Treasure of the Anasazi Read online

  After about an hour of walking back over the sandy terrain, they neared the old man’s shack, miserable and drenched in sweat. Jones cursed and kneeled, motioning for Smith to get down. The place was already crawling with cops and Dawson’s car was no longer parked behind the shack where they had left it. They both lay down on their bellies, peering through the brush. The horse had returned to the old man’s shack. They watched as two of the cops coaxed the horse into the pen.

  “That stupid nag,” said Jones.

  “I’d say our luck’s holding steady. They must have found the old man already,” said Smith. “How could they have possibly found him so quickly?”

  “My first guess would be our friend Roy.”

  “That’s probably a pretty good guess.”

  “So, what now?” asked Smith. “I’m so thirsty I can’t even spit.”

  “The only thing we can do, keep on walking, unless you have a better idea,” said Jones.

  “No, that’s the only choice I see.”

  “Let’s get out of here before we’re spotted. We need to find another farmhouse or at least find a watering tank. Look for a windmill.”

  “Which way?”

  “We might as well head toward town. The closer we get, the better chance we have of running onto a place.”

  “Come to think of it, I think we passed a place maybe a mile up the road from the old man’s shack,” remembered Smith.

  “Okay, let’s head that way and if we can’t find transportation of some kind there, we may have to go out to the road and commandeer a vehicle, cop or not.”

  Half an hour later they found just what the doctor ordered, a small house in the middle of nowhere. They both let out a sigh of relief. There were no vehicles parked outside the house. Just in case someone was home, they crept toward it with the one outbuilding between them and the house. Just before reaching the shed, they came to a barbed wire fence. Smith grabbed a post and leapt over easily. Jones, not as athletic as Smith, chose to cross between the barbed strands, insisting Smith help him by spreading the wire so he could climb through. As he stepped through a barb caught the clothing on his back. He tugged until they both heard a rip, but he was still caught.

  “Help me!” yelled Jones, frustrated.

  Smith reached over and easily unhooked him from the barb. Jones stepped all the way through. When he stood upright, Smith could see the anger and frustration in Jones’ face. It was about as red as he had ever seen it. Jones took off for the shed without as much as a thank you. Smith wasn’t surprised.

  All looked quiet. Jones peered through the shed window. He could see that there was a vehicle covered by a dust covered tarp. It looked as though it had been there for quite some time. Jones checked the side door, it was unlocked. Smith followed him in, shutting the door behind him. They pulled off the tarp to find an old pickup. The keys were still in the ignition and the tires were still inflated. They knew it was unlikely that it would start, but they wouldn’t risk trying to start it until they had checked out the house.

  They looked through the dusty windows at the back of the house. The sun had begun to set and the house was dark. The furniture was covered with sheets. It appeared that no one had been there for some time.

  “We may have just lucked out,” said Jones. Smith nodded agreement.

  Jones followed Smith to the back door. As expected, it was locked. Smith retrieved a fist-sized rock from a nearby rock garden, breaking the window in the door. He reached in, unlocking the door. Jones tried the light switch. Surprisingly it came on. More importantly, Smith saw the kitchen sink. He rushed over and turned the faucet. Dirty rust-colored water spit out followed by an increasingly cleaner steady stream of water. He stuck his head under the faucet and drank in gulps, then let the water run over his head. Jones shoved him aside and drank his fill.

  “Why don’t we stay here for the night?” asked Smith. “Soon it’ll be too dark to be walking around.”

  “We can’t risk it. The cops are just up the road and it’s just a matter of time before they come here looking for us.”

  “Then we need to see if that old truck will start and get out of this godforsaken country. I wonder why Dawson didn’t tell us about this place?” asked Smith.

  “I don’t know. Why don’t we ask him next time we see him?”

  Smith began opening and shutting the cupboards.

  “What are you doing now?” asked Jones.

  “Looking for some kind of food. I’m hungry.”

  “Any luck?”

  “None.”

  “Then let’s go and see if we can get the truck started.”

