Days of Death Page 11

  Even from his high vantage point, the roar of the driven water sounded loud, as the jets generated a fearsome force sufficient to wash out the gold bearing gravel. Cyriac watched for some time, noting the armed guards placed at intervals around the site and the number and position of the various buildings, trying to identify their purpose and how frequently they were used by the men operating the site.

  There was no sign of Turlough, not that Cyriac expected to be able to see him. If what the deputies had said were true, they would have Turlough securely locked up. And then he noticed the outhouse and the man who sat outside with a Winchester across his knees. He studied the place for a while and came to the conclusion the man was on sentry duty, guarding something or someone inside the shack. When he first mooted the idea of going out to Black’s mine, he met a hail of protests from his companions.

  ‘You can’t go out to that place,’ Doctor McCullough protested. ‘It’ll be a suicide trip. They have armed guards patrolling twenty-four hours. Black is very jealous of his mine workings. A while back some of his rivals tried to sabotage the pumps used to propel the water jets. He sent Clive Carter after them and rumour has it none of those men survived.’

  ‘Turlough mentioned this Carter fella when I first came across him. Said it was Carter as was hunting him.’

  ‘Carter is a deadly snake. He’s wanted for murder in several states, but Black gives him sanctuary out at the mine. There are those who believe Carter and his gang of killers carry out robberies and killings in different parts of the country and then return to hide out at the mine. It is well known that when Black wants some serious killing done he unleashes Carter.’

  ‘And the law don’t do nothing about it?’

  ‘Humph! Black is the law as you should know. He appoints the sheriff and administers his own brand of justice.’

  ‘How do you know those men were telling the truth about Turlough?’ Arlene asked. ‘It might be a ploy to lure you out there and finish what they failed to do at the fight.’

  ‘I have a feeling they were telling the truth. They were too smug while they were telling the tale. No.’ Cyriac shook his head. ‘I’m convinced they’ve got him all right.’

  In the face of their protests he had assured them he was not going to the mine to take any action but only to spy out the land. Beth and Aimee decided to accompany him part of the way as they were anxious to return to the Benedict cabin.

  Cyriac rolled on his back and went over all he had seen. It seemed an impossible task to get down into what was essentially an armed camp. It was a problem Cyriac was determined to crack.

  Down there, protected by Black’s wealth, were the men who had caused the death of Milo. Cyriac wanted to seek out those men and exact the ultimate penalty for the slaying of his brother.

  He rode back to Gold Point, much preoccupied with the problems he must surmount to get into Black’s mine workings and locate Turlough. The women were anxious to quiz him when he arrived back at the shack. He told them he needed more time to reconnoitre. Then he went out front and sat on the step of the porch and stared across the diggings, thinking of Black and how he was gouging out the riches of the earth. Though he had plenty of scope to work his own patch, he still coveted the diggings of Gold Point and if that meant killing the people who stood in his way, that was of no consequence.

  Cyriac wondered how many had died as a result of Black’s greed. His brother Milo was one victim and then according to Doctor McCullough, there was Arlene’s fiancé Robert as well as Turlough’s sister Lily. He sighed deeply and went inside and retrieved his saddle bags and began his preparations. Knives and guns – a man could never have too many killing devices.

  Cyriac sat down and began to hone his big Bowie knife. Blades were silent and deadly. He worked steadily on the big blade, polishing and honing until he was satisfied with its edge. While Beth prepared a meal, Aimee sat opposite and observed everything he did.

  Guns next. Mook Holdout revolver, Remington New Model revolver, Starr Army .44, Smith & Wesson. Breaking them down and rubbing in the oil. Checking the mechanism. And finally loading them from boxes of ammunition.

  ‘Looks like you aim to fight a war with all that hardware,’ Aimee commented.

  The only response from Cyriac was the raising of eyebrows.

  ‘What you aim to do?’ Aimee persisted.

  If she expected an explanation she was disappointed for all she got from Cyriac was a shrug.

  ‘You gotta have a plan,’ she persisted.

  ‘I ride in there, shoot a few of Black’s men, find Turlough and ride back out again.’

  ‘You’ll need help.’

