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.”
“What tribe makes it?” O’Neill asked quietly of the half-breed, even though O’Neill knew John wouldn’t be able to answer. He had asked it as much to make a point as anything, figuring every man there would be straining to hear the answer.
“None I know of,” came the reply. “But I’ll tell you one thing. This here bow is a work of art, the way it’s built. There ain’t an Indian I’ve ever known could even start to build it. No, sir. Whoever built this knows more about wood than any Indian alive. Look at how the wood’s joined. It looks like one piece instead of four,” he said passing the bow amongst the men clustered around him. “From the looks of this, it will not be easy to take them! These people are thinkers and they already know we are here and what we’re looking for.”
“Look at the headband he’s wearing! It’s solid gold!” someone yelled, pointing to the dead man at their feet.
Suddenly the men were in a frenzy trying to grab the golden band before any of their friends could snatch it.
“The first man to lay hands on that headband will be buried with it,” O’Neill stated flatly. “There will be plenty for all of us later. I’ll not have you fighting like a pack of dogs over this trifling little piece of junk. Now get walking! Donoven, you take the lead!” he ordered. There was dead silence as the men continued on through the tunnel.
He called that headband junk, Donoven thought as he led the way into the blackness, a torch held high in one hand while his other hand felt along the cool stone wall. That junk could keep me in money for months, yet O’Neill made us leave it there. He’s crazy, or there’s an awful lot of gold ahead, he surmised as he walked cautiously along.
The more Donoven thought about the riches that lay ahead, the more careless he became. Maybe it was his Irish blood or maybe just the promise of wealth, but soon he was moving ahead in strides that were impossible for the men behind him to follow. Curiously, O’Neill said nothing to hold him back.
Sweat was breaking out on Donoven’s forehead as he almost ran along, slowing only enough to allow his torch to stay lit. Nevermind that there might be an ambush waiting ahead, his mind was now fully possessed by the gold fever and nothing or no one could stop him until he got what he was after.