  They found a five-gallon gas can in a corner of the garage with almost a gallon of gasoline still in it. It smelled old, but they hoped it would still work, if the engine would turn over. Smith emptied most of it into the truck’s gas tank, trickling a little to prime the carburetor. He slid behind the wheel, pumped the accelerator twice, crossed his fingers for Jones to see and turned the key. They knew that starting the old truck was a long shot. The engine turned over slowly. The battery was almost dead. Smith jumped out and twisted the battery cables back and forth for a better connection. He primed the carburetor again with the few remaining drops of gasoline, pumped the accelerator again and turned the key. The engine turned over twice, then fired. Both men smiled. The old truck engine coughed once before it leveled off, purring like a kitten.

  “I’d say that counts as a miracle,” said Smith.

  “I don’t know who’d be watching over the two of us. I’ll open the garage door so you can drive out.”

  Jones closed the garage door after Smith had eased out. At least no one would be able to tell that the pickup was gone without looking inside. Slowly, Smith drove down the long drive to the county road. The two exchanged grins, pretty pleased with themselves. There was a cattle guard but no gate. Things were finally going their way. The sunlight was dimming. Smith turned on the headlights and headed toward the highway. Another vehicle was coming toward them, taking up more than its share of the road. The trailing plume of dust suggested it was apparently traveling very fast. As it came closer, they recognized the cherry on top and knew it was a cop car.

  “Watch out!” yelled Jones, as Smith was forced to drive off the shoulder. The Sheriff’s car sped by, engulfing them in a cloud of dust. Smith had to slow down, coming to a complete stop, waiting for the dust to settle so he could see well enough to pull back onto the road.

  “That moron!” yelled Jones.

  “I guess he’s in a hurry,” said Smith. “Something must have happened out this way.”

  Smith and Jones exchanged glances and smiled.

  When they reached the highway Smith asked Jones, “You ready to get out of here? Left is out of here and right is back to Durango.”

  “I vote left. I’ve finally had enough of this place.”

  “Then left it is. I hope we have enough gas to get a ways down the road,” said Smith.

  “If it doesn’t, we’ll just have to borrow someone elses transportation.”

  Smith made a left at the highway, headed west. A few miles down the highway, just past the park entrance, they spotted a roadblock. Joe had called in for the roadblock as soon as Sam had informed him of Hank Dugan’s death. Smith pulled over to the shoulder.

  “Back to Durango?” he asked Jones.

  “I don’t see that we have much choice.”

  Smith flipped around on the highway and headed to town. Thirty minutes later they reached the city limits. Jones directed Smith to pull over on the first side street and stop.

  “What do you want to do now?” asked Smith.

  “They’re not looking for us in this vehicle, so that much is in our favor. We need to find someplace where we can lay low.”

  “The only people we know around here are Dawson and Benny.”

  “Then, let’s go see Benny. He lives alone, so I doubt if he’ll mind if we stay with him for awhile. Dawson may have a family. And that wo
uld just get messy.”

  “I don’t know where Benny lives. Do you?” asked Smith.

  “Not yet. Head to that old bar where we first met him. Park in the alley.”

  * * *

  Smith and Jones didn’t have any trouble finding out from Mel where Benny lived. Mel recognized them as the ones that had been sitting with Benny the other day. Assuming they were friends, he had been very forthcoming about where Benny lived. They found the old converted motel without any trouble. Smith and Jones knocked at the manager’s door. A few moments later they heard a deep cough on the other side of the door. The blinds separated partially.

  “What d’ya want?” came a raspy voice, presumably that of a woman.

  “Is this where Benny Doyle lives?” asked Jones.

  “You too, huh? What do you want him for?”

  “What do you mean ‘you too’?” asked Jones.

  “You first.”

  “I’d say we found the right place,” commented Smith to Jones.

  “We know he’s here, so which unit is he in?” asked Jones.

  “It’ll cost ya.”

  “Can you open the door?”

  “No!”

  Smith to Jones, “Let me just kick in the door.”

  “Not yet.”

  Then he turned back to the door. “How much?”

  “Twenty bucks.”