  ‘I’m best when I’m on my own. That way I don’t have to worry about any fellow travellers.’

  Aimee got up and fetched an old revolver and the scattergun she had appropriated from Doctor McCullough, and borrowing Cyriac’s cleaning equipment, started working on the weapons.

  ‘You’ll need help,’ she repeated as she toiled.

  ‘I just told you: I work best on my own.’

  ‘So I needn’t have bothered to stop Linenan from shooting you when you were fighting Ginsberg. You would have climbed out of the ring, put down Linenan and his buddies and then jumped back into the ring and finished off Ginsberg.’

  Cyriac stared long and hard at Aimee who kept her head down, engrossed in her work.

  ‘I ain’t denying you saved my life back there, but this is different. Black’s mine is an armed camp. He has gunmen dotted all around the site. Anyone trying to get in there is a likely target for a dozen or more riflemen. There is a strong possibility anyone attempting to crash in there will not survive.’

  Aimee raised her head and stared him straight in the eye. ‘Then why are you proposing to do just that?’

  ‘Damn it all, woman, risking my own life is not the same as putting someone else in danger.’ Cyriac stood. ‘So just you stay here and look after your sister.’

  ‘Ain’t no use you telling me what to do. I’ll just follow you anyway. You need someone to watch your back.’

  The pair glowered at each other, neither giving an inch.

  ‘ “It is better to dwell in the corner of the housetop than with a contentious woman in a wide house”,’ Cyriac quoted.

  Aimee was not to be bested. ‘Like a lame man’s legs which are useless,’ she said, ‘so is a proverb in the mouth of foolish men—’

  ‘You might as well get used to it,’ Beth cut in. ‘Aimee is a law on to herself. Once she decides to do something then nothing on God’s earth will stop her. If you want to keep her out of any action you are planning, you’ll have to hogtie her and set an armed guard to watch her.’

  CHAPTER 27

  Cyriac critically examined Aimee. She wore grimy work overalls and her face was smudged with charcoal. A dilapidated hat hid her long hair.

  ‘Well?’ she scowled at him as she spoke.

  ‘You’ll terrify the children if they catch sight of you in that getup,’ he replied, trying not to smile.

  ‘Good, I hate kids.’

  ‘Can you drive a wagon?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure, I can drive a wagon. Any idiot can handle a wagon.’

  ‘Come and have a look,’ he said and went outside.

  A covered wagon was parked by the side of the cabin. If Aimee looked grubby and unkempt, the wagon was the perfect vehicle for her. The cover was made from decaying skins that were full of holes and certainly wouldn’t keep out any amount of weather. The wagon itself was no better with a few bust planks here and there. There was even a spoke or two missing from the wheels.

  ‘Your chariot, my princess.’ Cyriac waved a hand towards the crate.

  ‘Holy flyblown cadavers, do you expect me to drive that disaster? It looks as if it wouldn’t be fit to dump in the desert. Or is that where you found it?’

  ‘Hell, I paid twenty dollars for that rig, so don’t be turning your nose up at it. With a bit of luck it will get us into Black’s mine.’


  ‘Twenty dollars! By heck, they must have seen you coming! I’d o’ thought they’d pay you to take it off their hands.’ Aimee hawked and spat in the direction of the wagon, scoring a hit on a wheel. ‘I take it you got a plan?’

  ‘Do you smoke?’ Cyriac asked.

  Aimee looked away and spat again. ‘Sometimes.’

  For answer, Cyriac went to the wagon and uncovered a box with red lettering on the lid: EXPLOSIVES! DO NOT SMOKE! And to emphasize the warning, a skull and crossbones accompanied the writing. Opening the box, he took out a cylinder about eight inches long and as fat as a beeswax candle. A short fuse projected from one end.

  ‘Just so you know what you are getting into,’ Cyriac said and turned around, holding the stick and found he was alone. The door of the shack slammed closed. ‘What the hell!’ Cyriac put the dynamite back in the box and covered it over.

  Inside the shack he found Aimee and Beth sitting at the table. Aimee had taken off her hat and her hair hung down, covering her face. Cyriac went to the stove and poured coffee into three mugs, took them over and sat down. Aimee kept her head lowered and would not look at him.

