That fist of panic squeezed the lawman’s heart more violently. The sons of bitches who’d been guarding the stable had dropped the box in the arroyo…
The box lurched and pivoted and scraped against the sides of the wash. Locked in the small, dark, humid enclosure, Longarm felt the sensation of movement above all of the other myriad things he was feeling—most of them pounding pain. The panic of being drowned in a small box in which he had barely enough room to waggle his shoulders was growing quickly.
In his mind’s eye, he saw the box hurling down the flooded wash, down the steep incline of the mountain on which the ghost town sat, bouncing off the sides of the cutbank. Steadily, he felt the water seeping through the slight gaps between the boards.
It must have been a good two inches deep in his makeshift coffin by now, slowly crawling up his arms and legs, soaking his clothes. It would soon be over his face.
He rammed his already battered head against the wooden lid but he couldn’t build up enough momentum in the tight confines. The lid didn’t budge. The two guards must have nailed it tight to the box; that must have been the pounding he’d heard when he’d been unconscious, though it had blended with the invisible little muscular man in his head smashing a ball-peen hammer against his brain.
He was jerked sharply to one side, then to the other, and the coffin must have bounced off the bank or a rock as the floodwater continued hurling him ever down the steep incline. The water was now covering his shoulders. Longarm had never been a fan of water in the first place, and he cared even less for it now as it threatened to drown him in a sealed pine box!
Panic was growing and growing, making his heart pound.
The adrenaline coursing through his veins had dulled the pain in his head and body, and he continued to try to hammer his forehead against the coffin lid to no avail.
He ground his molars as the box rose sharply on his right. It turned over completely, and suddenly he was facedown in the box as it continued to jerk and sway and bounce violently off both sides of the arroyo.
He drew a sharp, involuntary breath, and sucked a pint of grit-laden water into his lungs for his effort. He lifted his head as far as he could, arching his back slightly, trying to keep his face above water, but he couldn’t do it. He heard himself blowing bubbles as he grunted and twisted his shoulders, sort of bucking as though he were making hard love to a woman, and then, as suddenly as it had gone over, the box righted itself once more and the water dropped down to around Longarm’s jaws.
The trouble was he still had two lungs half full of water, and the more he gasped for air, the more he choked and coughed and felt unconsciousness closing over him like a slowly tightening, giant fist.
The coffin swerved more sharply than it had so far and slammed violently, loudly against either a boulder or the side of the ravine. The coffin lid rose about three inches from the top of the box, showing the murky blueness of early morning.
Desperately, Longarm crossed his arms on his chest and pushed his arms and head against the lid until it rose farther. With a giant, coughing grunt of panicked desperation, he sat up higher and finally blasted the lid off the coffin. It sailed off to the side as the box continued sliding on down the ravine.
Instantly, the coffin overturned and sent the lawman tumbling headlong into the water. The coffin rolled to one side and then straight out away from him.
He dropped his legs straight down in the stream, twisted around, and his chest slammed into a rock protruding from the side of the cutbank. His head about a foot above the water, he pressed a cheek against the cold, rough surface, and hugged the rock like a long-lost relative.
The murky water streamed around his waist and on down the ravine. He held on to the rock for a long time as he coughed up the dirty water from his lungs, until he was finally able to suck a breath without choking on it.
Feeling as though he might actually live to see the dawn of a new day, albeit painfully, he looked above the rock with his one good eye. The bank rose on his right. A root protruded from it. He grabbed the root and pulled, his weak arms feeling as though they’d tear out of their sockets.
He kicked and clawed his way up the muddy side of the bank. When he finally lifted his head above the lip, breathing hard and rasping from the remaining water in his lungs and throat, he froze.
His old friend, dread, seized him once more as he heard the ratcheting click of a gun hammer being drawn back.
He looked up. The round, dark maw of a pistol glared back at him.
Chapter 32
The maw of the pistol tilted upward. The gun hammer clicked again as it was eased down against the firing pin, and Agent Haven Delacroix scowled at Longarm from beneath the wide brim of her light brown Stetson. “Custis?”
Longarm heaved a sigh of relief, felt his cracked upper lip curl a grin. “What happened to Marshal Long?”
“What in the hell are you doing?”
“Making mud pies. Wanna help?”
Behind her, her horse cropped weeds between a couple of boulders still damp from the previous night’s rain. It was dawn, the sun not yet up, the rolling, rocky, creosote-stippled desert relieved in misty blue shadows.
Longarm extended a hand to the woman squatting before him. “Help me up?”
She half straightened, extending a gloved hand to him. “You look awful!”
When he stood before her, his soaked, muddy clothes sagging on him, he spat mud from his lips and said, “Ah, hell”—he gulped a breath—“I been hurt worse shaving.”
“What happened?”
“Long story.” Longarm felt weak, like he might pass out. His head pounded from all he’d been through. His heart was still hammering. He leaned forward, pressed hands to his knees, and took a deep breath.
“You’d better sit down for a while.”
He spat more grit, drew another breath, and shook his head. “No time. We gotta get to Cochilo Gulch, warn the gold train.”
“The what?”
“I’ll explain on the way. Where in the hell are we, anyway?”
Longarm straightened, looked around at the purple hills and bluffs spilling rocks down their sides. Morning birds were chirping in the brush. The flooded wash gurgled and chugged against the sides of the wash behind him. The surrounding terrain looked vaguely familiar, but because of the near darkness and his scrambled brains, he couldn’t quite make it out.
“We’re a half mile away from the canyon where Big Frank said Santana buried the gold. I rode out here yesterday from the Double D.”
Longarm frowned at her. “Why?”
“Why?” she said, grimacing as though she were dealing with a half-wit. “That’s my assignment, remember? To find the stolen Wells Fargo gold!”
“Ah, Christ.” The exhausted, battered, and bloody lawman laughed without mirth. “There ain’t no fucking gold, Haven.”
“Clean up your language, please,” she said, reverting to her prim daytime self and planting one fist on her comely, duster-clad hip. “And whatever are you talking about? Big Frank said it was there, and I believe him. I have to believe him. I’m finding that gold!”
Longarm walked over to a flat-topped boulder and sagged onto it. He needed to get to Cochilo Gulch as fast as he could and be there when the gold train arrived, to warn the guards and drivers about the coming ambush by Leyton and Mercado. If he tried to ride out at just this moment, however, he was likely to pass out and tumble out of the saddle.
He needed a breather, time to unscramble his brains and gather his wits.