  Jones pulled a wad of bills from his pocket and stripped off a twenty.

  “You’ll have to open the door if you want this.”

  “Slip it through the mail slot.”

  As he started the bill through the slot it was grabbed and jerked from his hand, followed by deep, raspy laughter changing to hacking coughs.

  “Lady?” called Jones.

  There was no answer. She was gone.

  A nod from Jones and Smith kicked in the door. They were met by a sickening smell, as if something had died and had been left to decompose.

  “Oh, what is that stench?” cried Smith, as he stepped inside.

  They heard a click to their side. They knew that sound. It was the hammer being pulled back, locking in place.

  “If you move, I’ll blow your heads off.”

  Immediately their hands went up. Smith slowly turned his head enough to see the old woman pointing a double-barreled shotgun at his head. Just as concerning was her shaking.

  “Hey, wait a second lady. We just want to know where we can find Doyle.”

  “You’re going to have to pay for that door,” she screeched, beginning to cough again.

  Smith saw an opportunity and took a step toward her. She swung the shotgun at him, poking him hard in the chest with its barrel. He was surprised at how quick she was.

  “Back up, big boy!” she said as Smith took a small step backward.

  “Okay, we don’t want any trouble,” said Jones as he reached for his wad of cash. She swung the shotgun back to Jones and stepped closer, cocking back the other hammer.

  “Whoa, whoa, I’m just getting your money. See?” Jones said, holding it out.

  “It’ll cost ya a hundred bucks.”

  He stripped off a few bills and handed them to her.

  “Put it on the table. Right there.”

  Smith made another attempt as he slowly moved toward her as she watched Jones place the money on the table. In a surprisingly quick motion, she swung the shotgun around, point blank into Smith’s face.

  “You’re not very bright are ya? Now git, both of ya! And don’t come back.” She moved toward them, forcing both out the door. She swung the door shut the best she could.

  “What about Doyle?” Jones yelled through the door.

  “He doesn’t live here any more.”

  Smith and Jones looked at each other.

  “She’s lying,” stated Smith.

  “You think so?” asked Jones sarcastically.

  “Remind me to take care of that old lady before we leave town,” said Smith.

  “Naw, she reminds me of my mom. Lots of spunk. Leave her alone.”

  They walked down the row of apartments. One had a flower box under the window and a mailbox with the name DOYLE in big block letters. Jones smiled as he walked up to the door and knocked.

  Almost immediately the blinds parted.

  “Hello, Benny,” said Jones. “We’d like to talk to you.”

  “Well, I don’t want to talk to you. Go away.”

  “Come on, Benny. We just want to talk.”

  The gap in the blinds disappeared. There was a clamor inside. Jones gave Smith the nod. In an instant Smith kicked in the door. They found Benny cowering in the back corner of the one-room apartment, sitting on the floor, arms crossed over his face. The stench hit them as they stood in the doorway.

  “Benny, is that any way to greet new friends? We’ve decided to stay with you awhile. Won’t that be fun? What have you got to eat?”

  Benny responded with only a look of disgust.

  “It’ll give us a chance to get better acquainted. Now, give me that journal.”

  “I don’t have it. I… gave it to someone.”

  “You’re lying,” said Smith, as he pulled Benny to his feet, threw him against the wall, then watched as he slid back to the floor.

  “Want to try again?” asked Jones.

  Benny laid in the fetal position, moaning in pain. Smith and Jones spent the next few minutes searching every inch of the apartment, destroying everything in their path as Benny watched out of the corner of his tear-filled eyes.

  “I want that journal. Where is it?” Jones asked again, grabbing Benny by the hair, pulling his head back to make eye contact. “Well?”

  “I told you I don’t have it,” he said softly through gritted teeth.

  “Who does?”

  “You don’t know ‘em. Besides, you’ve looked in it for yourself. You already know what’s in it,” said Benny.

  “I want it so no one else will know what’s in it, especially about my treasure,” said Jones.

  Benny was surprised. “You believe there is a treasure?” he asked, a hint of a smile appearing as he shook his head from side to side, almost imperceptibly. “That’s what this is all about? A treasure?”

