The day dawned cold and clear as though washed by a giant waterfall before being dried out by the first ragged multicolored rays of the sun. O’Neill had barked out his orders for the men to break camp before the last stars reluctantly faded from the morning sky. Now they were saddled and ready to ride.
“We ride until we find the cave where I was camped,” he growled as the men started out. “Any man try to cross me and I’ll kill him no matter where he tries to hide on the face of the earth!”
His statement was irrational, but fear has a way of dulling the logical thought processes. And even though it would be an easy escape, fear gripped the men to their very depths so that it was as if their rabid leader held some mystical power over them, a strange magic they could neither hide from nor resist.
Just after dusk, they found the cave, sinister in the growing darkness, wind whistling from its mouth like a wailing banshee from hell, totally unnerving everyone but O’Neill, who took obvious delight in watching the men’s reaction to the place.
“Make camp here and at first light I’ll show you where this hole leads to,” O’Neill announced in a voice so eerie it made the hair on the back of a man’s neck stand on end. An hour later the men sat around the campfire in small groups talking amongst themselves while O’Neill sat alone by the cave entrance waiting for first light.
About twenty minutes later, Donoven nudged the man next to him. “Do you smell that?” he asked, taking another sniff of the air like a hound on the trail of a raccoon.
“Yeah, what do you make of it? Smells like roasting chicken to me. Can’t really tell, but one thing’s for sure-it’s hot food a cookin’.”
“I was thinkin’ the same thing. But where the heck’s it comin’ from?”
None of the men had eaten anything but beans and bacon with a little hardtack thrown in for some time, and little by little the aroma of the hot food was getting to each of them. Donoven came to his feet and cautiously started walking from one side of the camp to the next, all the while acutely aware of O’Neill’s gaze following him. Donoven kept sniffing the air as he walked, like a hungry grizzly trying to locate a carcass that was ripening in the sun.
Finally he stopped, and faced in the direction of the cave. But before he could say anything, O’Neill looked up from his bedroll next to the cave mouth and spoke in a quiet but commanding voice. Even though it was not much more than a whisper, it rang on the men’s ears like thunder.
“The smell is coming from the cave!”
A hush fell upon the camp at O’Neill’s words as the men realized the truth of the statement. The smell was indeed coming from the cave. But who could it be? If it was Indians, then why not a guard at the cave’s opening? These questions and many more flooded the men’s minds as they sat there in silence, fear capturing their minds once more.
“Now you know why I had to find this cave,” came O’Neill’s voice, barely louder than before. “It is the entrance to a hidden valley, a valley that will change all of our lives forever.
The shock of this statement showed on each man’s face as the excitement stirred them to life again. Could this man, this monster they were now forced to follow, be telling the truth? And if he was, how did he know? How 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.”
“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.
When the great swiveling rock shuddered, then tilted slightly downward beneath his feet, Donoven was taken completely off guard. Stopping in his tracks, he listened for any telltale sign of what was happening. He felt something give, but in the darkness one’s sensations often belie what is really happening. With the flickering torchlight and only the sound of the men walking behind him, it would be easy to imagine something that wasn’t real.
Slowly he took another step forward. Everything felt solid-no movement, no noises. Another step with the same results. Smiling at himself for thinking something was amiss, he shifted the torch to the other hand and took another confident step. It was then that all hell broke loose.
In the midst of a great grinding roar, Donoven flung himself flat to the ground. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead as he tried desperately to find something, anything, to grab hold of. Panic welled up in his stomach as the reality of what was happening surged through his mind. There was nothing to get a hold on-not a crack, crevice, nothing!
He tried in desperation to dig his fingernails into the unyielding rock, but it was useless. As the floor tilted more and more, his body slipped faster toward the abyss below, just the eerie grating of his fingernails on the stone could be heard as he slid ever closer to the edge.
In less than a second it was too late for him to save himself. As the rock pivoted on its center, Donoven dropped feet first into the deep void below. By the time he hit bottom he had crashed head over heels into the rough stone sides a half-dozen times or more.
Yet, the loudest sound heard was that of his body hitting bottom with a sickening crunch. Not even then did any sound escape Donoven’s lips. He was not the kind to cry out in fear, not even in death.
As the great stone slowly righted itself, two streaks of blood and a piece of cloth were the only signs that Donoven had passed this way. The two narrow lines of blood, about two feet long, ended as abruptly as they had begun. The cloth, torn from Donoven’s shirt as he tried desperately to save himself, was wedged between the end of the gigantic rock and the floor of the cave, silent testimony to Donoven’s passing.
Harris, next in line behind Donoven, hadn’t heard or seen anything of Donoven’s plight. He had been scared half out of his mind after Charlie Scott’s death and was in no hurry to follow up too close to Donoven. He had been scanning ahead as he crept along when the piece of shirt in the rock caught his attention immediately.
“H-H-Hey, s-som-somebody get up h-he-here quick and l-l-look at th-this!” he stuttered as he literally shook in his boots. Harris was scared and he didn’t care who knew it. The thing he wanted most right now was to be some other place hundreds of miles away. He didn’t care where; any place was better than this gloomy hole in the ground that was leading them all to their demise.
O’Neill floated out of the shadows like a phantom suddenly materializing from thin air. “What’s the problem?” he asked in a flat, sarcastic voice.
“Th-th-there on the-the g-gr-ground,” Harris pointed, now visibly shaken. O’Neill bent over and examined the red blotches.
“Blood!” he exclaimed in the same flat voice, but without the sarcasm this time. Then finally taking hold of the cloth he gave it a tug. When nothing happened, he pulled harder, but still the piece of shirt would not come loose from its grasp in the rock.
A puzzled look came over his face as he studied the situation at hand. How could a piece of Donoven’s shirt become wedged in the stone like this? That Donoven was dead he had no doubt, but where was his body? These questions raced through his mind until, on closer examination, he discovered the hairline crack in the stone floor.
“You three men come here. Three more of you grab their belts and hang on.”
Showing them where to stand, he ordered them to place one foot on the other side of the crack and push as hard as they could. At first nothing. Then slowly, ever so slowly the floor began to move downward allowing the piece of shirt to drop out of sight. In the torchlight, the men could see the other end of the stone that made up this part of the cavern floor move upward at the same rate as the stone under foot moved down.
“It was a very clever trap and Donoven walked right into it,” O’Neill said with a ghostly smile on his face. “Very well done, but it will not save them. Everybody backtrack and pay attention,” O’Neill snapped.
“What are we looking for, boss?”
O’Neill thought for a moment.
“A narrow path of very smooth stone along one side of the cave. When you find it, yell out, then wait for me.”
“Why would there be smooth stone when all the rest is fairly rough? came a voice from the darkness.
“Because somehow the people who use this cave have to have a way around this trap. My guess is that there is a trail alongside that climbs up the wall and past this area. It will have to be small and narrow or we would have seen it. And it will be worn smooth because of all the concentrated use it gets. Anyone not knowing where it was would lose it in the darkness as we did.” O’Neill suddenly realized that, had he tried to find his own way out of the cave instead of following the hostage, he most surely would have fallen prey to the trap as Donoven had done. “Any more questions?”
When no more questions came forth, O’Neill ordered the men to start looking, and within minutes they found what they were looking for. There, just as O’Neill had said, hidden between two boulders was a narrow path climbing up the side of the wall. From time to time, as the men had moved deeper into the cavern, there had been such boulders scattered about, thereby causing no concern when the men passed these concealing the hidden trail.
“Now we don’t stop until we reach the golden city!”