  ‘Aimee,’ he said gently, ‘you have every right to be scared of dynamite.’

  ‘I ain’t scared!’ she snapped, still not looking up.

  ‘That’s all right. Seeing as you were so hell-bent on accompanying me, it never occurred to me you might object to driving a wagonload of dynamite. I’m glad I found out afore we set out. I don’t want you to feel bad about this. There ain’t many as would go near a box of explosives, never mind travel with it in that rattletrap outside.’

  ‘What you gonna do?’ Beth asked.

  ‘Do what I do best,’ Cyriac answered. He finished his coffee and stood for a moment in deep thought. With a sigh he unfastened a money belt and slung it on the table. ‘If anything happens to me there’s enough money there to give you both a fresh start in life – somewhere away from here – more civilized. Give a share of it to Doc McCullough.’

  He turned abruptly and went outside. As he walked around the wagon, the door of the shack opened and Aimee appeared. Without saying a word, she climbed up into the driver’s seat.

  ‘Aimee!’

  ‘Shut the hell up!’

  ‘I was just going to tell you I’ll be in the back of the wagon under a buffalo hide. Your job is to get us past any guards as might be patrolling. Tell them you’re looking for work – anything on offer. Once the shooting starts, get under the wagon and stay there.’

  As soon as he was aboard, Aimee started up the team and the wagon rattled and lurched through the camp. Cyriac opened the box marked with the skull and crossbones and carefully pushed several sticks inside his pockets. He placed some on the floor. Then he lay back and pulled the decrepit buffalo robe up to his chin. From this position he could see the sky through the holes in the wagon’s covering. The lurching and swaying of the vehicle almost sent him to sleep and then he could hear Aimee calling to him.

  ‘I can see the mine up ahead.’

  ‘Yeah!’ he called back. ‘Keep her rolling.’

  He eased the Remington from the holster and held it ready. The wagon rumbled on. Soon he could hear the geysers. They pumped water twenty-four hours. He breathed deeply.

  This is what I do best, he told Beth. And it was true. He was a killer and he was walking into a den of killers equally vicious and callous. There would be no quarter – no mercy on either side. It was kill or be killed. Men would die and blood would flow. Some of the blood might be his and today he faced death. Well, he had faced death on many occasions in the past.

  The Keres – the female spirits of death – were close. He could sense their presence, imagined he could feel the wind from the beating of their wings. They came to him at times like this. It was his fate to be the purveyor of death.

  Charon, the ferryman of the Styx, would be waiting to transport the souls of the slain to Hades, the region of the dead. The time of blood and death was imminent, the days of death were nigh.

  ‘Hold up there! Where the hell do you think you are going?’ a gruff voice hollered.

  ‘I was told to come out here and I would get work. I can do anything – haulage mainly,’ Aimee replied. ‘But I’ll work in the diggings if needs be.’

  ‘Hell, I don’t think they’re hiring at the moment.’

  ‘Like my old ma used to say: if you don’t ask, you don’t get.’

  ‘OK, fella, carry on. But I reckon you’ll be wasting your time.’

  The wagon jerked into motion again. They were inside the compound. The first part of Cyriac’s plan was in place.

  CHAPTER 28

  Cyriac sat up inside the wagon and peered through a tear in the cover. He had a mental map of the area from when he surveyed it with his glass.

  ‘Veer right,’ he called out to Aimee.

  Obediently she hauled on the reins and the wagon changed direction. Now that they were inside the complex, no one took any notice of the shoddy vehicle lumbering through the works. They were heading towards a group of wooden buildings and it was here Cyriac reckoned they were holding Turlough.

  He pulled a cigar from his jacket and struck a Lucifer, thinking if Aimee could see what he was doing she might leap from the wagon and start running.

  When he had the cigar smouldering well, he picked up a couple of sticks of dynamite and held the cigar to the fuses. Once they caught, he stood at the rear of the wagon and tossed one hard over the top of the wooden shack they were passing. The second one he threw out towards a great heap of spoil.

