Pete leaned forward and tapped the skull. "This is quite possibly the skull of the one they never found. Tell him the story, Gary."
Gary told the story of finding the skeleton in the canyon of the arrastres. "There was a belt buckle with the skeleton," he continued. "Initials J. B."
"I think you're right, Pete," said Fred. "The one they found dead in the camp was a man named Carl Schuster. His partner was a man named John Bellina. It all ties in."
"Gary plans to take the relics into town and have them turned over to Sheriff Gates," said Pete.
Fred hefted the skull. "I wouldn't."
"Why not?" asked Gary.
Fred looked about as though someone might again be eavesdropping. "They haven't been able to find Carl Schuster's killer in twelve years, have they? No! And they won't either. Likely them fellas was hot on the trail of the Lost Espectro. They knew too much. They was killed because they knew too much, and for no other reason. Now, I think the place where Gary found this skeleton and them arrastres is mighty close to the Lost Espectro. This is a great lead, Gary. I ain't interested naturally. All the money in Arizona wouldn't get me into the Espectros to look for haunted treasure, and besides, after seeing Asesino yesterday, I ain't ever going near them canyons again!"
"So?" said Pete. "But why not tell the Sheriff?" Fred smiled almost as though he were explaining something to a child. "If any man has the right to the Lost Espectro it's you, Pete, and Gary here too. Supposing the Sheriff does get this stuff? He won't likely know any more than they did twelve years ago. But these clues won't be kept secret if the Sheriff gets hold of them. It'll be in the papers and on the radio and TV, I'll bet. In a week them mountains will be crawling with people looking for the Lost Espectro. This time one of them just might be lucky. No, Pete, you keep this to yourself. I won't talk. Seems like Gary has really stumbled onto something this time. Never say die, eh, boy?"
"I don't want him wandering around in there," said Pete.
Fred smiled. "He's got the Cole blood, ain't he?" He handed Pete the skull. "Anyway I'll keep him so busy the rest of this week he won't have time to look for any lost mine. Come to think of it, I need a partner. Been thinking of expanding. Two trucks. Twice as much business. Need a young fella with energy and ideas. What do you say, Gary?"
Gary tried to make his answering smile look realistic, but he was shuddering inwardly. Some local wag would start calling him "Junior, the Candyman" or something equally horrible.
Fred got up. "I'll sleep in my truck tonight. Put that skull under your pillow, Gary. Might tell you the secret of the Lost Espectro in the dark of the moon. Hawww! Best get to bed, Gary. We leave at dawn."
"Cheerful fellow," said Pete after Fred left. He filled his pipe and lighted it. He eyed Gary over the flare of the match. "Fred might be right at that. Let's keep this skull business to ourselves, for a time at least."
"Does that mean I can keep on looking for the Lost Espectro?"
Pete puffed at his pipe. "I don't really know how I can stop you," he said. He smiled ruefully. "Almost wish I could go with you. I wonder if he really did see Asesino?"
"Quien sabe?" said Gary.
The coyote howled again. Closer to the house this time. Gary eyed the grinning skull. It was a fact that Apaches could imitate the cries of animals and birds almost to perfection. Asesino had been part Apache.
7
The Lone Apache
During the three days Gary drove for Fred "Candyman" Platt, he learned things about the western and northern approaches to the Espectros he had never known before. The northern side of the mountains was almost a land apart from that which he had known around his father's ranch. Not far from it was the border of the Apache Reservation. The last stop on Fred Platt's lengthy and lonely northern route was the old Mills Ranch, a place that had been built some years after Jim Cole had established his Chiricahua Springs Ranch. It had been burned out a number of times, and once there had been a massacre there from which there had been no survivors.
The truck ground along in low gear through the desert sands. Gary wondered how Fred could possibly make any sort of a profit by selling a packet of needles or a bag of hard candy in such a remote part of the Espectro Mountain country. Their goal showed in a spray of dusty green against the dun of the Espectro foothills, a sure sign of water in the almost waterless land. Behind a screen of trees were the ranch buildings. A dog barked as Gary drove up and stopped the truck at the gate.
A man rounded the corner of a shed and walked easily toward the truck. He was not tall but his chest was deep and broad, and his slim hips were the mark of the horseman. "Hiya, Candyman!" he called. "Come on in!"
"Hello, Jerry! Hot, ain't it?"
The man smiled, revealing even white teeth. Gary studied him. He had seen many Apaches in his lifetime, and he knew now he was looking at one of the pure quill. The man seemed to be staring right through Gary. "You look familiar," he said easily.
Fred nodded. "This is Gary Cole, Jerry. Gary, this is Jerry Black. Black is short for Black Eagle, ain't it, Jerry?"
"Something like that," agreed the Apache. He held out a hand to Gary. "Your dad ever tell you about me, kid?"
"Not that I know of," said Gary.
"Maybe you'd know me better by the name they called me in the Marine outfit I served in with your dad. Geronimo!"
Gary grinned. "Sure!" he said. "You were with him all through the war!"
"How's your dad?"
"Not too well, Jerry."
"War wound still bothering him?"
"Yes, but it was that fall some years ago that did the worst damage."
A fleeting change came over the dark face. "They ever find out who shot at him?"
"Some folks think it was Asesino," said Fred.
Jerry grinned and waved a hand. "Not that old fairly tale again! Asesino is dead. Long gone!"
"Are you sure about that, Jerry?" asked Fred.
"Why, it's been years since anyone has seen him!"
Fred looked at Gary. He was behind the Apache. The peddler shook his head. Gary looked up at the shimmering Espectros, vague and unreal in the shifting light. "I've heard stories he's still up there."
Jerry shoved back his hat and took out a sack of Bull Durham. He deftly rolled a cigarette and lighted it. His dark eyes studied Gary through the smoke. "I go into those mountains all the time, kid. When I got out of college I started exploring in there. That was twelve years ago. I haven't seen Asesino or anyone like him in there. Sure the man did exist. Sure, he was an outlaw and a killer. But folks have built up a legend about him like they did about Billy the Kid and Wyatt Earp, making him do things he never did."
Gary took a chance. "I thought you Apaches shunned the Espectros because of old tribal taboos and so on."
Again the fleeting look passed over Jerry's face. "That's cornball stuff for the old rimrock 'Paches, kid. Four years in the Marines and four years in college knocked all that hokey stuff out of me, I tell you!"
"Jerry gets a little bitter sometimes, kid," Fred said. "Seems like it ain't easy for a college-educated Apache to get a good job around here."
Jerry grunted. "They still think I'd scalp anyone who disagreed with me. Well, come on in. I have some cold drinks in the refrigerator." He walked quickly to the house.
Fred limped alongside Gary, holding onto his shoulder. "Jerry leases the Mills place. Doesn't run cattle or anything though. He's writing a book or something. Spends a lot of time hunting for relics in the mountains. That's why I come out here. Don't say anything about me seeing Asesino."
Gary's eyes widened as he saw the things Jerry had brought out of the mountains. They were placed on a big table in the shaded living room-pottery, arrowheads, basketry, husk matting, and other odds and ends. Hung on the walls were rusted spurs, bits, old guns, bridles, and other relics.