  “I’m going to spell it out for you. You’re going to tell me who you gave it to and where I can find it. And we’re not leaving here until you do. Make it easy on yourself.”

  * * *

  I met Joe at Hank’s house as I’d promised. I was surprised to see Sawyer there too. I didn’t really think he would come. Sam must have given him directions. I hadn’t seen him since dropping him off at the park office yesterday.

  “Glad you could make it,” said Joe. “I understand you’ve already met Mr. Sawyer over there?”

  “Yeah, Sam and I picked him up at the airport.”

  “That must have been interesting,” commented Joe, in a voice low enough for only me to hear.

  “You have no idea.”

  Sawyer walked over. “Hello, Jack,” he said extending his hand for a quick shake.

  “Hello, Chuck. I guess you’ll be going out with us?” I asked.

  “No, I’ve already been out there. I followed their trail far enough to see that they were headed straight to the Restricted Area.”

  Just then a horse ran up to the shed from the back pasture, glistening with sweat. Two of the deputies coaxed it close enough to get hold of the reins. They led it into the corral where it headed straight to the watering trough.

  “Don’t let him drink too much,” I called out to the deputies. “It’ll make him sick.”

  “It looks like our boys are on foot now,” said Joe.

  “Now, do you want to go with us?” I asked.

  “No, I have another idea.”

  “Care to share with us?” asked Joe.

  “If I find something, you’ll be the first to know.”

  Sawyer walked briskly to the park pickup, driving off in a hurry.

  * * *

  Sawyer concluded that if Smith and Jones
had lost their ride, they would most likely be looking for another way out of there. While the others were searching the mesquite-covered terrain behind the old man’s shack, he would check the houses along the road on the way back into town.

  Not far from the Dugan place, maybe a mile, Sawyer came across a small house, sitting back off the county road. He pulled into the drive. Everything was quiet. He knocked at the door. There was no answer. He looked in through the windows. The few pieces of furniture were covered. At the back of the house he saw where the window of the rear door had been broken. Sawyer pulled his pistol from its shoulder holster. The door was unlocked. He cautiously crept inside. The dust on the kitchen table had been disturbed. He smiled. Written in the dust was ‘KILROY WAS HERE’ with a little sketch of a guy with a big nose peeking over a fence. The house was empty.

  He spotted the garage as he came out the back door. Inside he noticed that a vehicle had sat there recently. There was a dust-free car-sized area on the garage floor. Sawyer jumped back in the pickup and speedily drove back to the Dugan place.

  Sawyer relayed what he had seen at the old homestead.

  “What makes you think it was them?” asked Joe.

  “A hunch. What makes you think it wasn’t?” asked Sawyer.

  “The search party left on horseback a while ago,” said Joe. “I’ll radio them and have the search swing to the north. I’ll also radio the roadblocks and tell them that Smith and Jones may be heading their way. Jack, why don’t you go to the park and keep an eye on Sam. These lunatics may even head back there.”

  “She’s not going to like me watching over her,” I said.

  “Then, I suggest you don’t tell her why you’re there,” said Joe.

  “And you, Mr. Sawyer? What are your plans?” I asked.

  “I’m hungry. I think I’ll go grab a bite to eat. Any suggestions?”

  I was surprised at how nonchalant he was and the lack of urgency in his voice. “Stop at the Mancos Café on the way into town. Try a piece of pie,” I offered. “Tell Marlene I sent you.”

  * * *

  Sam pulled up to the park office after making her rounds. She half expected to see the pickup Sawyer was using. It was nowhere to be seen. She thought he would have been back by now. The office was locked. She looked around inside to see if he had left a note. She wasn’t surprised that he hadn’t. On the way back into town, she would check to see if the vehicle was parked at the motel. Sam hoped he wasn’t getting in over his head, at least while he was on her turf. She dismissed the idea. He was the specialist, even though she hadn’t seen any special skills as yet. He was supposed to be able to take care of himself. But then, if something happened to him, would she be held accountable? Why couldn’t he have just stayed wherever it was he came from?