Spanish Gold by Kevin Randle

had joined them on the trail as they had ridden from Sweetwater toward El Paso and then turned to the north.
    â€œYou have a problem?” he asked one of them. He had forgotten the man’s name.
    The man spit on the ground and then shot a glance at the unmarked grave of the man killed by the Apaches. “Should say some words.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œMan dies, someone should say some words. Only fitting for someone to say some words.”
    â€œI don’t know any words,” said Davis. “Saw too many men die back east and get left on the field. No one had time for words for them. No one had time to bury them. Kincaid knew the score when he joined.”
    â€œNot right,” said the man.
    Davis stared at him. It was the second time in a short period that someone had questioned his authority. It was the second time that someone who had joined them late had decided that Davis should be challenged.
    â€œWhat’s your name?”
    â€œWebster.”
    â€œYou can stay and say words or you can ride out with us. Now. But not both.”
    Webster spat again and then nodded. “No time for the words now.”
    Davis pushed past him, glanced into the faces of the others. Men who had spent the last three years in Texas or the territories, avoiding the war back east. They had dodged the fighting to stay out here where they weren’t as likely to catch a bullet. A man could live for months in Texas and never see another human. Not like back east where armies maneuvered, looking for each other. These men had no right to question him.
    â€œWe mount up and get the hell out of here,” said Davis. “Before the Apaches return.”
    The others followed suit, climbing into their saddles. Davis waited, then tugged on the reins, turning his horse. Without a word, he dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and started toward the entrance of the canyon.
    Freeman was afraid that Travis would see him and recognize him. He wanted to stay out of sight, inside a building, but he also wanted to see what Travis was doing. He wanted to be in a position to follow them as they left. It was now important that he stay close to them.
    Crosby was standing right beside him. They were both standing in a general store, looking out the window. Crosby said, “They’re taking a lot of supplies.”
    â€œAll the better for us,” said Freeman. “We’ll be able to use those things once they’ve located the gold for us.”
    Crosby nodded but didn’t say anything.
    Freeman glanced back over his shoulder. There were two women in the store, looking at bolts of cloth imported from the East. A boy was looking at the candy jar sitting on the counter. The clerk stood there, his back to shelves filled with dry goods. Dungarees, shirts, blankets, and the like. Along another wall were canned goods. There were shovels, picks, saws, and axes. Everything that a man could need to start a homestead or to outfit a rig to head into the desert.
    Freeman turned back to the window. The sun was slipping toward the horizon. The number of people on the street had diminished. They were heading inside for the evening meal. Chores that needed light had been finished. Now they were getting ready for the night.
    â€œYou think they’ll leave now? Tonight?”
    Freeman shrugged. “I’d wait until first light,” he said. “But then, I’m not in a race.”
    â€œMeaning?”
    â€œHell, that man was there while the old prospector told us all about the gold. He knows that talk of gold gets people moving like nothing else can. He made his way to the daughter and now wonders who might be following. He’ll want to get started as quickly as possible.”
    â€œTonight?”
    â€œHell, you don’t fill the water barrels and then let them set all night.”
    â€œSo they’re going tonight.”
    â€œRight,” said Freeman.
    Crosby looked at the others in the