” The Kid replied curtly. “And that’s why I want the shovel, too. We need to get that fire put out, and the fastest way to do it is by throwing sand on it.”

      “Let me,” Father Jardine said as he reached inside the wagon and pulled out a short-handled shovel. He ran out into the open and started throwing sand on the flames.

      “Blast it, Father, I intended to do that!” The Kid said.

      “You and Annabelle have guns, Mr. Morgan. I don’t. If those savages shoot at me, you can return their fire.”

      The Kid had to admit that made sense. Anyway, no shots came from the flats during the two or three minutes it took for Father Jardine to shovel enough sand on the fire to smother all the flames. The big Apache was wounded and probably in no mood to fight at the moment, and the other one had been just about scared out of his breechclout and leggings. A welcome darkness closed in thickly over the camp as the last of the flames sputtered out.

      “Thanks, Father,” The Kid said. “You should be safe now, but come on back over here behind the wagon just in case.”

      “I can’t,” Father Jardine said as he set the shovel aside and straightened.

      “Why not?”

      “I have work to do,” the priest said.

      And with that, he walked over to the nearest of the fallen Apaches, dropped to his knees beside the warrior, and began to pray.

      Chapter 6

      The Kid heard the swift, softly spoken words, recognized them as Latin, and figured that praying was what Father Jardine was doing. He had taken Latin in college back east, of course, and after a moment he was able to recall enough of what he had learned so that he was certain the priest was performing the last rites.

      “You’re wasting your time, padre,” The Kid said as he walked out from behind the wagon. “Those Apaches are heathens, at least by your lights. For a couple of hundred years, missionaries have been coming out here to try to convert them, but none of them have been very successful.”

      “That won’t stop me from asking for forgiveness for them,” Father Jardine said.

      “Well, then, how about this? Some of them might still be—”

      Before The Kid could finish his warning, one of the fallen Apaches reared up with a harsh cry of mingled pain and hate and raised a knife. The Kid saw starlight wink off the blade as the warrior tried to lean over and plunge it into Father Jardine’s back.

      Before the knife could fall, The Kid swung up the Winchester’s barrel, put the muzzle against the side of the Apache’s head, and pulled the trigger. The shot blasted away a good chunk of the warrior’s skull and hammered him to the ground.

      “Like I was saying,” The Kid continued as the echoes of the shot rolled away across the flats, “some of them might still be alive.”

      Even after that, he thought for a second that Father Jardine was going to argue. But then the priest sighed and stood up.

      “Very well. I’ll let you attend to your work first, Mr. Morgan.”

      “That’d be a good idea,” The Kid said.

      Annabelle followed him as he checked on the rest of the warriors. All four of them were dead.

      “What are you doing here?” she asked. “I thought you abandoned us.”

      “I just rode up a ways into the hills where I could keep a better eye on you. I had a hunch something like this might happen tonight.”

      “Did you know those Indians were following us?”

      “Nope. Like I said, I just had a hunch. There are so many different ways a couple of pilgrims like you two can run into trouble out here, I figured it was bound to start catching up to you.”

      Father Jardine said, “You may think you’re insulting us by calling us pilgrims, Mr. Morgan, but I assure you, I’ll wear that name proudly. All of us are pilgrims on the journey upon which the Lord has set our steps.”

      “No offense intended, padre, but I don’t want it to be a dead man’s journey, despite the name of the place you’re headed for.”

      Annabelle mulled over what The Kid had said a moment earlier, and then spoke, “Let me get this straight…You rode off and used us as bait in a trap, hoping that someone would attack us?”

      “Not hoping, no,” The Kid replied with a shake of his head. “I just wanted to be ready in case there was trouble.”

      “So you don’t intend to abandon us, after all. You’re going to come with us and help us.”

      The Kid’s jaw tightened. He wished Annabelle hadn’t put it quite so bluntly, because part of him felt like a fool for going along with her. But he knew it was hopeless to argue not only with his own instincts, but also with the spirit of his late wife as well.

      “Yeah,” he said. “I reckon I’m coming with you.”

      And he hoped he wasn’t making one hell of a mistake.

      The Kid fetched his horse from up the hill while Father Jardine continued praying over the dead Apaches. By the time the Kid finished unsaddling the buckskin, the priest had picked up the shovel again and was digging in the hard ground. The Kid heard the rasping sounds as the blade bit into the dirt and gravel.

      “What are you doing, padre?” he asked.

      Father Jardine paused in his work and looked up. “Why, I’m digging graves, Mr. Morgan.”

      “For those savages?” The Kid gestured toward the dead Apaches.

      “They’re still the Lord’s children, whether they knew Him or not, and deserve a decent burial. The Apaches do inter their dead, do they not?”

      The Kid thought about it for a moment, then shrugged and shook his head. “To tell you the truth, Father, I don’t know. But if you leave those bodies where they are, the scavengers will take care of them.”

      “I won’t hear of it.”

      The Kid sighed and walked over to Father Jardine. “Give me the shovel,” he said. “Dr. Dare, do you know how to handle a rifle?”

      “I do,” Annabelle replied.

      The Kid handed the Winchester to her. “Keep an eye on the flats. You ought to be able to see fairly well now that your eyes have had time to adjust to the fire being out. If you see anything moving around out there…shoot it.”

      “Without knowing first who or what it is?”

      “I was under the impression you and the padre don’t have all that many friends out here.”

      Annabelle gave an angry sniff. “Meaning that anyone who approaches the camp is an enemy?”

      “That’s a pretty good bet,” The Kid said. “Anyway, the chances of somebody bothering you again tonight are pretty small. You said it would be a while before that Count Fortunato came after you again, and I reckon those two Apaches won’t be looking for any more trouble right away. I hit one of them, and I don’t know how bad he was hurt.”

      While Annabelle stood watch, The Kid took over the chore of digging a grave. Only one grave, though, he explained to Father Jardine, not five. That was as far as he would go to humor the priest.

      With a sigh, Father Jardine agreed. “All right. As you said, Mr. Morgan, they are heathens.”

      Digging in the hard, rocky ground was tiring and time-consuming. The Kid paused after a while to set aside his hat and take off his buckskin shirt. Nights in this part of the territory were cool, even during the summer, but The