  When the explosion came it ripped the decayed covering from the wagon, leaving Cyriac exposed. The horses tried to buck as the blast swept over them but the heavy wagon kept them in place. By this time they were amongst the cluster of buildings and Cyriac leapt to the ground.

  ‘Get in there!’ he yelled at Aimee, pointing underneath the wagon.

  She hauled on the brake and leapt down beside him and gave him a tight grin. To his surprise she was clutching the scattergun. Cyriac sensed she wasn’t one for hiding under any wagon.

  ‘We gotta look for Benedict. He must be in one of these buildings. Act like you are one of the crew and run about as if you are not sure what is going off. I’ll meet you back here.’

  She nodded and hurried into the maze of shanties. Before Cyriac could follow, a flurry of shots was fired at him – most hitting the rotten body of the wagon. He turned and kicked in the first door he came to and dived inside.

  A couple of men swung around, startled by his dramatic entrance. As Cyriac came through the door they grabbed for their holstered weapons. Cyriac had his Remington in his hand but chose not to fire it. Instead he vaulted across the intervening space and lashed out at one man, catching him on the side of the head with his pistol. He swung his elbow and hit his companion in the temple with enough force to put him down. For a moment he glared down at the men, his weapon pointed and ready to fire.

  The cold fire of combat had been lit within him and he could feel the killing urge strong upon him. The men were out of action but it was with a supreme effort of will he stayed his trigger finger. He headed for the rear door and cautiously opening it, peered outside. He saw a group of men milling around, looking for the source of the explosions, and slipped out the door and ran out to join them.

  ‘There’s been an accident,’ he yelled. ‘Some of the nitro went off. I think it came from over there.’

  He pointed in the direction from which he had come and not waiting for a response, he ran around a corner, looking for another door to kick in. He did not get far before a door in a shack burst open and men came spilling out in various stages of undress.

  ‘What’s happening?’ one yelled at Cyriac.

  ‘The place is under attack,’ Cyriac panted. ‘They’re using dynamite on a wrecking spree. Black wants everyone on the alert. He thinks they’re trying to rescue that Benedict fella.’

  ‘Wait a minute – I know you. You’re the Gre
ek as killed Ginsberg.’ Even as he spoke the speaker was grabbing for his gun. ‘Kill the bastard!’ he yelled.

  He got no further as Cyriac clubbed him across the face and he went down with a broken nose and cheekbone. Now the wild cold thing was loose inside Cyriac and nothing could stop his progress. As the man’s companions were grabbing for ironware, Cyriac waded in amongst them, kicking and swinging wildly with boots, fists and pistol.

  The barrel of the gun crunching on top of a head, the bone giving under the blow, the victim dropping and before he hit the dirt, Cyriac’s fist hammering another man in the throat – the man gagging as his oesophagus was crushed.

  Kicking a knee and the joint going back at an angle it was not meant to. The injured man opening his mouth to yell and a bone-hard fist slamming into his chin, breaking his jaw and catapulting him over on to his back.

  Cyriac did not remember pulling it, but the Bowie was in one hand. A yell as the blade punched into a belly, ripping upwards and blood and guts spilling out. Kicked out of the way and the next obstacle bludgeoned and toppling into the dirt, and then there was no one to hit or stab.

  Not pausing to assess the damage he had inflicted, Cyriac ploughed on, rounding a corner and seeing a man with a rifle standing outside a shack, turned towards him and taking in the gun and the bloody knife in the hands of the man coming towards him, brought up his rifle and fired.

  The shot was hasty and the bullet passed underneath Cyriac’s armpit. He levered another shell into the chamber. Cyriac was running towards the rifleman and snapped off a shot. The bullet took him in the shoulder and he jerked back, trying to fire again but Cyriac got another shot off and the bullet hit him in the eye and he fell backwards, his brains spilling from the puncture in the back of his head.

  Cyriac skidded to a stop as he noted the heavy padlock on the door the rifleman had been guarding. Coolly, he shot the padlock, having to use two slugs to do the job. His hammer clicked on empty and he pouched the gun before pulling his Smith & Wesson. Once again he kicked in a door and shouted.